Kirsten wrote about the beauty of ordinary life. This is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. In any story, the resolve we seek is not the high emotions of the climax. It is the (sometimes assumed) ordinary days. In them lies the happily-ever-after.

In the liturgical calendar, we have two periods of ordinary days. The first follows Epiphany, and the second period occurs after Pentecost. After the high emotions of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany, after the extreme sorrow and celebration of Lent, Passion Week, Easter, and, finally, Pentecost, we have ordinary days. In these days, we live most of our Christmas life. 

Paul tells us to rejoice in everything and to be content. This joy and contentment occurs in our beautiful ordinary, as Kirsten calls it.

Here's why I've been noodling on this lately: world-wide, nationally, and personally, uncertainties threaten our joy and contentment. My response--escape. I want to sail away (I'll give you a moment to finish the Styx chorus). I want to bury my toes in the sand of a white beach and my thoughts in a book.

But we can't live in the escape. We live in between the anticipation and hope of our Savior's return and the joys of our ordinary lives. To the rhythm of our rosary beads click-clacking between our fingers, we run errands and wash dishes and change sheets. We care for the widow and orphan. We dance to a favorite song. We sip our wine and chew our bread. We work, bringing good to the earth through our businesses. These are the sacraments of our ordinary days, bringing grace and beauty in ordinary elements.

And so the tragedy must begin.

Soon, I'll strip my living room of its holiday clothes.

Every year, I pull out my Christmas decorations from the attic. (Technically, Chris pulls them out, but potato, potato.) My living room prances in excitement. We're changing from the Sunday dress into our comfy clothes. 

You see, my house's natural state is Christmas: the trees, the nativities, the Dicken's Village (I got a new figurine of a book signing this year), the snowmen, more snowmen (it looks like Frosty threw-up in here), the lights, the decked halls. This is how it's meant to be. So when the twelve days of Christmas are up and Epiphany season begins, changing out of this attire is like convincing a toddler that she needs to remove her favorite pink princess shirt and red polka dot pants because of some crazy fashion notions Mommy has.

I'll have to say goodbye to Theresa. I'll have to put away Maggie, Rose, and Henry (the three small artificial trees). I'll have to pack our nativities and snowmen and Christmas music boxes that sing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" and "Joy to the World." And I'll pull out the Sunday clothes.

The Hour I First Believed: A Novel (P.S.) by Wally Lamb is the American novel of this decade. It grapples with the real events of Columbine, Katrina, 9/11, the war in the Middle East, and other personal tragedies such as alcoholism, drug addiction, divorce, affairs. In other words, it's an epic novel of grief. It explores the sins of the father and mother and their effects on generations to come.

But it isn't distant in its encompassing endeavor. All of these events come through the eyes of Caelum, a man who is victim, monster, and victor. He and his wife survived Columbine and attempt to put their lives back together in the aftermath. In the tragedies of our day, Caelum finds guidance in the myths of old.

Lamb explores questions such as: What do we do with grief? What is the difference between justice and vengeance and how does grace and redemption fit in? On what do we base/find hope? How do we heal when the contents of Pandora's open box wreak havoc in our world? Where does the monster begin and the victim end?

This is a hard book to read, but it's one I highly recommend.

The Man in the Front

The boy swings the red velvet rope
first rising to his tippy-toes
then peeking around sets of parents and children
to catch a glimpse of the bearded man in the front.

The boy sees a gold throne, an elf in green,
and an arm in red robe.
He jumps but still cannot see
the full image of the man in the front.

He doesn't have a long list:
a pair of hopalong boots
and a pistol that shoots.
He's afraid he'll never get to tell the man in front.

The smell of peppermint
and the weight of his mom's hand on his shoulder
cannot squelch his excitement
of sitting on the knee of the man in the front.

The mother leans down
and adjusts his sweater.
She made him promise to stay neat and tidy
for his picture with the man in the front.

The boy hears a "Ho, ho, ho"
and a "Merry Christmas"
and moves a step closer
to the man in the front.

And then--oh, the magnanimous joy!
The desire of nations!
O, holy night! O, star of light!
He's there on the knee of the man in the front.

The boy whispers his secret in the ear
of the man in the front in his gold throne.
The man whispers a secret back,
then holds his finger to his lips--"Shh, don't tell."

The boy hops down,
and with head down and arms pumping,
he runs through the mall and out the door,
the true anticipation and preparation to begin.

He has cookies to bake, and, oh! the carrots, for tinsel's sake!
He'd better not cry and better not pout--
he knows someone will come on a silent night,
for he has met the man in the front.

From the perspective of two autodidacts and intellectuals, The Elegance of the Hedgehog exudes multi-syllabic sophistication. It embodies movement, beauty, and life itself.

A concierge and a twelve-year-old girl search for life's meaning and beauty and to escape the stereotypes of their class and fate. As they do, they strike up an unusual friendship that in itself proves that the similarities between humans supercedes the limits of class and age. And what better way to show this than have the two connect over literature, beauty, and philosophy--topics unexpected in a concierge and twelve year old.

Often, the powers that be encourage writers to avoid big words. And often, this is good advice because the big words don't contribute to--in fact, detract from--the overall voice. But here, all these magnificent, tasty words work--even in the voices of a concierge and a twelve year old--because Barbery makes it clear that these two women love words and beauty.

Toward the beginning of the book, Renee, our concierge, discusses phenomenology. Can we truly know things through our observations or are these things a construct of language, culture, and semantics? In other words, is the sky truly blue, or have we categorized it as blue? Renee affirms we can truly know things, the essence of things, more than our social constructs. Than Barbery uses Renee's story to show how Renee is more than the social construct of a concierge. She is more than her stereotype, in other words, though she hides behind the stereotype. She is knowable if you'll take the time to see her. And this is the key. The discussion of phenomenology asks the wrong questions. The question is: do we take the time to see and perceive? (Later, Renee also discusses Ockham's question: are there universals or only specifics? In other words, is there a universal table or only tables. Renee affirms universals by virtue that we have a category tables but that the universal is only through specifics--again, a topic of perception and categories.) Renee says, "I am struck with incredible force by this proof that sight is like a hand that tries to seize flowing water. Yes, our eyes may perceive, yet they do not observe; they may believe, yet they do not question; they may receive yet they do not search: they are emptied of desire, with neither hunger nor passion" (p. 304).

But Renee herself must also overcome the stereotypes she perpetuates of the elite French culture, stereotypes she formed after a childhood tragedy. To do so, she must accept the overtures of friendship from a Japanese gentleman (the new tenant in the building) and a twelve-year-old girl, Paloma. Only in these friendships can Renee embrace the freedom and responsibility not of the elite, to whom she believed freedom and responsibility belonged, but of humanity. In other words, only in community can we discover human freedom and responsibility, and as we do so, we also find beauty.

Barbery connects beauty with responsibility. Those free to know beauty also have a responsibility to create beauty. Beauty is also connected with movement and the meaning of life. Paloma concludes, "Maybe that's what life is about: there's a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It's as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never" (p. 325). This speaks to me about the beauty that sneaks in from the new earth. It's the beauty of rebirth and resurrection. It's the beauty of the kingdom of God, which dances in and around us--the always in today's never--and will someday be fully realized.

And now, dear friends, if you have not read the book, I bid you adieu as the rest of the post contains spoilers. But, please, read this book. And when you do, come tell me what you think. If you have read this book, please continue reading because I crave your opinion as to the end. I waver as to my feelings about it.

First impression: Barbery chose an easy way out. Yes, in this case, death was the easy ending. Conversion does not bring ease. Quite the contrary! Those around us resist the change in us and the change that threatens their way of life. Renee's death gives an escape to the difficulties and dreariness of everyday life following conversion.

Yet, second impression: Her sacrificial substitutionary death forces Paloma to experience real pain, and only in this experience can she make a real choice between embracing life (and its responsibilities and beauties) and her own escape.

Renee's death also carries a theme Paloma raised toward the beginning: "The important thing, said Paloma one day, is not the fact of dying, it is what you are doing in the moment of your death." Renee's death came about because she sought to save a fellow human being, something she perhaps would not have done if she hadn't herself up to the love and community of humans.

So, fellow readers, what do you think?

"Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen."

- from The Book of Common Prayer, 

At my hairdresser's yesterday, I picked up a Women's Day magazine. Between pages of how to make the best chicken soup and Halloween cupcakes, I found an article on 10 ways to give yourself mini-spa treatments at home. Who could resist that?

The third tip said to do something you loved as a girl. According to this writer and the studies she read (or he read, perhaps), girls ages ten to twelve are most connected with things that make them happy. 

In light of this tidbit, I've decided to compare the 10-year-old me with the I'm-sorry-we-must-be-cutting-out-year-old me.

1. I choreographed and performed dances in the living room with my sister and friends. (And, yes, my parents own video-taped evidence.) Check. With the exception that I no longer perform to Debbie Gibson nor to an audience of my stuffed animals. (And, yes, filmed evidence may exist from last Christmas when I taught my nieces a dance to the themes of the Miser Brothers [Snow and Heat, for those of you who aren't familiar with them].)
2. My mom was teaching me to knit. Check. I've recently rediscovered this love. A couple years ago, when attempting to reteach myself this skill, I couldn't figure out what the heck the book (entitled A Single-Cell's Guide to Knitting: Baby Steps or something to that effect) was doing. I had to call my mom. She taught me over the phone.
3. I started a writer's group called Writer's Block (being blissfully ignorant as to the true meaning of that phrase), enlisted (drafted?) a few friends (and my sister because we needed a secretary), and wrote short stories to sell in our neighborhood. One of my friends decided to illustrate our stories. She's now a graphic artist. Check. As I said on Facebook yesterday, I have the tinselest job in the world.
4. I spent nights reading one last chapter of a book until no more chapters existed; I finished the stack of books I got for Christmas by the end of Christmas break; I fell in love with Anne of Green Gables. Check. Check. Check.
5. I sewed a dress for my Barbie, though I didn't particularly want to play with my Barbie much anymore. Work on this one.
6. I played school with my sister. (My mom found old school textbooks including--oh, the excitement--teacher's editions. I still remember Roman city-states from teaching her about them.) Check. I teach flute and piano lessons and have opportunities to teach in different church venues. 
7. I played piano and, toward the end of my tenth year, began learning flute. Check. Though I haven't played flute in months.
8. Every night, I slept with Big Foot, a stuffed bear my grandparents gave me before I was born. Check. No comment.
9. And in honor of Christmas, I watched White Christmas and Rudolph a dozen times this time of year. Check. Or at least I'm on my way.

Last night, my husband said to me, "You know that character you wrote about in the story for Generate? That's how I'd feel if I took that job."

That's why I write. To connect with people and let them know they're not the only ones who feel that way.

I've been in danger of being reported to BPS (Blog Protective Services) for neglect. Luckily, I have this year's tree story to save the day. I know as you've been decorating your own tree, sipping eggnog, and getting entangled in lights (probably because you had too much eggnog), you've thought, It just doesn't seem like Christmas yet without Heather's annual Christmas tree story.

Not to worry! Let the festivities begin.

It all began one cool spring day in Oregon (or perhaps it was Michigan--I don't remember now) when a seed cracked open, and a seedling was born.

I suppose I don't need to go back that far. I'll skip ahead to this past Saturday.

Necessary background for new readers to my blog this year: Besides the typical tests (straight trunk, soft needles, lack of holes--all mistakes we've made in the past, in one year, to be exact), before we can purchase our annual tree, I have to connect with it. I have to feel it. Think Christmas Vacation. You know the scene where they come upon their tree and a spotlight shines down and some angelic music plays? Also, I like to go to this certain tree farm around the corner from us. The same guy waits on us every year, and seeing him is part of the Christmas tradition. And you know what happens when you break tradition.

This year, we had to break tradition.

We're watching our budget (watching it crack under our weight, to be specific), so we decided to try Home Depot. Apparently, everyone and their Grinch had already picked through the trees. Only two remained that looked half-decent, but you guessed it. I wasn't feeling it. No connection. These were just trees. Still, in attempts to live within our means, I told Chris one of the trees was fine, just fine. I could make do.

He held it up and looked at it. "You sure you can be happy with this?"

By then, tears coated my cheeks like glitter on a glitter-coated Christmas ball. "It's f-f-fine."

"Okay, let's go." He dropped the tree, marched me out of Home Depot, and drove me to my Christmas tree farm. 

I breathed the fresh barbequed air (the tree farm is next to Dickey's Barbeque). The man who waits on us every year approached us (with more piercings this year--I think he adds to his collection annually). I was home, and this was Christmas.

Until I took a gander at those prices. And though my husband, in his effort to support my crazy Christmas tree fetish, gave me the thumbs up, I couldn't ask this of our budget. Not when it's given so much already. So back into the car we climbed.

"Thank you for being so patient," I told Chris.

"I'll drive you to as many places you need." He kissed my hand. "But I think this should be the last place."

So we arrived at Lowe's, where a plethora of trees lined their garden area.

Now, I'm strictly a Douglas fir girl. Our first year, we bought a blue spruce (the one with the bent trunk, brittle needles, and holes large enough for submarines). His name was Charlie, and I loved him for who he was, but I swore off blue spruces for life. But I found only a single Douglas fir, and that too short. Too short is a Christmas curse worse than selling out to Potter. But Frazier firs filled Lowe's like cute puppies calendars at those calendar kiosks at the mall.

So we decided to try a Frazier.

And then I met her. Theresa.

Theresa is stately and noble (except she's a Frazier, not a Noble fir). Some think she's a bit haughty, maybe high and mighty. But since she really is high and, indeed, mighty, I think she deserves to put on airs (especially when they're the evergreen scented ones). She graciously accepted my offer to spend the holidays with Chris and me, though that meant trimming a bit off her top (let's be honest, she can be taken down a notch or two) so the star could fit.

Here she is in all her glory:

And that's how we met Theresa.