Nana and the Nutcracker – A Christmas Story

Once upon a time, not too long ago (on Tuesday, actually), a particular Grandma (let’s call her Nana) invited her six-year-old grandson (let’s call him Travis) to stay overnight with her and spend the next day together, while his mother (her daughter – let’s call her Marie) attended In-Service Training. As Nana considered what they would do the next day, Travis’ cheerful chatter convinced her they would put up her Christmas tree, though hardly anyone ever comes to her small home any more, and she hasn’t decorated at Christmas for years. (The family always holds Christmas festivities at Marie’s older sister’s house, also Nana's daughter, of course. We won’t give the sister a fake name, because she doesn’t appear in this story again.)

The next day, when Nana brought out the Christmas tree, she remembered Why She Avoids Decorating Christmas Trees. Though the Christmas Stuff Section of her highly-organized walk-in closet was replete with strings of Christmas lights – five, to be exact – only one worked. Three did not light up at all. A fourth had no lit bulbs from the plug to the middle of the string, but all bulbs were fully functional from the middle to the end. A mystery. A brief telephone consult with Uncle Carl – all-wise fixer of most mechanical, electrical, and automotive problems – failed to solve the issue of the half-lit string of lights.

Now you must understand that this was a small tree. Picture a four-and-a-half-feet tall, artificial green tree-like object (just a tad taller than Travis, if you bend the top branch down, which he did). The point is, one string of lights would not do. So off Nana and Travis traveled to the Dollar Store to find a multi-colored second set to match the aforementioned only working set of Christmas tree lights.

You remember the part “she hadn’t decorated for years”? Well, the Dollar Store wasn’t exactly the right place to find a match for her retro Christmas lights. But she found some inexpensive ornamental balls; you know how someone’s always dropping them, or stepping on them, into smithereens. She was about ready to leave, when Travis discovered the Nutcrackers – yes, the brightly-painted wooden images of the soldier from Tchaikovsky’s ballet. Travis was fascinated. There were two sizes, the $1 size and the $5 size. Nana allowed him to choose between the red or blue uniformed $1 figures (“Red, please, Nana”), and she put one in their basket.

Then (violins playing in a minor key), Travis pulled a $5 Nutcracker from the shelf and began to inspect it – manually – but with his gloves on. Of course, it fell to the floor and broke. More specifically, a foot broke off. Travis was almost in tears. How much trouble was he in? “It just slipped out of my hand, Nana,” he said, shifting culpability to the Nutcracker. When Nana told him he was not in that much trouble, he became philosophical. “I think it was because of my gloves.” Since she is such a nice Nana, she told Travis she understood it was an accident, but that he must be more careful. And she forcefully reiterated The First Rule for Children in Stores: No touching or picking up anything, because of The Second Rule: If you break it, you pay for it.

Now, Nana had a moral dilemma. It was possible to place the foot back on the Nutcracker (he was standing on a base, you understand), and leave it on the shelf, looking quite undamaged. Until someone else came along and picked it up, that is. At which time, Nana and Travis could be long gone. But, as you have probably guessed by now, Nana did The Right Thing. She took the $5 Nutcracker to the checkout, confessed to the clerk that Travis had accidentally broken it, and she paid for it.

The end of the story has almost unfolded. All that’s left is what should Nana do with the damaged Nutcracker? Should she find some Super-Glue, put the foot back on, and send it home with Travis? “No,” says Marie when she comes to pick him up. “I’m not going to make a big deal of this, but he doesn’t get to have the big Nutcracker, just the little one.” So, should Nana set the Nutcracker out at her house, with one foot missing? The foot is black (a boot). The base is black. It isn’t all that noticeable. And the instructions printed on the bottom of the knick-knack clearly state “This is not a toy. For decoration only.”

Then Nana remembers the “white elephant” gift exchange her work-team is having on Friday. The gift must be under $10 (check). It can be something someone else gave you that you don’t want. (Not an exact match, but she definitely didn’t want it. Check). And wasn’t there something in the Nutcracker story about the toy’s being broken, anyway? (Yup! See the Goggled synopsis of the first act below.***)

So, she finds some two-sided tape in her junk drawer, performs minor surgery on the foot, wraps the item in several layers of tissue paper, and places it lovingly in a gift box. To assuage her guilt about passing off a broken “decoration” as a present, she includes a lovely gold and green Christmas tree ornament (purchased last year after Christmas). And yes, she will confess at the gift exchange the whole truth about the Nutcracker’s accident. Perhaps she will direct whoever ends up with the gift to her blog, where this story will be posted.

She hopes you are enjoying the Christmas season with your family, too.

***It's Christmas at the Stahlbaum home. There's a huge tree, and many guests arrive to celebrate with the family. Clara's godfather, Herr Drosselmeyer, makes magical toys. He entertains the guests with two life-sized dolls that dance around the room. Then he gives gifts to the children, and gives Clara a very special gift of a nutcracker. Her brother, Fritz, is jealous, grabs the nutcracker, and it gets broken! Clara is very upset, so Herr Drosselmeyer repairs the doll before handing it back to her. http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_story_of_nutcracker

Being Still

Becoming accustomed to silence
Again

Emptying out
All detritus
Stuffed
Into empty spaces
In my soul

Asking God
To teach me
About the caverns –
Created by circumstances
Or congenital?

Welcoming cessation of sound
Giving peace opportunity
To reign
Over scattered thoughts
Stream of consciousness
Unending conversations
In my head

Ceasing
Calming
Quieting
Resting

Only by tranquility
Can I hear
Softness of Savior’s voice
Whispering sweet words of sanction

Hush now
Be still

Reconnecting

Lord, you never
never
disconnected
from me.

It was I
who said goodbye
see you later
whenever I can figure out
what I’m escaping from
what I’m withdrawing
to avoid.

Nina, my silly, silly child,
trying to find answers
apart from me
author of the universe
lover of your soul.

How did you
think to disconnect
from me
when I indwell you
go before you
walk beside you
on your right hand
and your left,
when I protect
you from behind?

So my silence on written page
my reluctance
to open the book you’ve
already written to me
formed no barrier between us?

My love knows
no boundary.
I do not recognize
your disconnection.

Bring your questions
to me.
Though I may not answer,
you can trust me
to listen and love.

We will journey together
to your destiny’s end.
Along the way
you will fall more and more
in love with me.

Love is my desire for you,
not that you match your actions
to your own ideas
of what I want.

Walk with me
not by precept
but by proximity.
Set no standards for success
except our mutual joy.

I take your hand
my Lord.
My heart is yours.
I delight
in our dance.

Nancy Godfrey
June 25, 2006

Your Word Lives

Your word
lives
my Lord

As I peruse
its sentences and paragraphs
chapters and books
you inhabit every syllable
you infuse every letter
of every word
with Holy Spirit strength
you create rhema words
that leap off the page
into the core
of my soul

The more I read your word
Abba-Father
the more it reads me

I find myself
in your writings

You tucked me
into every line
every story
every truth

Some days
when I open your word
it sifts my motives
challenges my thoughts
pierces my heart

I come away
exposed
wounded
torn apart

But because you energize
your word
with healing power
the pain is safe

When I am open
defenseless
naked before you
only then can you
reshape reform remake me
into the image
of the one
who indwells each segment
of your word:
Jesus.

Nancy Godfrey
Hebrews 4:12-13
February 13, 2007

Today's Wings

A day stretches its wings
before me
bidding me to mount
and glide.

No stipulations.
No necessity.
No demands.

Just
Let’s fly.

I hardly know
how to say
Yes.

Can I banish
my to-do list?
Can I relinquish
my hesitancy to dismiss
my shoulds and oughts
from this day?

Can I soar
on eagle’s wings
breathlessly
expectantly
without guilt
into unexplored realms
of renewed strength?

How to let go
my own stilted conventions
and find God’s freedom
is no small task.

Even vocabulary
of spontaneity
in intimacy with Him
hides from me.

My ways have acquired
chore contours
the order of my days
constructed by lists
and shoulds and oughts -
when I do organize
when I’m not evading
eluding

lists
and shoulds
and oughts.

Guilt lurks
at conscience’s edge
stabbing
probing
needling
until each uncertain step

leaves bleeding footprint.

No wonder
I escape the shape
of days
I’ve fabricated
from bricks of blame.

So just for today
(and maybe tomorrow)
I’ll say

Yes.

I’ll sail
on Holy Spirit’s pinions
into abandon’s
unknown
uncharted
zone

Into Jesus’ smile.

NG

It's a Long Road from Insight to Change

No posts since June 9. Hmmm. Where is the fervor with which I started this blog? Granted, I'm still thinking blogically. Several ideas have presented themselves. One has lingered and taken shape in my Quiet Time. I'll need a bit of courage to post it, because the topic lays me bare and challenges me to change - not my favorite activity in life.

So here goes.

In the main women’s restroom at my workplace, there are three sinks for hand washing. My habit is to use the one on the right, closest to the paper towel dispenser. To understand this story properly, you must know that the faucets operate by motion sensors. Place your hands under the spigot and voila! The water magically emerges. (My habituation to this phenomenon has led to numerous semi-embarrassing moments in public restrooms whose faucets do not automatically dispense water, as I place my hands under the spigot and wait and wait, until I remember to turn the water on.)

Enough for background information. About two weeks ago, the fixture on Sink #3 (reading left to right) became totally inoperable. I can place my hands under the spigot for however long I want, but the water never comes forth. Now, you’d think I’d remember this and choose Sink #1 or Sink #2, but habit motivates my behavior more than I care to admit. And more often than not, I head straight for Sink #3, cup my hands, and wait in vain.

As I was pondering this development, I realized it is a snapshot of another habit I’m struggling with. I’m addicted to the TV. One of the manifestations of this addiction is that I can sit on my couch for large chunks of time, remote in hand, flipping from channel to channel, trying to find a program of interest. At the end of each such session, I’m faced with the truth that I’ve watched nothing. Nothing comes forth from the TV to satisfy whatever need has led me to it. Nothing.

You’d think I’d catch on. You’d think I’d cease-and-desist from a behavior that has no payoff. No water, choose a different sink. No emotional or spiritual reward – put down the remote and turn the TV off. Well, actually, that’s not the parallel action, is it? No reward – don’t turn on the TV.

Unfortunately - so far - the insight afforded by this analogy has not produced significant or lasting behavioral change in either the hand-washing or the TV-watching venues. But fortunately I have a resource in my Abba-Father, whose influence goes well beyond my own ability to alter conduct.

"Kaleidoscope - The Lord of the universe transforms broken pieces of glass into images of infinite beauty and colorful delight." I've placed the emphasis on the broken pieces in this writing. But my focus remains fixed on the Lord of the universe. I have consummate confidence in His desire and ability to perfect the transformation of this image - little by little. Find hope and encouragement here, Nancy, and remember to laugh.

Clutter

This is a piece I do not want to write. But the topic keeps flitting across my consciousness, harassing me with its clattery insistence.

My resistance arises from fear. I fear writing about the clutter I can see because inevitably, inexorably, it will lead to writing about the clutter I can’t see – the clutter inside.

Clutter is cleverly unobtrusive in its assault tactics. A pair of earrings on the living room end table. A few dirty dishes left in the sink. A sweater on the back of a dining room chair. Unsorted mail stacked on the couch arm. It all adds up. It quietly accumulates, one piece at a time. Nothing major. Just a little here, a little there. A box of Lincoln logs abandoned by the grandchildren. A ball. A stuffed toy. A sewing box on the sofa.

What happened to my perfectly de-cluttered apartment!?!?!

Hmmmmmmm...

Here’s a strange phenomenon.

My wireless mouse, my cell phone, my cordless land phone, and my TV remote all resemble each other. A lot.

My motif is black with silver trim, and I didn’t even plan them all to match. The mouse and land phone were gifts from my oldest daughter. The remote was donated by my youngest daughter. My cell is so old, it’s just a few centimeters shy of being as fat as the mouse (think 3-year-old Samsung flip up).

So far, I have tried to move my cursor with my cell phone, and I once tried to answer my mouse. I guess my confusion may arise from the fact that I keep them beside me, as I sit on my couch with my laptop on my lap (where else?).

You see, I spend much of my time at home as follows: typing my conversations with God, writing blogs, reading blogs, reading the Bible (though not as much as I should, which I must confess, lest I have to write an apology post for trying to make myself sound more spiritually-disciplined than I am), reading my current novel, watching TV, and not watching TV – the pastimes I carefully weave into the weekday evenings and weekend morning-to-afternoon tapestries of my life.

But in my own defense, so far, I haven’t tried to mute my TV with my cordless, though it does have a mute key. And I haven’t tried to answer my remote, though I do talk to my TV.

Is there any hope for me? Is this phenomenon an early sign of Alzheimer’s? Should I purchase a pet? One I can train to discern the subtle differences among my small battery-driven devices?

As I travel further along in blogdom, I’m no longer waking up at 4:00 AM thinking about what I will write, but for a while, I will continue to play with a silly idea and see how it turns out. It’s my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.

NG

My Hairs Are Numbered

Remember how I said my mind keeps pouncing on random toughts and tweaking them into possible blog entries? Well, here's an example of a thought that actually turned into a blog post.

As I was brushing my hair this morning and pulling the hairs out of my brush to throw away, I thought of the time when Jesus said God knows how many hairs I have on my head. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Luke 12:7(NIV)

Then I noticed hairs still clinging to my Goody Self Holding Rollers ("Adds Body and Lift – No pins or clips" in English, French and Spanish); the hairs remained from when I ripped the rollers out of my newly-washed-and-dried locks two days ago.

Now, my brain was on a roll. I remembered the hairs I recover from the carpet by my bedside (by moistening my fingertips and moving my hand in circles on the rug; yes, I throw them away; yes, I do vacuum my carpet). Not to mention the hairs that cling to my fingers as I’m washing my tresses (but I just did – mention them, that is) – the ones I have to rescue from going down the drain, lest I find myself having to call Rotor Rooter.

Well, I think you have the picture (too much of a picture, perhaps?).

Bottom line: keeping track of the number of hairs on my head would be a full time job, if you weren’t God.

But I wanted to know more about this hair-numbering metaphor used by Jesus to tell me how intimately God knows me.

So I went to the context (always a great idea when studying God’s word). The hairs-on-your-head image in Luke 12: 6-7 is also found in Matthew 10:29-31. It comes in the middle of some warnings and encouragements Jesus gave solely to His disciples before addressing a crowd of thousands. He warned the twelve against the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and against those who have the power to "throw you into hell." Then He encouraged them with His familiar phrase "fear not." He started with another metaphor, the one used in the song "His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me." Jesus said, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father." Matt 10:29 (NIV)

So here’s the parallel – God sees every sparrow that falls to the ground, and similarly God knows every hair that detaches, separates, disconnects from my head. And the good news is that I am "…more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows." (NLT)

When I ponder how much God knows about me – even down to the number of hairs on my head – it astounds me. How can He do that? How can He know everything about me and then duplicate the phenomenon with every person He placed on this earth?

Then I realize, if He knows such a minute statistic about my physical body, how much more He must know the details of my inner being – the place where He lives, by the presence of His Holy Spirit. He must know my thoughts, my longings, my emotions, as well as the details of my relationships.

Over and over again in my life, my Abba-Father takes me to Psalm 139, to tell me who I am and to further refine my experience of who He is to me.

1 O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3You sift and search out my path and my lying down,
and You are acquainted with all my ways.
4 You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.
5 You both precede and follow me.
You place your hand of blessing on my head.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too great for me to understand!

Indeed, He knows me completely. This attribute is His omniscience, a big word for "He knows everything." I echo David’s response – such knowledge is beyond me. "It is high, I cannot attain it." (NKJV) But I can be comforted by Jesus’ words, "Don’t be afraid." God’s knowledge of me is not a fearful thing, because of the value He has accorded to me as His beloved. He has placed His hand of blessing on my head.

I bow down and worship Him – for knowing me completely and for touching me with His blessing of love.

NG

P.S. Psalm 139 verses are from the following translations : 1 NLT, 2 NIV, 3 Amplified, 4-6 NLT.

Writing as Destiny

Now, it's time to get serious. Do you believe me? Do I believe me?

What I'm going to try to do here (in case anyone out there is following this blog like a story, like a series of writings that are actually connected day by day) - I'm going to transition into a thoughtful, less playful topic.

So here's my problem. I have a seriously serious side. Truly, I do. But even that facet is laced with tinges of humor. Is that contradictory? Ummm... No. It's the way my Father created me.

And He created me to be creative. Is that redundant? Ummm... No. In His creativity, He imparted His innovative, spontaneous wonder-filled nature to this little creature. He gave a special gift of His love. He gave writing. He gave words. He gave innovative, spontaneous, wonder-filled combinations of words.

I don't boast. (I hope, I don't. Maybe I do.) I'm often as surprised by what I write as those who read my pieces. When I read over past writings, I sometimes say, "Wow, that's good stuff!" Like someone else wrote it. And someone else (and I) did write it.

What I'm trying to say is that I couldn't write without the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, God's indwelling presence-of-Jesus, in my life. It started with the first Adam, when God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living being, the first creature made in His own image, one with the capacity for relationship with Him.

When He breathed life into me, He conferred creativity in a shape never seen before, never to be seen again. Because of that special breathing, because of God's desire for me to be intimately connected to Him, I feel compelled to keep writing, to combine words over and over again into the shape of my life, into the unveiling of my relationship with Him. My destiny, the purpose for which He created me, lies in writing my heart out. (Get it? Writing my heart out.)

So you see, I can be serious. Thoughtful and serious. Oh, but I must give credit to KL Knight for helping me think about (be thoughtful and serious about) this topic last night at the Psalm 45:1 gathering. Afterward, we were discussing the coming and goings of our writing seasons. And I discovered the fragility of my identity apart from writing. Hence, I needed to write about it, tonight.

I thank my Abba-Father that He's not conflicted or in need of bolstering about who He made me. I am delighted that He's always closer than a whisper to inspire me with the person of Jesus, with His desire to speak the Word of life to me, then through me. I thank Him for my destiny.

NG

Blogging Overtakes My Thoughts

This is Day Twelve of my blog. I've now told family and friends about it. And I've received some encouraging remarks. One comment came by e-mail from a friend who didn't post it, but I'm going to repeat it anyway because it make me laugh: "I have read your blog. I like your blog. I expect to continue to read your blog. Don't you just love to write and say blog?" (Yes, I do.)

Pretty soon, I may stop thinking about my blog and talking about it so much, and I may start instead to post more entries. That would be the point, actually. So this post is just a few more remarks about blogging, and then maybe I'll get the topic out of my system (no promises).

I've found recently during my stream-of-consciousness string of thoughts I often stop and wonder whether a particular thought is blog-worthy. I begin to rephrase in my mind how I would say it on my blog. I mull it over and over, not just as a thought, an idea, or an internal conversation, but I examine it for Kaleidoscopic possibilities.

Now, I've always been a proponent of all those Wonderful Suggestions to People Who Aspire to Become Real Writers. One such recommendation that I've never incorporated into my everyday life is to carry around a notebook where I could jot down ideas. Not consistently, at least. So now, I'm going to do it. Do you believe me? I'm trying to believe me. I even have one in my purse. I even wrote down something in it during breakfast. That's a start - for this season.

And I'm trying to decide how or whether to add my poems (at least some of them) to my blog. I guess I can make up my own rules. It's my blog, after all. I'll have to see if I can archive them immediately in a section all their own. They like being together. And I think current posts should reflect current writings. I don't know why I think that, though. It's my blog, after all. I can make up my own rules.

NG

Adventures in Blogdom

Okay, so last night I woke up at 4:00, unable to go back to sleep for all the blogthoughts that raced through my head. Who's going to read what I write? What topics are okay for me to write about and which ones should I keep undercover? Should I write about the silly thoughts that come to me day after day, or is this a Serious Blog? Kaleidoscope - Find hope and encouragement here, I say. Is that too pretentious, too self-absorbed? Can I write fluffy stuff here? On the other hand, if The World comes to my blog, do I want just anyone knowing my deepest fears and longings?

When I mentioned the 4:00 AM insomniac episode to my 8 year old grandson this morning, commenting that I wasn't sure what I should write about, he suggested, "I really, really love potato chips." I countered, "That would be great, except I don't love potato chips. But can I quote you on my blog?" I hope he said yes. He's a computer savvy kid (besides being fond of potato chips). I expect he'll find my blog. I saved it as a favorite on his mother's computer on Mother's Day. She found it yesterday and became my first Follower. See her picture?

Aside to my other three children: No sibling squabbling, now. Daughter #1 just means she was born first. She'll tell the rest of you how to get on board. Of course, you can probably figure it out for yourselves, too.

First Daughter asked me last evening why I hadn't e-mailed all my friends and family with the link to Kaleidoscope. "Are you shy?" she asked. I don't think so, not if waking up at night thinking about what I will say is any indication. But then, why haven't I told more people? (Refer to Second Reflections for more thoughts on this topic.)

Creating the blog has actually given me new impetus to write. (More on this later... sometime... maybe.)

But here's another blog-barrier. I'm still figuring out blogquette. For instance, I've noticed some of my writer friends with Blogspots appear desirous of remaining anonymous. No real names. No real pictures. So am I allowed to refer to them by their real names when I leave comments, or when I write about them here? Some - on the other hand - have real names and many pictures adorning their pages. I certainly don't want to be blogically incorrect.

My mind is fried. My eyes sting. I am sleepy. (Duh!)

Second Reflections

Initiating a blog is harder work than I expected. But then expectations and reality rarely match in my small corner of the world. I just finished some tweakings to my blog, five days after my first tutorial by our new Psalms 45:1 facilitator. And when I compare my sparse little blogspot to those of my writers' group friends, I feel small and insignificant.

I want to say something to encourage myself, like "Just wait. Your pages will fill up. Your columns will flesh out. Your archives will become replete with your writings." And then I recognize this voice of encouragement comes from my Abba-Father. He's the source of my keystrokes. He's the inspiration for my consummate need to communicate. "Yes, my Nina," he says. "I have fashioned you for myself. I will not abandon you in this venture. You are mine."

And I am content. Tired at the end of a Mother's Day weekend. But content. NG

First Reflections

Kaleidoscope - a child's toy, made of broken bits of colorful glass, mirrors, a hollow tube, and a light source - kind of like my life. Look carefully, and see how wonderfully symmetrical the image becomes after the mirror of God's word and the light of Jesus have transformed the glass shards, over and over again. So, I begin. My own blog. A kaleidoscope of joy. NG