Long-exposure of Jupiter & Saturn in alignment, December 21, 2020
Last night on the winter solstice, literally the darkest day of 2020, my son and I craned our necks skyward on the front lawn.
“Can you see it?” I pointed. “Below the moon to the southwest.”
Just the day before, I’d sunk pretty low, feeling decidedly un-festive and weary of the yoke of fear, anxiety, and loss wrought by a year that seemed to present fresh disasters with the dawn of each new day.
As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, the bright orbs of Jupiter and Saturn appeared. The distance between them is something like 500 million miles, but from where we stood, the planets seemed almost to collide amongst the stars above. People were calling it “The Christmas Star,” an occurrence unwitnessed for 800 years.
Having no telescope, my son and I glanced at each other once we’d spotted the planets. Had there not been such media fanfare, we would definitely not have noticed the sky that night. It was cold and dark, and the warm living room beckoned. It wasn’t the blinding flash of light I imagined the shepherds following to a humble stable in Bethlehem. Truth is, seen with the naked eye, it was a bit underwhelming.
Jupiter (left) and Saturn, December 21, 2020
And yet. As I stood peering into the darkness, a word kept coming to mind: behold.
What does that mean?
A funny little word, behold isn’t something most of us use every day. “Behold, I’m home!” “Behold, child, here is thy dinner lain before thee. Partake and be glad.” It’s clunky and archaic, but it carries a simple meaning: look and see. Pay attention.
In older translations of the Bible, behold was sprinkled through the pages over 1200 times, but as time passed, its use waned. A quick glance at my NIV concordance showed it was not important enough to be referenced, and modern translations like The Message show no uses of the word. Not even one.
Is this because so few things amaze us anymore or because, weary and numb, we’ve stopped paying attention? We’ve stopped beholding. It doesn’t occur to us to venture out and raise our eyes to the sky.
Half a miracle
A few verses in the gospel of Mark recount an odd little event where, in Bethsaida, Jesus is asked to heal a blind man. By this time, He’s fed the multitudes, walked on water, cast out demons, and raised the dead. One more blind man should have been a one-and-done sort of moment.
Instead, we read the only half-miracle recorded in scripture.
“When He had spit on the man’s eyes and put His hands on him, Jesus asked, “Do you see anything?” He looked up and said, “I see people; they look like trees walking around.” ( Mark 8:23–24, NIV)
People like trees? Had there been a miracle glitch? A power outage? Was restoring sight suddenly too hard for the Son of God?
Maybe it was like me and the Christmas star. I’d witnessed something amazing — enormous gaseous balls of rock suspended in the heavens, reflecting the moon’s light back to earth in a stellar array that won’t be seen again for another 80 years.
I saw them through eyes and a sense of sight perfectly tuned and designed, which in itself is an extraordinary feat of creation. There I stood, on legs that held me upright, breathing in the cold December air with no effort. Yet all I could muster was a nod before retreating to my spot on the couch.
Oh me of little faith
God is ever patient with us. He let me get comfortably settled before the text came through. A friend sent me a long-exposure photo of the event and bam! There it was. Now that could get a shepherd’s attention. That was something to behold. Of course, that’s what it had looked like the whole time, but I hadn’t seen it the way the camera caught it. Because it didn’t match my expectations, it was easy to dismiss and shelve as just another hopeless 2020 disappointment.
I love the next two words in verse 25. Once more. Jesus doesn’t scold or walk away in disgust. He doesn’t clench his fists in frustration over the man’s lack of faith or hard-headedness.
Instead of pinching the bridge of His nose and heaving a loud sigh at the blind man’s veiled recognition, once more, Jesus put his hands on the man’s eyes.
“Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly.” ( Mark 8:25, NIV)
How often we, too, need an extra boost to see. How often we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror before grace reaches down to clear the mist clouding our vision. Behold. Look and see. Pay attention.
The fact that the longest, darkest night of the year coincided, this year, with the Christmas star can surely be taken as a sign for those who would pay attention to such things, a nudge of grace for a world that pines for a glimmer of hope.
It was just what I needed to lift my dark mood and remove the veil that had caused me, like the blind man, to see people like trees walking. My dimmed vision and the burdens of this difficult year had fooled me into believing things — including myself — were somehow less than.
All year I’ve had a sense that something important was happening, in and around me, but whatever it was has been kept curtained off. That evening, as I watched the lights on the tree twinkle like stars, lines from a familiar Christmas song played in my head:
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices; For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. (from “O, Holy Night”, Adolphe Adam)
As we celebrate the fortuitous advent of Emmanuel, may we be granted eyes to see — a 20/20 vision, if you will — the wonder that surrounds us, even still. The Light that leads us. The grace and hope that carry and sustain us. Fear not, the angels say. Behold.
After a brisk winter storm or two in my area of the country, when the last of the tenacious rust-brown oak leaves have finally stopped clinging to the branches, a hawk-eyed hunter can usually spot clumps of mistletoe hanging high at the tops of oak trees. I spied some myself this week, as I drove home lost in thought on a gray afternoon.
The uninitiated might mistake the tangled clumps for dead branches or even a squirrel’s nest, but I knew better. When I was a teenager, our house sat on several wooded acres in middle Tennessee, God’s country. My parents sat on the back porch in the mornings drinking coffee and watching deer, turkey, and chipmunks shuffle through the leaves in the backyard. Somewhere towards mid-December every year, my brother or father would disappear into the woods with a shotgun in hand and return an hour or so later, pink-cheeked and smelling of the outdoors, to lay a tattered clump of mistletoe on the kitchen counter.
The only way to acquire the kissing sprig, which is actually a parasite to its host tree, is to blast it from the treetops with a well-aimed shotgun. Not very romantic. What is romantic, though, is my father snapping off a twig or two and cornering my mother at the kitchen sink, her hands in the dishwater. He’d hold the lime-green leaves above her head and lean in for a kiss, usually getting a soapy swat for his trouble.
I love many things about the holidays, but mistletoe memories rank right up there. When my husband and I were dating, I could always count on him sending me a note at school with a tiny sprig enclosed or dipping a gloved hand into his coat pocket at an opportune moment to pull out a red-ribboned bunch.
When the kids were small, they would often sit purposefully underneath the door frame where the mistletoe hung, their not-so-subtle indication that it was high time for some snuggles. As they grew, it became a game to see who would get caught there and have to submit, squirming, as mom planted a kiss on a grossed-out teenager’s cheek. Through some phases of their lives, I was resigned to only getting affection under Christmas duress.
That’s the beauty of mistletoe. It’s power to compel a kiss is an inarguable given, like midnight on New Year’s Eve or spin-the-bottle in middle school. For the most part, unless you’re trying to escape the creeper at the annual office party or drunk Uncle Edgar (and in that case, there most definitely is the right of refusal), those innocent green branches and white berries add a little Hallmark magic to the stress of the holidays. Even in the midst of an argument or an overdone schedule, mistletoe is the trump card. A peace-offering. A reminder of the things that really matter.
Real mistletoe is harder to find these days. Maybe the countryside is receding or maybe it’s just easier for guys to click “add to cart” at Christmas instead of tramping through the cold woods in search of a bit of old-fashioned romance. Fewer people live out in the country anymore, where you know how to dig for ginseng and can identify the scrapes on tree bark as those left by the antlers of rutting deer. And apparently it’s not polite to blast shotguns towards the treetops in suburban neighborhoods.
I haven’t had any real mistletoe in the house in a few years. The fake, plastic kind just isn’t the same. Maybe that’s why I had to stop and take a picture of the far away clusters I spotted by the interstate this week. I needed a reminder of a time when life was simpler and nothing made me happier than watching my mom and dad dance to the Christy Minstrels album in the kitchen after a soapy kiss. Since the real thing is hard to come by, I have a little sign posted on my kitchen windowsill, right above the sink, where it’s obvious when I’m doing the dishes.
I conjure my own mistletoe, metaphorically. There’s no sly evasion of the door frames anymore. The teenagers receive begrudged smooches without warning, and when the husband comes in from the cold, smelling of the outdoors, it’s an opportunity to gross out the aforementioned teenagers even more. (wink, wink*)
Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree has always confused me a little. I don’t know if it was a symptom of being in a regimented, military family or just the fact that over half of us were decidedlyType A personalities, but there was no way our family tree ever would have resembled the “sad little tree” from the movie. Christmas was always a happy, much-anticipated holiday, but there were Certain Unbreakable Rules for the tree that somehow were just understood. It might or might not be the case that if any of these rules had been broken, Santa would somehow miss our house for the year.
My kindred Type A brethren might recognize some of these Tree Do’s and Don’ts (can I get an Amen up in here?):
The tree can be real or artificial, cut or live, but it must be green. Pink, white, or other rainbow-hued Christmas trees do not occur in nature; thus, they will not occur in the house.
No matter what tools, props, or physical contortions are necessary, the tree must be straight. Plumb lines can be dropped from the top of the ladder if necessary. You can turn the “bad side” towards the wall, but from top to bottom, no tilting allowed.
Lights must be evenly spaced and working. Steady or twinkling–either is ok–but dark spaces or blank spots practically negate Christmas altogether.
This should go without saying (*smh*), but a tree should be a tree, not a string of ropes on a wall, not a triangular stack of 7-UP bottles, or any other non-tree, Pinterest-inspired creation. And for goodness sake, it should not be hung upside-down from the ceiling! How can you lie underneath the branches on Christmas Eve dreaming of presents when you’re looking at the pointy top instead of the broad underside of the tree? Answer: You cannot.
If you MUST use tinsel (or icicles), and I am strongly against it, it cannot be clumped and thrown on in bunches. Even if it takes two entire tedious days, tinsel must be placed strand-by-strand on the branches, to give the effect of shimmering snow. If you have animals prone to eating this surgery-inducing stuff or a vacuum cleaner that recoils and refuses to work at the sight of it, be sensible and banish it forever from your Christmas tradition.
A word about garland. Shiny metallic garland is tinsel’s country cousin. No. Just no. If you must string something, go old-fashioned and make some popcorn strings or cranberries (but not if you have hungry pets). Or go with felt balls, wooden beads, or possibly wide, wired ribbon. It’s just extra work because the swags must be even and spaced correctly from top to bottom or it’ll look like a badly wrapped gift.
Ornaments can be lots of things–handmade, glass-blown, kid crafts, or whatever, but they, too, must be spaced evenly around the tree so that it’s balanced. Noticing a spacing theme yet? If you let your children decorate it, everything will be hung on the bottom third of the tree, within their reach only. If you have very small children or persistent cats or puppies that want to eat everything, you’ll tend to decorate only the top third of the tree. Just like middle children, the middle third of the tree cannot be neglected because the rest demands attention! Balance. As with the lights, no big empty spaces and no bunches or clumps.
Colors must mix. Don’t put all the red balls together in one spot. They’ve been stored in boxes all year and this is the one time they get to come out and mingle with others. Be sensitive to their feelings.
What goes on top? So many options—angel, bow, star, weird vintage spire–any of these work. Whichever you choose must be proportional to your tree, and the top branch has to be sturdy enough to–wait for it–remain straight (see #2). Don’t tie a tiny red bow on a 9 foot tree. Don’t put a huge, hulking angel on a little 3-foot table topper.
Timing. For the true Type A person, Christmas trees cannot be seen before Thanksgiving. Even if they’re banging away on the attic door like someone’s crazy locked-away aunt, begging to be let out, do not give in. It’s an abomination. Conversely, they must be down and re-stowed before the New Year. Lights left on the outside of the house after this point mark you as lazy and oblivious.
If you want to be all like “Oh, family is more important than doing it right” and “Christmas should be fun and free-spirited,” then be my guest. Go ahead: wake up Christmas morning to your haphazard, crazy pink tree and go through the motions, but we’ll all know it won’t really be Christmas at your house. Me, I’ll be basking in the balance and greenery, carefully un-taping the paper on the presents and saving the bows for next year.
The best Christmas gift I ever received wasn’t a Christmas gift at all, but a spontaneous, compassionate gesture from a friend of a friend. When I was a kid, if you came running into the house all hot and sweaty from playing outside in the Florida heat, it was a good bet you could find my mom in front of her sewing machine, probably with some Anne Murray playing on the stereo.
She, like her mother before her, made things: all of our curtains and throw pillows, assorted matching dresses for my sisters, dolls and Santas, bunnies and birds. The tip of the middle finger on her left hand was a rough, pitted mess from hand-stitching quilts from leftover fabrics that were stacked in bins in her sewing room. When she brushed and smoothed my hair, that finger would always snag and catch on a few strands.
She sold some of these creations in a local shop and did some by special order for weddings or showers. Old metal tins full of buttons and other sewing notions were stacked on the shelf above her machine. My dad, always handy, made a pegboard where she hung ribbon, thread, and other mysterious trappings of her craft like scissors with notched edges, bobbins, and colored chalk for marking patterns. He fashioned a whole organized storage system out of little International Coffee tins, which were mounted on a shelf, their plastic lids revealing the contents. I would sit reading or doodling at her feet listening to the rhythmic buzz-buzz-buzz of the sewing machine as she worked. I imagined stories of British children named Simplicity and Butterick, named after the patterns filed in boxes under her table. We’d spend hours like this, until she’d glance at the clock and see it was almost time for my father to get home. She’d push aside what she’d been working on and head for the kitchen to start dinner.
I never learned a single stitch. In junior high I had a home economics class (do they even have those anymore?) where I had to make an item of clothing. My halter top was uneven and hung crooked, and that was after hours of tears of anger and frustration. She did manage to show me how to sew on a button, my one sewing ability. But sitting at the sewing machine and pushing that foot pedal that made the needle go up and down at a dizzying speed reminded me of my father’s table saw and conjured thoughts of heinous injuries. I just couldn’t do it.
Twenty-one years ago in October we lost mom to cancer. Two months later it was Christmas time and unthinkable to get together for family celebrations without her. I was mopey and depressed, angry that people had the nerve to just keep marching right on shopping and baking and decorating when for me, the whole world had just come to a screeching halt. Joy to the World? No way.
My best friend was home for the holiday, and we ended up at her house. I think we were supposed to pick some of her sister’s friends up and go see a movie, not that there was anything worth seeing. The Edlin’s lived across the street from my friend. We walked over in the cold December night and knocked on their festive holiday door. I tried my best to be friendly, or at least civil, while we waited for everyone to get their coats. I felt isolated and lonely, even (or especially) amid the crowd, and I wandered off to look at their Christmas tree sparkling in the corner.
Mrs. Edlin (Helen) must have seen me there and she came over to give me a hug. It was then I noticed them. On her tree were two of my mother’s doves–one red, one white. Immediately I was transported back to underneath the sewing machine, seeing my mother’s hand-drawn patterns of the little birds and the bin of wings just waiting to be attached. “Oh!” I said, “My mom made those!” They were some of her best sellers–all sold out around town.
She nodded. “I found them at the shop by the park,” she said. “They were so cute.” I didn’t register what she was doing as she unhooked them from the tree. She held the pair of doves in her hands. “Of course you need these,” she said, holding them out to me.
She had no idea as she handed them over that she’d just given me back Christmas. That simple, unselfish gesture melted some of the ice that had been growing steadily thicker around my heart. Without words, I gave her a tearful hug as a thank you, completely inadequate considering what she’d just handed me.
Every year since then, I open the boxes as they come down from the attic and search for the doves. They are the first to go on the tree. Sometimes you don’t even notice them, nestled in the branches, but I know they’re there. On quiet evenings when it’s just me at home with a good book, I’ll sit by the tree and admire the twinkling lights and ornaments. When I see the doves perched in the tree, of course I always think of mom, her talent and creativity. But I also think of Mrs. Edlin. I’d like her to know I’m paying it forward. I try each year to give spontaneously and unselfishly, often to someone I hardly know. I’ve heard a lot lately that you never know how some small thing you do might be a giant thing in someone else’s life. The thing is that I know that very well. Once upon a time my Christmas miracle was two turtle doves.
Type A personalities, but there was no way our family tree ever would have resembled the “sad little tree” from the movie. Christmas was always a happy, much-anticipated holiday, but there were Certain Unbreakable Rules for the tree that somehow were just understood. It might or might not be the case that if any of these rules had been broken, Santa would somehow miss our house for the year.