Author and Inspired Writer

Best thing we ever did, tossing the tree this year and decorating the living room instead. Over every doorpost and lintel, all along the mantel, the piano, and the bookcase, clear lights wrapped in holly garlands gleam and glow, giving the whole room a rather Narnian look. You almost expect Mr. Tumnus to come clopping in from the kitchen. And look! Is that a lion print on the rug?

To my enormous surprise, The Mister quite enjoyed helping me decorate! Past years, his contribution was bringing up the boxes from the basement and leaving me to go to it, which used to delight me, but last year I had to admit it was getting to be a bit much. But this year he was Johnny-on-the-spot, hammering in nails, working the twist ties, moving things til they looked just so, and leaving three or four times a day to buy more materials. “We need more lights, Missus!” “We need more garlands, Missus!” “We need more lights and garlands, Missus!” Great fun!

And although the weeks leading up to tonight were busy, (my calendar is a mess! Can’t wait to turn the page!) the stress has been reduced by a factor of 10, at least. Maybe because there was more room in my living room, I felt more room to breathe, take a moment, and wonder…wonder what it would have been like to have been in that stable two thousand years ago. The young couple, weary, exhausted, the woman having just given birth, dozing on her husband’s shoulder; the animals, at first started by their urgent entrance and the woman’s screams in labour, now quieted, peaceful; the angel-bedazzled shepherds and the exotic kings from the east bowing to worship the baby in a manger. (And for you Scripture scholars out there, I know I’m mixing my gospels and playing fast and loose with the liturgical calendar, but bear with me for a moment.) I watch all this from a quiet corner of the stable until the moment comes when I know it’s time for me to offer my presents. I step forward, kneel, rest my forehead on the rough wood and whisper, “Jesus. Little brother. I don’t have anything to give you, nothing that you’d want. But I need something from you tonight. You’re about to find out how difficult it is to live in this world you’ve come to save. You’re going to get really tired. You’re going to work so hard, and you’re going to fail. You are going to love your heart out, and it’s going to get you nailed to a cross. Oh there’s resurrection and ascension and all that good stuff on the other side, but in the moment, you’re going to feel weary, fed up, confused and frightened. Like I do sometimes. Like all your followers do sometimes. The straight and narrow road ain’t strewn with roses. Doing greater works than you leads to greater problems than we ever thought we’d have to handle and oh! sometimes Jesus we’re going to get it so wrong!”

“Not that we’re going to give up. No, because there is all that good stuff on the other side. You’ll shown us that. But right now, we need, I need, a little comfort and joy, just a touch to keep me going. So, if your mamma says it’s alright…” And I look over at the exhausted Madonna who gives me a little smile and a little nod. Then I gently move the baby over, carefully crawl in beside him and hold him warm against me. And as I inhale his clean baby scent from the top of his head, my body relaxes at last, and my eyes start to close.

Hoping we’ll all sleep in heavenly peace this sacred night. Merry Christmas all. And the best in 2017.

It has been unseasonably warm in my little corner of the world. Which is nice for me. Hate the cold. Hate wearing so many layers of clothing I need a berth of about 50 feet just to turn around. Hate how much more difficult the ordinary things become just because it’s cold. So a November of 60 to 75 degrees suits me well. Although today, we’ve finally gone more seasonal with temps about 40 and the occasional snow shower.

But my begonias are showing no sign of wanting to “shuffle off their mortal coil.” Flowers bright, leaves green, I haven’t the heart to yank them out and prepare the boxes for next year. Hardy little beggars, I’m content to leave them “victorious, happy and glorious,” their steadfastness a defiant claim of “It ain’t winter until we SAY it’s winter!” I doff my chapeau to them.

However, I took advantage of the warmer weather to put the memorial garden to bed. I collected the more fragile ceramic houses, some earthenware pots and vases, and a plaster cast lion and lamb we kept under the bench. One of the feral cats in the neighbourhood used to come and cuddle up to the lion in the evening. I can only imagine what he thought the first time he licked his fellow feline – “Dude! How old do you have to be before your fur hardens like that??” But the tiles will stay where they are, and the wind chimes and a few other decorations.

It’s a melancholy thing closing down a garden, but the sadness was tempered by the beauty all around me. The trees in our neighbours’ yards enclosed my little grotto in walls of gold and scarlet, and the sun lit up every tree as if from the inside. The sky overhead a peaceful expanse of gentle blue. The scent of wood smoke in the air. The generosity of it, like a warm embrace.

And I thought of my friend, Jill, to whom I dedicated the garden. I put away my rake and my gloves, and reluctantly walked over to the back door where I paused for one last look.

“Jill,” I whispered, “do you see this? The beauty? Are you aware the garden is for you? What do you feel where you are?”

I always hear laughter in her voice these days.

“Oh darling,” she replied. “I feel the love! I can feel all the love!”

I smiled.

Of course. Love.

The eternal evergreen.

Been sick lately. Flu bug I suspect. I almost always get my flu shot, but this year they were late coming out and I got sick just before they became available. Awesome timing.

I’ve also been involved in a situation that demands a great deal of time and energy, an injustice done to another that has caused me great distress. I want to be of help, but I must become more knowledgeable about the issues before I can do that, which entails some book larnin’ on my part. Plus, I need to bring my emotions under better control. Flying into a rage benefits no one.

So God said, “Lovey, you’ve been running too hot lately. I’m going to take you offline for about a week or so. What do you think?”

I grabbed my pillow and my bankey and hit the couch.

“Do it!” I muttered. And it was so.

The chills, body aches, nasal congestion and loss of appetite passed after about four days, but my chest became congested and my cough remained dry and unproductive. Which meant I needed Benylin Cough Syrup, a mightily effective remedy but of such a vile taste it is surpassed only by Buckley’s, my mother’s favourite. I once tried Buckley’s on her recommendation, and couldn’t decide if I wanted to pass out or throw up. I did neither thankfully, but thereafter pledged my loyalty to the “pleasant cherry taste” of Benylin. I wish I could be more mature about taking the stuff, but I cannot swallow a spoonful without a complete body shudder, stamping my feet, and making my lemon-sucking face.

“Interesting choreography,” The Mister said walking past me.

“Quiet,” I replied, “or I’ll breathe on you.”

It did the trick though and that’s why I take it.

A few days later, a friend called up to see how I was.

“Well,” I told him, “I’m better now, but I had to call out my big gun – Benylin Cough Syrup. Ever hear of it?”

“Benylin? Oh sure! We used to give that to the horses every winter to stave off chest congestion.”

“Horses?”

“Yeah! You can get it by the bucketful, you know.”

I put the phone down and thought, “I’ve never felt so attractive.”

The Mister was perusing the paper in the kitchen when I came in.

“Who was on the phone?” he asked not looking up.

“Jim. He wanted to know how I was. Did you know Benylin Cough Syrup is horse medicine?”

He looked up.

“Horse medicine?”

“Mm-hm. Apparently they give it to them all winter long to protect their lungs.”

“They do?”

“Oh-ho yeah. You can get it by the bucketful don’tcha know.”

He thought about that for a second, then asked, “Is there anything I can say right now that won’t get me into trouble?”

“Unlikely.”

He nodded and returned to his paper. “How ’bout them Cubbies?” he murmured.

This wouldn’t bother me so much except, well, I’m awfully fond of oats….

I have a little container garden at the side of the shed and every time I go out the back door, I have to give it gander, just to see how it’s doing. Sometimes it’s only for a few seconds if I’m on my way to do an errand, but I can’t leave without at least giving it a glance. It’s absolutely irresistible and always lifts my spirits. I’ve planted six large boxes of begonias and four smaller ones of coleus, and everything did so well this year! I impressed myself!

Which is not to say I’m in any way knowledgeable about gardening. You could fill a library with what I don’t know about gardening, and when something actually grows in spite of my ignorance and neglect, it’s entirely due to the hardiness of the plant, not anything I’ve done to keep it alive.

So on this Sunday past, as we were leaving for church, I gave my pretties my customary once-over and was astonished to find bright yellow daisies in among the Bada Boom White and Bada Bing Pink Begonias, and no, I’m not making up those names. I only had a moment, but I took a closer look, and sure enough, daisies! The Mister was already in the car waiting for me and when I got in beside him, before I even closed the door, I said, “You won’t believe what I found in one of my flower boxes!”

“What’s that?”

“Yellow daisies!”

“Is that remarkable?”

“Kinda. I planted begonias.”

“Oh. So how do you account for that?”

“I have no idea! It’s kinda like a miracle or a mystery or something. I don’t know anything about daisies. Do they come from a bulb or a seed? If it’s a bulb, then I’m completed flummoxed, but if it’s a seed, maybe the wind? Or no! I’ll bet it’s those stupid squirrels! They’re always digging in my boxes burying things. I’ll bet you the little rodents buried a daisy seed and it’s only just now come to flower, and…”

I looked over at his face and noticed he had rolled his lips between his teeth, a gesture he employs when he’s trying not to smile.

I stared hard at him and asked, “What did you do?”

“What what?”

“You’ve done something. Out with it!”

“Madame, that you would even think such a thing does me a grave injustice.”

“I’ll give you a grave injustice. What did you do?!“

He let himself smile.

“Well, remember those flowers your Yaya sister Heather sent you from Nova Scotia?”

“Yeeeeeeeeeessssss….”

“Yes, well, you seemed so sad when we had to put them out.”

“Aaaaand….”

“And the daisies still had some pretty good colour left in them.”

“Sooooooooooo….”

“So I relocated them.”

I gasped.

“And you let me go on and on about it like an idiot? Nasty trick to play!”

He looked wounded.

“Hardly. Had you believing in miracles for a moment, didn’t I? Not the worst way to start a Sunday.”

I tried to smother a smile, and failed. We drove along in silence for a moment, both staring out the windshield.

“You realize of course,” I said without turning my head, “I will get you back for this.”

He laughed softly.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t.”