Can We See The Christ?

"Do you remember what the angel told the shepherds? 'Unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.' And they said unto themselves, 'Let us go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass.' (Luke 2:11,15) Like the shepherds of old, we need to say in our hearts, 'Let us see this thing which is come to pass.' We need to desire in our hearts. Let us see the Holy One of Israel in the manger, in the temple, on the mount, and on the cross. Like the shepherds, let us glorify and praise God for those tidings of great joy!" (President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Ensign, December 2010)

O Tannenbaum

On a Tropical Beach Somewhere

Remember when we drove up and down while a storm washed in and we listened to Wreckless Eric endlessly on repeat? Can we do that again in oh, say, eight days?*

Until then, all the chairs are finally occupied at the round table, we've got a new container of ho cho, and unlimited stories.

*Tell TW to gas up the Beemer.

A Star! A Star!

"At this focal point of all human history, a point illuminated by a new star in the heavens revealed for just such a purpose, probably no other mortal watched—none but a poor young carpenter, a beautiful virgin mother, and silent stabled animals who had not the power to utter the sacredness they had seen. UAdd a Note Shepherds would soon arrive and later, wise men from the East...But first and forever there was just a little family, without toys or trees or tinsel."
(Elder Jeffrey R. Holland)

I've read this the past three nights. Thanks, B. Full text here.

Illustration by Christopher Wormell, "Through the Animals' Eyes: A Story of the First Christmas."

Christmas here, please.

A little London-brick
wattle-and-daub Christmas.
Any takers?

Must Be Santa

Guess who else got to see Santa yesterday?

{Elder Kitchen, Big Guy in Red, Elder Fetzer and Bishop Balkman}
Happy St. Nicholas Eve! Hope you've rounded up your shoes
(and some carrots for St. Nicolas' horse)

I'll Build a Man That's Made of Snow

This morning after a pancake breakfast and a surprise visit from Santa,* I'm helping little children make cotton balls into snowmen. We made a couple demos ahead of time so they have an idea of what they're working towards, but they're free to do whatever they want with various craft supplies on the table (felt, pipe cleaners, pompoms, markers.) I'm amazed at what they come up with: snowmen on skis, a French snowmen with a beret, snowmen on pink couches watching TV. (Seriously). One child takes a pipe cleaner and shoves it through the cotton ball, bending the ends upward. "That's great," I say. "Those are great arms." He looks up at me deviously. "They're not arms. They're horns. I'm making a devil." (I think the devil snowman and the red-eyed one holding an ak47 are friends.) Nothing says Christmas like satanic snowmen.

*Items on this year's wish list whispered by children to Santa: a roller coaster. A brachiosaraus. A cow. A filing cabinet.

About That One Time

In the deep dark depths of the basement one night he asks me how much I think I've spent on pens. Although I'm well aware he's seen the cups that runneth o'er, full of felt tips and ballpoints on my drafting table, I know this is an answer he's not prepared to hear. In the same way he's not prepared to hear what my dry cleaning bill is. (Although part of me thinks he came face to face with that figure a few weeks prior when he tried to wipe batter that went splat across my peony pink silk top in his kitchen when we were making banana muffins one night because the bananas were starting to look like they had been through a battle.) Does he mean how much I've spent on pens in my life? Because that's impossible. Over the past year? Maybe I could ballpark it.

I suddenly felt like I was at the dentist. You know, the feeling you get when he asks if you floss regularly. You're wanting to say, "Define regularly," even though you're well aware your once-a-week, twice out of necessity on nights you eat corn on the cob, and three times the morning you see the dentist, isn't going to cut it. He's already got you in that vulnerable position--reclined in the chair, feet elevated like you're suffering from deep vein thrombosis. Then the assistant sticks a bib across your chest. And there's that light above you, which is like an interrogation in and of itself, beaming into your soul. After what feels like forever you manage a "There's always room for improvement," followed by a big-toothed grin (thank goodness you flossed three times) for extra measure.

There are some questions in life you just don't want to answer.

We spend so much time searching for someone to share everything with, and as much as we want to open up to them completely, sometimes we hesitate, for whatever reason. Part of us wants to keep some things a secret. Maybe we're afraid we'll run out of stories. Maybe it's so one day, fifty years from now when there's a moment of silence, we can turn to the other person and say, "Did I ever tell you about the time..."