Mary DeTurris Poust's Blog, page 44

O Adonai…

As we move through the O Antiphons this week, I thought I’d let Amy Grant do the talking for me, at least for today, with this beautiful song, “El Shaddai.”

El-Shaddai, El-Shaddai ["God Almighty, God Almighty"]

El-Elyon na Adonai ["God in the highest, Oh, Lord"]

Age to age, You’re still the same

By the power of the name.

El-Shaddai, El-Shaddai

Erkamka na Adonai ["We will love You, Oh, Lord"]

We will praise and lift You high

El-Shaddai

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The great Christmas stocking debate returns

Okay, here’s the question of the day: Is the Christmas stocking important or irrelevant? This debate rages at our house each Christmas season. For me, the Christmas stocking is key when it comes to under-the-tree goodies. For Dennis, it’s completely unnecessary and incomprehensible. He says he didn’t get a Christmas stocking as a child, which I think might qualify as child abuse in some states. I, on the other hand, continue to get a stocking from my dad and step-mom. Granted, it doesn’t come in an actual stocking anymore; it’s in a Christmas gift bag. But my dad always hands it to me and says, “And here’s your stocking.”

In my family, the stocking was critical Christmas booty. It wasn’t filled with extravagant gifts, but that didn’t take away from the excitement. Sure, you’d get toothpaste and lip balm and a new hairbrush. But you also might find a little gem in between all the practical flotsam and jetsam — a candle, scented bath soaps, a little piece of costume jewelry, or, better than anything else, some little trinket that didn’t require a lot of cash but did require a lot of thought. The stocking is where creative givers can really shine.

One year, when Dennis was nearing his Christmas-stocking threshold, we considered dropping it, or, as he recalls, I said, “FINE, we won’t do stockings!” Which I can only assume was accompanied by crossed arms and a furrowed brow. But that plan quickly fell by the wayside, maybe because I turned up the holiday heat or maybe because Dennis realized that come February or March he might wishing he had that stash of  shaving cream, razors, Goo Gone, or some new little gadget — like the meat tenderizer he got in his stocking one year or the rubber mallet he got the year before. Yeah, I know, what’s with all the gifts used for pounding? I might need to rethink that.

For me the Christmas stocking always was and always will be the best part of Christmas gift-giving. I’m not looking for anything exotic or luxurious under the tree. I’m looking for a little creativity, which is way more difficult and time-consuming when it’s done right. But, really, it can’t be done wrong as long as it makes the person smile. Around here that usually happens when I inevitably buy Dennis the wrong kind of shaving cream. The first time it was an accident — similar cans but different brands. But now it’s a challenge. You wouldn’t believe the crazy kinds of shaving cream they make these days.

Dennis tells me he already has everything for my stocking. Uh oh. I don’t have one single thing for his. The pressure is on.

So what’s the Christmas stocking philosophy at your house? Yay or Nay?

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The truth hurts, but do I have to pay for it too?

So I went to get my hair cut yesterday and, as is becoming more frequent these days, have a little color dabbed on those grays that are starting to spring up in greater numbers. As I sat in the chair, my stylist said she wanted to darken all of my hair, and I said, NO!” And then she said: “Well, you can’t leave it like this! This color just doesn’t work with your skin tone.” To which I replied: “I was born like this.” She was unimpressed by this fact and told me without question that I could not continue to wander the streets in such a state. Okay she didn’t say it exactly like that, but it was implied. So apparently for 50 years (I was bald for my whole first year before the springs sprung up) I have been walking around with hair that didn’t match my skin tone. Like I was wearing mismatched socks but on my head. 

I have to admit, I was pretty much near tears by the time she started working me over. But, alas, she was just getting warmed up. After washing my hair, she brought me back to the chair and said, “Are you still exercising a lot?” Now, this was not said in a wow-you-look-great-you-must-be-exercising-a-lot sort of way. This was said in a what-the-hell-happened-to-you-have-you-stopped-exercising sort of way. When I said that, no, I had not been exercising all that regularly anymore, she went on to tell me how when I was exercising I sort of had a lightness about me. I exuded something she could sense. Whatever. At that point, I’m pretty sure all I was exuding was disbelief and desperation. And then I took out my credit card and not only paid her for the privilege of suffering through her painful professional opinion but gave her a Christmas bonus to boot. So it seems that losing my looks (or not having “looks” in the first place, or having at best terribly mismatched ones) is the least of my problems. Somewhere along the way I lost my spine as well.

I considered asking her for a bag to put over my head on the way out, but fortunately, it was snowing lightly, which gave me reason enough to put up my hood and slink off to my car, all the while trying to avoid seeing my reflection in any nearby windows or mirrors, like I was some sort of middle-aged suburban vampire. (Talk about skin tone issues!) So if you see me wearing a baseball cap around town — jogging from store to store — you’ll know why.

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Preparing for a death, not a birth this Advent

I spent the past two days at my grandmother’s bedside, watching her die. We don’t know how long she has — minutes, hours, days, weeks? For anyone who’s been there, you know what I mean when I say it is both horrible and awe-inspiring to experience the dying process up close. When I said goodbye, I knew it was likely the last time I would see my grandmother alive since I don’t live close enough to pop in for regular visits. I whispered, “I love you,” as I hugged her, not expecting a response, but she whispered it right back to me. And so, as sad as it was, I will have that with me forever, that final exchange of love.

As I drove the two hours home, intermittently singing along with the radio and crying into my Dunkin Donuts coffee, I began thinking of what needed to happen in the days ahead, and I realized that as the rest of the world prepares to celebrate a birth at Christmas, my family is preparing to celebrate a death. And somehow it seemed fitting. Our Scripture readings this season focus not only on the coming of Christ in a manger but on his coming again. We are reminded to be ever watchful, to understand that our hour could come when we least expect it. I briefly thought about the very real possibility that I could die in a car crash on the way home before my almost-101-year-old grandmother takes her last breath. And isn’t that exactly what Advent is meant to stir up in us?

It’s not — despite what the world would like us to think — simply a time to hang decorations and fill stockings. It is a time to take stock. Where have we been, where are we going, what do we need to do to prepare the way of the Lord in the manger at Christmas and in our hearts each day?

Driving up the highway, I found myself overcome with a sadness tinged with an odd joy every time some spectacular scene came into view. As I looked ahead at the beautiful snow-covered Adirondack Mountains, I marveled at the way their bluish-white color was the same as the sky, the same as the clouds, and yet every peak and every cloud was distinct and magnificent. And I cried because I think I was overtaken by the reality of God’s awesome hand in all of this, a force that could set this world and this life into motion and then pull pieces of it back, sometimes without warning and sometimes so slowly we beg for mercy.

When I was only a couple of miles from home, I rounded a bend to face a sky streaked with orange and pink and steely winter grays as the sun sank to the horizon line, leaving a bright glow in its wake, and I thought of my grandmother, about how she will never see another sunset, which made me sad, and about how she is facing the sunset of her life, which made me sadder.  How do we prepare for that? We want only joy and blessings and possibility, but this life demands that we accept sorrow and sacrifice and an eternity that never seems to arrive at a good time. Are we ready? Not yet, as least not here in this heart. But these days, these hours of watching and waiting give us the chance to prepare, to come to an understanding, however painful, of who we are and where we are headed and to look forward with hope anyway.

 

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Remembering Thomas Merton

Ever since I first came in contact with the writings of Thomas Merton about 28 years ago, he has spoken to me. I know I’m not alone there. Countless people of every faith and persuasion have found meaning in his writings and his life. Of course, others will counter that with claims that he was too flawed to be held up as a role model, or, dare I say, saint, but that’s precisely why he’s a great example.

I find comfort in the fact that he carried on, following his path toward God, even when he was thrown off course by his humanness. I look at Merton and see holiness wrapped in weakness, and isn’t that where most of us are?

We’re all called to be saints, but oftentimes our humanity gets in the way. In Merton, we can see ourselves, trudging ever closer to God despite mistakes — some of them pretty major — and confusion and doubt.

Today, on the 45th anniversary of his death in Bangkok, I am taking time to remember and reflect, but Merton is never far from my thoughts because so many of his words are constantly ringing in my ears.

Hanging next to my desk is this Merton quote:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

See what I mean? Comforting and yet challenging. I read those words and think, “Oh, good, Merton had no idea where he was going either.” Then I read a little more and think, “Oh, no, he trusted God completely. Can I do the same?” For me that’s a saintly role model, reminding me that I’m not alone but pushing me to go beyond my typical response and reach for something deeper, truer.

Twice in the last five years I have been blessed to attend a silent retreat called “Merton in the Mountains.” By a lake in the lower Adirondacks, I have had the briefest glimpse into Merton’s way of life. It wasn’t easy either time. In fact, it was downright difficult and more than a little frightening — to give up my voice, to sit and wait for God while trying to throw off the monkeys of worry and doubt and pride and ambition. Merton knew those same feelings, and yet he continued to return to the silence, the solitude because that is where he knew he’d find God.

Another quote from Thoughts in Solitude that rings true for me, maybe truer with every passing year:

To love solitude and to seek it does not mean constantly traveling from one geographic possibility to another. A man becomes a solitary at the moment when, no matter what may be his external surroundings, he is suddenly aware of his own inalienable solitude and sees that he will never be anything but solitary. From that moment on, solitude is not potential — it is actual.

But perhaps the quote that always calls me back, the one that echoes in my head, is the quote below. It’s a constant reminder of my inability to ever know God if I try to make him in my own image:

God approaches our minds by receding from them. We can never fully know Him if we think of Him as an object of capture, to be fenced in by the enclosure of our own ideas.

We know him better after our minds have let him go.

The Lord travels in all directions at once.

The Lord arrives from all directions at once.

Wherever we are, we find that He has just departed. Wherever we go, we discover that He has just arrived before us.

Merton reminds me that I still have a shot, even when I don’t get it right on a pretty regular basis. Merton, with his beautiful and powerful words, gives me something to hold onto when God feels very far away.

Thomas Merton, pray for us.

 

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Life in My 50s: Throw out those pajamas!

So it occurred to me, as I scrolled through old photos looking for something to feature on Throwback Thursday this week, that the pajamas I was wearing on Christmas 2007 are the very same pajamas I’m still wearing. Well, not right this minute, but at night. In fact, these pajamas are considered my “good” pajamas because they are a matched set (received as a gift) and both pieces remain intact. The truth is that most of my pajamas are old T-shirts worn till the writing is faded and leggings or sweat pants worn till well past their expiration date.

Why is it that nice pajamas seem as decadent and indulgent as those nice soaps I’ve had trouble using in the past. (Soap post is over HERE. And, for the record, I am slowly conquering that bad habit. I’ve got only one more nice soap waiting in the queue at this point.)

The only nice silk nightgown and silk bathrobe I have were purchased at Victoria’s Secret 20 and 25 years ago, respectively, and I still consider them too special for everyday use. I finally decided just recently that any robe that is marking its quarter-century anniversary should finally be put into regular post-shower rotation. When the girls see me in it, I get lots of oohs and aahs, like I’m wearing robes threaded in gold.

Hanging onto favorite things is a habit of mine, spanning all clothing categories in my world. I refuse to part with the 27-year-old Levi 501 button-fly jeans that I still use for gardening or the black leather fringe jacket I bought in college or the 30-year-old leggings from the Limted that look like new and feel just right with fuzzy socks and an oversized hoodie on a winter’s night.

And although those worn things are perfect for some occasions, maybe I need to go get myself some real pajamas, something with a matching top and bottom, if only to change up the Christmas morning photos.

If you’re like me, I’m recommending — no insisting — that you do the same. Before Christmas, go get yourself a beautiful pair of PJs, not from Walmart or Target or Kmart, but from a “real” store. Doesn’t have to be super expensive, just super comfy and maybe just a little luxurious.

See that T-shirt over there on the left? I’ve had that since my brother played high school baseball in the 1980s. It’s still in my pajama draw. It’s going. Today. Okay, maybe not into the trash. Maybe I’ll pair it up with my old 501 Levis for next year’s gardening.

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Happy St. Nicholas Day. What’s in your shoe?

The shoes were placed by the front door with care last night. Okay, to be honest, the almost-17-year-old just left them there out of habit, but the two girls were all over it. They still love the Feast of St. Nicholas. Somehow it’s like the unofficial start of the season around this house.

I love that this day makes them so happy because they know for certain what they might find in their shoes the next morning won’t be big or expensive, and yet they get excited just the same. Perhaps we can take that reminder with us as we go about our frantic shopping for the perfect gift this season. It really is the thought that counts, so don’t get so hung up on spending a certain amount or buying a designer label. Give from the heart and it’s sure to be a hit.

If you’d like to read a little about the real St. Nicholas — patron saint of children, sailors, pawnbrokers, and young women who want to get married (quite a collection) — click HERE. There’s also a neat little section on Hobbit gift-giving and how their Middle Earth practices might influence our own. Happy Feast of St. Nicholas! Now I feel like the season is really under way.

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Skip the mall this year. Trust me, it can be done.

A lot of  my friends  and family members are already wrapping Christmas gifts, which I find truly astounding because I haven’t even started shopping. Haven’t bought a single gift. Haven’t even thought about buying a single gift. But I can tell you this, when I finally do start shopping it will not be at either of the local malls. I’m not a mall person, especially during the holiday season, and I like to support local businesses. So my goal every Christmas is to avoid the mall at all costs, to buy only within the confines of my own town, or, when absolutely necessary, online. I still have young kids, so some things have to come from the big guns and not from local artisans.

BUT, if you’re looking for beautiful gifts that come with a side of personality and charm, beauty and creativity, there are so many wonderful options right where you live. For my local readers, here in New York’s Capital Region, I wantto highlight a few that are worth a look, a visit, a purchase. So here we go…

I’m going to start with the Hamagrael Handcrafted Craft Fair, happening this Saturday, Dec. 7, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., at Hamagrael Elementary School, 1 McGuffey Lane, Delmar. More than 90 vendors will be offering handcrafted goods such as jewelry, artwork, clothing and more. Admission is free. There will be live music, as well as lunch items from Cafe Nola and Crazy Herbs Texas Barbecue. Click HERE for more information.

Here are a few of my favorite local artisans/vendors:

The beautiful soaps you see in the photo above are from Tandj Soaps by Theresa Novish. I’ve given them as gifts, and when I really feel like treating myself, I buy some of the Nag Champa-scented soap (my absolute favorite). I’ve got a frankincense and myrrh waiting upstairs to be unveiled during this holiday season. Yeah, I’m weird about using my good soaps. I’ve written about that HERE  – if you, too, tend to save soap and bath gel for special occasions and need a push to break that bad habit. When you’re picking up soaps, be sure to grab a wooden soap dish for only $5. We bought some online only to have them leave rust spots in our brand new showers. We switched to the ones from Tandj, and they are perfect. Theresa has an Etsy shop HERE, but she also has a brick-and-mortar store in Troy at 271 River Street.

You may remember that a few weeks ago, I purchased a beautiful piece of art — Our Lady of Guadalupe created out of salvaged architectural pieces. That was from Anita B. Designs, another local company. They have a beautiful selection of pieces in all sizes and subjects. Something for everyone. In addition to their Etsy shop, they’ve got a Facebook page HERE.

If you want a one-of-a-kind piece of Jewelry, visit Peyster Street Designs. My friend Ricky Talmage makes such beautiful earrings, necklaces and bracelets. I can never pass her table at the weekly farmers’ market or any other craft fair without stopping and gazing longingly at her creations. Just stunning.

You’ll find all of the local artisans I just mentioned at the Delmar Farmers Market, running every Saturday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m., in the Bethlehem Middle School up until the week before Christmas. Plus you’ll find lots of other treasures there — wonderful baked goods, cheese, produce, mosaics, more jewelry, and on and on. Too much good stuff to list. And you can pick up a delicious lunch and listen to some live music while you shop.

Way better than fighting for a parking space at Crossgates and hitting a fast food joint in the overcrowded food court, don’t you think?

And don’t forget to hit all those local shops, from I Love Books and Peaceful Inspirations to in-town restaurants and services. If you have to give a gift card, try to make it local too.

 

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The Advent Games: Catching Fire

If any of you were around these parts last year, you may remember that we started our Advent season not with a prayer but with a coin toss. Because that’s how we roll here at the Poust House. We can take four weeks of peace, joy, and love and turn it into an epic battle of wits, willpower, and outright manipulation. Katniss has got nothing on these kids. All they’re lacking is the bow and arrow. And so it begins again. Who knows what this Advent will bring, but nothing would surprise me.

As I unpack the Advent wreath, the calendar, the Advent tree, and the Playmobil Nativity set, Chiara is already making demands. But at least she’s forthright about the whole thing, saying quite plainly, “I want to be the one who gets to open the last door of the Advent calendar and put Jesus in the manger.” It’s better than the quiet mathematical calculations that usually go on among the older ones, or last year’s clandestine Advent activities that were going on behind closed (closet) doors after I removed all Advent fun as a punishment. Yeah, you heard me right. I’m no Mother Teresa. More like the Burgermeister Meisterburger of Advent.

But this morning at Mass, with the lighting of the first candle on the wreath and the indigo vestments and the reminders of darkness and light, waiting and alertness, I felt myself letting a glimmer of hope in despite our family history. We’ve yet to light the first candle here, so I’m sure I’m being premature in my hopefulness. We’ll soon find out. Stay tuned…

And if you’d like some tips on how to keep the Advent season more sane and less secular, click HERE for my OSV Advent story. If only I practiced what I preach.

 

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Slow down and savor the Advent season

Advent is less than one week away. How will you make it special? Here’s a little something to get you in the spirit, my Advent In Focus story, which is running in the current issue of OSV Newsweekly:

By Mary DeTurris Poust

By the time Advent officially begins, most of us have been bombarded by so much Christmas music and Christmas advertising and Christmas everything that we’re already sick of the season. In a world where the Christmas countdown begins sometime before Halloween, it’s easy to lose sight of the beauty of Advent, and to get so caught up in the material trappings that we can’t see the spiritual forest for the tinsel-covered trees.

We live in a goal-oriented society, and in this case, Christmas is the end zone that we’re running toward at breakneck speed, hardly looking at what’s going on along the sidelines. But our faith beckons us to stop the madness, to stop the running, to focus on the journey as much as the destination. And to do that the Church gives us the four-week season of Advent, with its beautiful interplay of darkness and light, with its scriptural focus not only on the coming of the Christ Child but on the second coming of Jesus Christ, and with its quiet but constant insistence that we prepare — not just for a day but for a lifetime, and for the next life.

Continue reading HERE.

 

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