"The greatest adventure is what lies ahead..."

            I’m beginning a new adventure. 

            I should know better, having been warned decades ago by Bilbo Baggins that adventures are “nasty disturbing uncomfortable things” that “make you late for dinner.” Still, I find God’s call even more compelling than Gandalf’s, which Bilbo couldn’t ignore.

            So I will pack up all my teaching tricks (after I figure which boxes I packed them in less than a month ago and unpack them) and take them and me to Sunbury Christian Academy, where I will be a smaller fish in a bigger pond. 

            I’m pleased to announce I can now find SCA on Route 11, although I’m not confident I can locate my classroom after entering the building. Hopefully one of the kind bigger fishes will point a fin in the right direction. 

            What will the first day of school be like? I suspect it may be like the first chapel of my fifth year of school at WCA, in August 2003.

            My first ever homeroom, my kids from freshmen through senior year, had graduated in May. I had a new homeroom to get to know. I thought I was okay with that until we had our first high school chapel. 

            The music started, and as I stood up to sing, I looked at the worship team, and it was all wrong. D.J. wasn’t playing piano. Cammie and Sherrill weren’t singing together at a microphone. Other musicians from the Class of ’03 were conspicuously absent. 

            I couldn’t sing. I bawled.

            So it’s entirely possible that I may tear up when I survey my new class of juniors and the Maccabees (my WCA homeroom boys) are missing. I may sniffle when the seniors come in lacking the familiar faces and voices of McKayla, Tessa, Caitlyn, and Tyler.

            But I know I’ll be okay:  In 2003 I learned my love could expand to include new students while praying for the older ones embarking on their next adventures.

Christmas Lights Deprivation

            In addition to broken ankles and a host of other physical and psychological ailments, I suffer from Christmas Lights Deprivation. This disorder is caused (in my case) by being confined indoors—note earlier reference to broken ankles—without access to the beauty of illuminated outdoor Christmas displays, or IOCDs.

            That is one reason I was thrilled to attend the Christmas program at Watsontown Christian Academy on December 5. In addition to the inspiring (and sometimes hilarious) entertainment and the joy of reuniting with my students and friends, I rode six miles there and back with my nose pressed against the window like a dog, panting for Christmas lights.

            I enjoyed every house that had so much as a solitary electric candle in a window, and many homes and the town itself offered much more. Back home, from my bedroom window, I can see only one IOCD:  The neighbors across the street have several strings of white and colored lights across the front of their rental. God bless them for leaving them turned on all night!

            When my sons were little, we frequently drove from our home in Montandon to Mt. Pleasant Mills, about 25 miles, to visit their paternal grandparents. One Christmas evening the weather turned nasty, and we made our return trip through snow flying at the windshield, reminding me of the view from the bridge of the Enterprise as it zips through space at Warp 8. As a Trekker, I enjoyed that sight, but as a white knuckled passenger even on sunny days, I was clinging to the door and praying for mercy as we crawled along, unable to glimpse the road ahead.

            Every few tense, blind minutes, Christmas lights magically appeared to our left or right, assuring me our car was still on Route 35, inching toward Selinsgrove. I doubt the homeowners had us or other confused travelers in mind when they illuminated their properties, but their IOCDs guided us that night.

            Not only did Jesus proclaim, “I am the light of the world (John 8:12),”  he also told his followers, “You are the light of the world (Matthew 5:14) .”  

            He explained, “A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven (14 – 16).” 

            Indulge me my paraphrase:  A house built alongside the road cannot be hidden. Neither do people hang Christmas lights and fail to plug them in. Instead they turn them on every night and they give light to everyone on the road. In the same way, let your IOCDs—the lights on your houses AND the light in your hearts—shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

            May you give and receive the gift of Christ’s light this season.

Wild Welcome

           My newest Christmas memory is less than 24 hours old.

          Yesterday evening my youngest son accepted the arduous task of getting his gimpy mom out of the house and up to the Christmas program at Watsontown Christian Academy. My excitement grew as he pushed my wheelchair up the ramp to the church building, and between the two of us we managed to get the glass door open and bump over the threshold. We were even a few minutes early, an unusual event in the Brosius family under any conditions.

          He wheeled me down the hallway, where a school mom caught sight of me and gave me a big grin. Then as we entered the church lobby, I heard a collective gasp and a collective exclamation, “Mrs. Brosius!”

          Then about a dozen students rushed the wheelchair and bombarded me with hugs—even teenage male students. What an amazing feeling to be smothered with love from the kids I’ve been missing for a whole month.

          I imagined at the moment that it felt like being on the Hollywood red carpet. But pondering it a few hours later at home, it reminded me of those scenes they show on TV of returning soldiers surprising their children at school. And as I continued to mull it over, I thought the welcome into heaven will be like this. That in turn reminded me of a poem I wrote some years ago.

          When I brought my poem to my critique group, our resident poet, a gracious silver-haired lady, kindly suggested I stick to prose. I ignored her advice, because, as I’ve said before, Christmas brings out the rhymer in me.

Home for Christmas

The Teacher told a tale one day

about a son who runs away.

Sick of home and family rules,

he exits town and hangs with fools,

wastes his cash, then tends a pen

slopping hogs, till one day when

sense returns, he quits the dust,

and pencils a sign, Dad’s House or Bust.

Now here’s the part that really shocked:

The boy gets home, the door’s unlocked,

and Dad comes sprinting down the street,

his errant son to kiss and greet.

Likewise at my Father’s home,

the porch light beckons all to come

and feast on grace and hope and cheer,

because it’s always Christmas here.

Christmas Cactus

           There’s a tall maple outside my bedroom window, not as tall as it was a few years ago when the “professional” tree cutters hacked it. (We DIDN’T go to Angie’s List.) Thankfully, it recovered, as it’s one of the few mature trees still standing on my block. Several years ago, a summer storm knocked down a few trees, including one through my mother-in-law’s living room window. But that’s a story for another day.

            I love my tree, especially in summer when its green leaves provide a privacy curtain and make me feel as if I’m living in a tree house. And I love it in autumn with its golden and browning leaves. That’s how it looked Tuesday morning, November 5, when I left for school. That’s the day I broke my ankles. By the time I returned home Friday, November 15, after two surgeries and staying in two different hospital rooms and one rehab room, the tree was bare.

            My mourning for the tree was comforted by my Christmas cactus, which sits on the bedroom windowsill. While the maple undressed for winter, the cactus adorned itself with fuchsia blooms.

            Whenever my Christmas cactus blooms, I think of Sandy and her middle school science students. It was during my first year at Watsontown Christian Academy when one afternoon eighth-grader Amber brought me a Styrofoam cup of dirt with a small green stalk. The class had planted cuttings and now gave the extras to all the teachers.

            I kept the cup on my desk, occasionally remembering to water it, never noticing any growth. More than once, I considered dumping it in the trash, but I finally took it home and planted it in a real pot with more dirt. I was surprised and delighted when a new leaf formed.

            Fourteen years and several new, larger pots later, the plant crowds my bedroom windowsill. I become excited whenever the blossoms appear, never more so than this year. Remembering how small and ordinary it looked when I received it, I marvel at its mature majesty.

            In several parables, Jesus compared the Kingdom of God to a growing plant which begins puny and becomes powerful. (Mark 4:26 – 32) In fact, the theme of small beginnings runs throughout Scripture: A childless older couple, Abraham and Sarah, became a great nation. A shepherd, the overlooked youngest of eight sons, founded a royal and eternal dynasty. A baby born to a poor young Galilean woman became the redeemer of humankind.

            “Does anyone dare despise this day of small beginnings?” Zechariah 4:10, The Message

Laney's Song

I absolutely love the song “Come to Jesus,” more correctly—and ironically—titled “Untitled Hymn.” I learned it a few years ago with the rest of the Wuppets at Watsontown Christian Academy. We performed it in front of the curtain with movement and wearing neon gloves, usually with tears streaming down my face. Yeah, it’s that kind of song.

Last November when I wrote Surviving Meemaw, “Come to Jesus” grabbed Laney’s attention as she sat in a back pew doing her homework during one of Meemaw’s puppet shows. It was the annoying tune she couldn’t get out of her head, the lyrics that became her prayer when she lit candles in the church. 

So when God brought everything together for Surviving Meemaw to be published, I assumed He would also get me past this last glitch:  Acquiring permission to use Chris Rice’s song. My colleagues at WCA and church family at Watsontown Baptist Church joined their prayers with mine. 

My editor, Marsha Hubler, had another thought. She had once been granted permission to use a song in a novel—for $1200. (Ouch.) She advised me to do what she did:  Replace it with my own original song, which at this point would be titled “Unwritten Hymn.” 

Meanwhile, Helping Hands Press publisher Giovanni Gelati said he would get to work on contacting Chris Rice, as my own attempts had failed.

We continued to pray.

After some time, I deduced that Chris Rice’s ability to compose a tear duct-assaulting masterpiece came from his status as a hermit. The man is in hiding and does not want to be found. 

How hard could it be to write a song that would affect Laney (and me) as Hermit Rice’s song had? I brought my first attempt to West Branch Christian Writers. They pretty much let me know (in that kind, uplifting way we help each other during critique) that I had failed miserably. They gave me lots of suggestions; one member even wrote a pretty good poem during the meeting. But it wasn’t the song Laney and I were hearing in my head.

I kept praying and pondering phrases and snippets of lyrics. The song needed to deliver the message of Rice’s song without being derivative. Two crucial scenes in Surviving Meemaw depended on it. 

The melody came together while I was driving on a Saturday morning. I parked in a bank lot and attempted to record myself on my phone. Though I’ve recorded puppet videos on the same phone in Jamaica, I couldn’t make it work, so instead I kept singing the song over and over until I got home. I didn’t have time to sit at the piano with staff paper and pencil, so I used the house phone to call my cell phone and left myself a voice message. Whew.

If you have read Surviving Meemaw, you have already encountered “Laney’s Song,” although you haven’t heard its simple puppet-able tune. Did it work? I think so:  Since my ankle-breaking accident, I have used it as a soothing reminder that I am in the care of a God who loves me very much.

Hopefully during my recovery time, I will get “Laney’s Song” on lines and spaces and add ukulele chords. Then I will play and sing it for you.

Laney’s Song

Merciful Lord, ruling above,

Just like a baby, I’m wrapped in your love.

Just like a baby, I’m wrapped in your love.

Beautiful Lord, worthy of praise,

Just like a child, I grow in your grace.

Just like a child, I grow in your grace.

Powerful Lord, stronger than fears,

When I am weeping, you dry all my tears.

When I am weeping, you dry all my tears.

Jesus my friend, Jesus my guide,

When my life’s over, I’ll fly to your side.

When my life’s over, I’ll fly to your side.

Jesus my Lord, of all kings, King,

When I’m in heaven, I’ll dance and I’ll sing.

When I’m in heaven, I’ll dance and I’ll sing.

Ever in heaven, I’ll dance and I’ll sing.