"The World Is the Manger"

Frederick Buechner's writings never fail to get my mind thinking in new ways. His manner of word crafting often causes me to pause and re-read, re-think and decide for myself. I like that in a writer. Here's an excerpt from him on Christmas that I'd like to share:

"The lovely old carols played and replayed till their effect is like a dentist's drill or a jackhammer, the bathetic banalities of the pulpit and the chilling commercialism of almost everything else, people spending money they can't afford on presents you neither need nor want, "Rudolph, the Red- Nosed Reindeer," the plastic tree, the cornball creche, the Hallmark Virgin.

YET FOR ALL OUR EFFORTS, WE'VE NEVER QUITE MANAGED TO RUIN IT.

That in itself is part of the miracle, a part you can see. Most of the miracle you can't see or don't...The world is the manger. It is only by grace that [we] happen to see this other part of the miracle. Christmas itself is by grace. It could never have survived our own blindness and depredations otherwise. It could never have happened otherwise...

~Frederick Buechner, "Beyond Words"

Memorial Day, 2008

Mother was recalling with us today what a big day Memorial Day was for them in their hometown. It was the opportunity to see family and friends from far away as everyone met at the cemetery to decorate the graves of loved ones. (Did you know it used to be called “Decoration Day”? I didn’t).

I didn’t make it out to my father’s gravesite, as I had hoped, but to my delight, the daylily (pictured above) that Mother snuck by and dropped on my back patio yesterday afternoon had one big, single beautiful yellow bloom on it this morning. It couldn’t have been more timely or reminiscent of Daddy – so instead of me placing the flowers, one was bestowed on me. Memorial Day is more than honoring those who died, it's remembering how they lived. And my daddy lived in the garden. I didn’t manage to go to him, but he came to me regardless, thanks to his loving, flower-bearing messenger.

When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.
~Frederick Buechner