One cannot skip to done.

It is tempting, of course!  I remember doing a project during junior high school.  When video production was young in that school district, we thought ourselves quite-the-quite when we rolled the lumbering A-V cart from the library into our multi-purpose room.  We were going to create a ficticious product to sell, complete with video footage, that was a convenience for last-minute needs: an instant, already frosted and decorated birthday cake.   The story line of the ad was pretty flimsy.  "Oh my!  We are in need of a cake for a quickly put together, albiet important, surprise birthday cake.  What to do?"  The product we hawked was an add-water wonder work.    We were thrilled at being able to stop the camera, hold our poses, and have one of the team switch out the mixing bowl for a magnificent birthday cake.  I think it even had the right number of needed candles on it.  Roll tape once more.  To quote the recent Staples advertisements:  "That was easy."

What a silly little experience.  It came to mind for me as I was in the middle of preaching this past Sunday, the first in the season of Lent.  Part of our call at baptism is to grow in depth and maturing of faith.  Within that call, we cannot skip to done.  This may have been part of the temptation Jesus encountered with Satan in the wilderness.  Skip to glory in fullness, renown and protection without the deepening and maturation of the journey.  Luke's Jesus is growth in wisdom and stature from the beginning.  Skipping to done at Chapter 4 seems premature to the plot of the literary endeavor, and to the truth of our salvation.

Today I am trip-hung-over.  I've driven 800 miles in too short an amount of time.  The two round trips were necessary, but my fiber is balking.  This seems a physical reminder too of how there are some parts of us that need more time to adjust.  In a couple of days, I will have caught up with myself.  But my head and backache are helping me the ponder some more about how some things, not including suddenly called itineraries, cannot be forced.

In Advent, we wait and prepare for four weeks. 

In Lent, we have a time of 40 days.

Our liturgical life offers us intentional space to approach done in a salutary way.

Earlier this week, the end of January, it was nearly 60 degrees and the yard was wet.  I went outside and started digging in the dirt.  I raked some leaves.  I pulled some weeds.  I moved a few bulbs as they were thawed momentarily from their winter dens.  It felt wonderful to do all of this, bending, reaching, cleansing perspiration.  It was a workout that provided an endorphin balm for a wintery spirit.  To have touched the earth and labored this bit,  I felt renewed in a way that the isolated treadmill cannot offer.

The next morning, amid snow squalls and frigid temperature returned, I reached for a knitting project. It was nearly finished, and I prepared it to be a gift.  From knitting needles I moved to using a mending needle and rejoined shreds of a tired lining in my winter coat.  Some loose ends on my sweater got TLC as well.  My fingers were partners in a morning of restoration, as a group of quilting women around me plied their yarns.  Our conversation wove us into refreshment as well.

In the afternoon, it was tea and berry crumbles, with two sisters, gathered in our shared friendship and love for pondering theology. 

The deep breath in of loamy life.
The sight of breath out into crisp cold.
The peaceful breathing in and out in comfortable presence.

For Epiphany morning a few gifts from wise ones.  I heard these from the Arts over the days of Christmas:

The CBS Network aired The Kennedy Center Honors, 2012 on December 26.  That evening these words were shared from actor/director Dustin Hoffman - "A man's dreams should extend beyond his reach; or, what's a heaven for?"

Also at those same Honors, these words from Blues Musician Buddy Guy - "When you sing the Blues, you lose them, and that's a beautiful thing."

Then, on the 10th Day of Christmas, while watching The Best Exotic Magnolia Hotel, for the elderly and beautiful, these words from the character Sonny - "It will be alright in the end.  If it is not alright, it is not the end."

Epiphany blessings to you, as "the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." - from Jesus of Nazareth, as shared by the Gospel writer John (1:5).

On Christmas Eve morning, there are a few more hours in Advent.  We're down to the wire with preparations for tonight's worship services.  In these preparations, we are reminded that Jesus was born in Bethlehem and that Jesus is coming again.  Christmas has been celebrated for centuries, and it will be celebrated again.  God continues to gather up our hopes and fears and wrap them together into gifts for today.

Today I look at my pets, Addie and Piper.  They've been adopted into what I hope is the gift of my home, and away from the fears of their previous days. 

Addie was, we think, dropped at the church where I previously served.  Maybe someone couldn't afford food or medical care for her.  That day was the Second Sunday in Advent.  She was balled up and looking into the sanctuary through a clear floor-to-ceiling window with her big Advent-blue eyes.  A church member came up to me and said, "Pastor, we have a church cat!"  My son went out and brought her inside from under the bushes and out of the cold.  Cat in their arms, my son and daughter both pleaded, "Mom, please can we keep her?"  We posted in the newspapers "Lost Cat Found."  We took her to the vet.  We boggled at how someone parted with such a beauty.  We wrapped her into our family.  Addie is aloof, but I think she returns the favor.

This summer, Rex died.  Rex came home from the shelter as a three-month-old puppy dog, wrapped in a towel.  Thirteen years later, after much eating of socks and other odd items, chasing tennis balls with a passion, and finally suffering from leukemia, we wrapped him in a quilt to say good-bye.  Though filled with memories, the space he left needed to be filled with another one to be wrapped in hugs.  Enter Piper.  On walks with her, she pounces on the slightest of new items to cross her path--a leaf a tissue.  She rejoices in the smallest of details, spilling out joy on us like the stuffing from a package being unwrapped.

The stories of these humble beast are around me when I go to make visits at the end of Advent and as Christmas comes again.  I take their giving along with me.  One of great age who has fallen and another with an untimely and sudden health emergency are in the hospital.  Together we wrap their fears in prayer and hope for the promise of home.  I pray that they will not feel outside, but wrapped into God's hope.  There was a funeral last night too.  After many years of mothering, that one was wrapped in love and entrusted to God's eternal care.

In the transition between Advent and Christmas, there are those slight items to cross our paths.  The refrain of a carol, the glimpse of a memory on the face of one in worship.  May we gather and spill out joy on each other.  The stuffing of angels, shepherds, beasts, visitors are wrapped around us and with God's Son once more.

While The St. John's Bible was being created, Illuminator Donald Jackson reflected on Jesus' Parable of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15.  He included an image of the 2001 New York City Twin towers in the illumination for that parable.  Jackson said how, like with the Prodigal, there are some things one cannot force one's way through.  That there are things that must be loved through.  Following the tragedy of lives lost in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 14, 2012, Jackson's words come to broken hearts.  On December 17, 2012 these words are an awkward offering into "what shall we say?"  Some have offered that there is nothing to be said right now.  That presence and prayer are the balm.  True.  Some offer words.  Honorable, and just as true.  Polarizing comments are made, coming from grief and shock and ignorance and fear.  Righteous action is longed for and needed.  Weeping is spending more than the night, and is included in the morning and at midday.  Upon another tablet we begin the attempt to live again.  Do justice.  Love mercy. Walk humbly.  The former tablet lying in shards.

Is Prevent (accent on the second syllable) the actual human season?  Whatever time of year it is?  Advent:  Holy season of anticipation, expectation, awe, wonder, surprise, "Now to him who is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine ... " (Ephesians 3:20, NRSV).  Prevent:  Doubt, dread, resistance, procrastination, hindrance, "And he Jesus was amazed at their unbelief" (Mark 6:6).

This week I have felt disheartened by Prevent responses that I've encountered.  "I can tell you right now that I won't ... "  "That would be the worst ... "  "She always ..."  "He won't ... " 
Good Lord deliver us from our sweeping generalizations and preventations.

And our Good Lord does!  Always!  "And the angel said to her, ... nothing will be impossible with God (Luke 2:37).

May I continue to be Advent-tageous and sing with my ancestor and sister, Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word (Luke 2:38).

There are reminders that come back to give some guidance.  "Light griefs can speak; great ones are dumb" -Seneca.  There has been a season now that includes five Advent and Christmas times.  There is a space in this time that won't be named, but that will also not go away or become something else--whatever it is in the first place.  It is a result of radical change.  It doesn't prevent moving forward.  Neither will it be left behind.  Until now it would not even be acknowledged with words.  Its payload has hindered what moving forward could mean.  Now there begins an uneasy nod between it and me.