I had one of the coolest temp jobs ever in college. It was temp in every possible sense of the word, lasting only one night and paying pretty decently for the late 80s/early 90s.

The local mall contracted with the theater department at my college to put up the rather extravagant Christmas decorations. We would show up at the mall as the stores were closing and a mall employee would lead us through a maze of corridors behind the stores to a room that warehoused all the decorations.  A couple of pizzas and several hours later, the center stage area was transformed into a proper Santa wonderland with tall, tall trees and scads of faux snow.

Back then, we didn’t put them up before Halloween. It may not have been the week before Thanksgiving break, but it certainly wasn’t as early as election day. Of course, the commercial Christmas season was shorter back then. This year, I saw Christmas trees in the stores in mid-October when my nephew and I were looking for a new shirt for his high school homecoming. Twitter friends reported hearing Christmas music on the radio as early as Nov. 1.

The increasing length of the consume-athon that has become Advent in America is beginning to turn me from Bob Crachit into Ebenezer Scrooge.

I want to reclaim the wonder of Christmas.

I want Christmas decorations to magically appear in the stores after a proper Thanksgiving in which we have paused to remember all our blessings before we run out asking for more.

I want the Christmas music to start being played on the radio on Black Friday morning.

I want to see sparking lights adorning houses the weekend after Thanksgiving – not competing for space with the mums and carved pumpkins of Halloween.

I can only control so much of my exposure to the trappings of Christmas before the traditional start on Black Friday, but still I try, keeping my favorite scene from my favorite Christmas special firmly in mind.

—

This Throwback Thursday post originally appeared on a previous blog on November 16, 2010. Posting it before Christmas made it a bit more relevant, but the sentiment remains as we’re only a week into December.

I’m compelled to write this missive to you – an unknown, faceless figure who poked his head out of the window of a pick-up truck past its prime (but not its primer.)

You were driving down a main street in town. I was safely pedaling in the bike lane.

The you made this noise. I suspect it was meant to be a shout of some sort. I’m not naive enough to think it was pleasant.

But I’m fairly certain that physics was never your strong point.

The first clue was the condition of the smoke-billowing conveyance in which you were a passenger.

The second was your blatant disregard of the effect of said smoke-billowing conveyance’s motion on your voice. Simply put, the motion of the vehicle combined with the excessive decibels at which you attempted to communicate rendered your Neanderthal musings incoherent.

Please understand that this does not mean that I need or want you to repeat your message as I suspect it is one that I have heard before from similar people who directly correlate their manhood to the loudness of their muffler.

Just remember this … someday you’ll be standing at a gas station pumping precious fuel into your guzzling gas tank while I ride by thinking of all the money I am saving and the calories I am burning.

Maybe I’ll slow down and shout something at you.

Don’t worry. I’ll speak slowly so you can understand.

This post originally appeared on one of my earlier blogs, but I thought it would be fun to revisit it for #ThrowbackThursday.

 

A ten-year journey will be coming to a close at the moment I have scheduled this post to publish.

At 10:30 a.m., I will be lined up with my fellow graduates of Winebrenner Theological Seminary, waiting for the first notes of the processional to signal the start of the commencement ceremony. Though it comes six years later than I had anticipated, the timing is perfect. Ten years ago, I was where I needed to be, but not when I needed to be or who I needed to be.

I had been in youth ministry for nearly ten years at the time, and found my sweet spot in discussing life and Scriptures with students who were about to enter college. I had volunteered a few times with Passion conferences, and loved the one-to-one interaction with the students I served. So, when I embarked on my seminary journey, I had visions of a flourishing college ministry that would meet in the old movie theater downtown and draw in students from local colleges and maybe even high school seniors.

Nearly halfway into the seminary experience, my world was shattered when my mother died just a few days before Christmas. My seminary family prayed me through, and I vowed to continue on with my classwork. The reality, though, is that you just can’t concentrate on early Christological heresies and the thoughts of the ante-Nicene fathers when you are trying to move through the fog of loss.

So, I bailed.

For the first time in an academic life characterized by a perfectionist streak and flat-out ambition, I quit. I not only quit, but also the transcript for that semester shows letters I had never seen before on any report card – “WF” – withdrew failing.

And, that was the greatest thing I have ever done in all my years of schooling.

But, that’s when Jesus grabbed on to me like he never had before. I didn’t consciously reach out to him like you read in great redemption stories. I continued doing what I had always done.  I prayed. I read the Bible. I continued serving in church. In those little faithful acts, taken one step at a time as I came out of the darkness of grief, Jesus held onto me until I gradually realized I was being held.

And I grabbed him back.

More than once, I toyed with the idea of returning to school, but there were reasons to not return. It was too busy at work. The family needed me. It was busy at church. There was always the burning question of why I had even started seminary in the first place. Was it my ambition or God’s calling?

Finally, in the fall of 2013, I sensed that it was time. As it turns out, it was just in the nick of time. I faced a deadline to finish everything so that the old credits I had earned back in 2006 wouldn’t expire. It wasn’t easy. There were far more tasks to complete each day than there had been, and far less time available to complete them. The challenge, however, made the work all the more precious.

It was only in this last semester that I realized the great work God had done in the seven years that passed between the end of the last class I successfully completed and the start of the first class in my return to seminary. This time, I know that God has called me to write, speak and teach his word to people of any age willing to hear. This time, it isn’t in my own ambition or talent. It is though the grace and guidance of God. Now, I sing with conviction – and will sing at the graduation ceremony – the words to my favorite hymn:

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

 

 

She wore a red shirt that declared she was the proud mother of a Marine. With two smaller children in tow and a husband walking alongside, she trailed a step or two behind a young, muscular man. He might have been over 20, but probably not.

He walked to the security checkpoint to present his ID and boarding pass. She stood by the rope line, watching intently.

He turned to the trays to begin the tedious travel routine – unloading pockets, taking off his shoes, removing his belt. She stayed close talking quietly.

He nodded a few times before he moved to the conveyor belt. She watched as the security official waved him through. She craned her neck for a glimpse of him as he gathered his belongings. She stood on tiptoes as he walked out onto the busy concourse, watching intently as he turned first one direction then the other in an attempt to find his gate.

He strode away, full of confidence, disappearing into the crowd.

After a long moment, she turned away, a hint of sadness in her eyes as she looked at her husband.

The boys, by now, were already heading down the escalator, but she walked away slowly.

She was still very obviously, very openly, very beautifully the proud mother of a Marine.

 

They slowly followed the young man to the table. He walked well, but slowly. She walked slowly, but not as well with a slight tilt to her head and an arm in a permanent bend.

He smiled at them, handed them menus and helped them settle in — both of them on the same side of the table.

Curious, that. I turned my attention back to the conversation at the table. There is, after all, a delicate balance to people watching.

Their order came quickly. Two identical plates piled high with broccoli.

I feigned interest in the repeated scenes of an empty racetrack and the incessant scroll along the immense television screen mounted on the wall behind and above the elderly couple at the next table. My peripheral vision focused on the action.

An act of devotion. An act of love. An act of beauty.

He gently reached over and cut her meat. Picking up her fork, he jabbed a chunk of chicken and turned the fork, placing it in his wife’s hand so she could eat. Then, he turned to his own plate to have a bite for himself.

The process continued, their gray heads almost touching as the fork was passed back and forth in quiet conversation.

They smiled at the server when she came to deliver their bill and graciously declined dessert before they began the slow journey back out the door.

This. This is commitment.

This is devotion.

This is love.