Shepherd Story Explained

On reading my last blog post, which was the beginning of a Christmas story, Joanna said, "That's weird, Mom. Kind of depressing."

I explained that I wasn't finished, that I was planning to post again today and tomorrow, that it was meant to be depressing. The angelic visitation hasn't happened yet.

Then Emily just now called and said, "I can't stand that ending. I'm looking to read something nice and here you're writing about some man wanting to kill his wife. This is kind of dark."

"I never said he wanted to kill his wife...just slap her."

"You said he wanted to drop her dead body on the tax collector's desk."

"Not her. The ewe, honey."

Lest anyone else is wondering what kind of rum balls I've been making, let me explain. I've been thinking for several weeks now about the shepherds -not sure why - it's just where my mind has gone. I've just wanted to know about these men, to try and flesh out who they were, what it could have been like for them that night. Unfortunately, I've run out of time to "show" my story; hence, I now resort to "telling".

It's so easy to romanticize everyone in the Christmas story, to visualize the shepherds as gentle but strong men, men who sang to their sheep, worshiped God on the mountain. My nativity set has a shepherd with a lamb draped across his shoulders. So sweet, so benign. Even the title "shepherd" is pastoral.

But my guess is that these men had nothing to render them worthy of such an honor. Unlike Mary and Joseph, Anna, Simeon, Elizabeth, and Zacharias, there's no reason to think these men were righteous or good. No reason to think that they were chosen, out of all the people in the entire region, because they deserved it. The only reason is that we WANT to think that way.

So I imagined an unhappy man, a man full of bitterness and turmoil, angry at his wife, angry at life, ready for a fight. A man who works hard under harsh conditions, who is hungrier more often than he's full, who has lived his whole life aware that most in his society considered him no-account, dirty, stupid.

But, no, I hadn't gone so far as to make him out to be a wife-murderer. I had considered that he'd gone into town, gotten into a fight, then gone back to work with a full wine-flask - for the cold, of course.

Am I really considering that one of the shepherds was drunk? Why not? He certainly wouldn't have stayed drunk after seeing what he saw and hearing what he heard. Paul was murdering people left and right and he saw Jesus himself. We so want to sanitize everything, to make it sentimental and soft. We see a manger as a little crib lined with sweet-smelling hay. A manger is a feeding trough. Think dog bowl.

What I see in the angels giving those men the front-row seat at that night's explosion of joy is God's clear intent that His Son's birth be heralded, but not as humans would want, or expect. I like to think that the shepherds had nothing to commend them, but were given, as a pure and totally undeserved gift, the privilege of being the first to know, to see, to adore. And that the words, "Peace on earth, good will towards men" meant more to those men on the rocky, wind-swept hill than we could ever imagine.

Another thought has occurred to me in my musings about that night. Could it be that the reason there was no room in the inn for Mary and Joseph is that the sheep herders wouldn't have been welcome in such a place? Is it possible that God planned that detail not only to emphasize the lowliness of the birth, but to make a way for those men to be welcomed in? I like to think so.

One Day in the Life of a Shepherd

I wonder if, in later years, the sheep herders went back to the very spot where they’d seen the angel. Did they argue over the details?
“No. His eyes were blue!”
“I say green!
“They weren’t a color at all! They were…..ALIVE…is what they were.”

Did they try to one-up each other?
“I couldn’t speak. He was looking straight at me.”
“I couldn’t breathe or speak. And he was looking at me!”

Did they keep to themselves their real feelings of utter despair as they looked at that creature that was all light and strength and beauty? Did they feel like Isaiah? Undone. A man of unclean, no -not just lips, but of unclean everything.

I imagine one man whose day began like this:

He hated going into town. The people, the noise, buildings crammed in every inch of space, the hawkers selling their wares, the beggars, some moaning, demanding; others silent, resigned, putting in their day’s work.

But he’d had to go today. His wife had apologized; that’s all she ever did anymore. Apologize and cry. Cry and apologize. He couldn’t stand it, or her, anymore. “Give her time,” they’d all said. “Another child will come along.”

Fat chance of that. He hadn’t been able to touch her in months. He no longer even tried to feel sorry for her, or guilty over his impatience. At least he hadn’t slapped her, though the urge was getting stronger. They were still young; they could try again. But she was growing old before his eyes, and he was finding it hard to even remember her with eyes full of light and albeit shy desire.

He left without a word, stopping to check on the ewe sick with milk fever. If she died, her death would be just another in a long line of setbacks. He worked harder and longer for less and less. Imagining dropping her dead body on the desk of that pompous tax collector pleased him. He despised men who hid behind desks and titles and fancy robes; give them five minutes faced with a mountain lion and they’d cry like babies.

Another Morning Gone Awry

I woke up this morning feeling “mean”, as my mother would say. My heart snarled. I got mad at the burner for not working. Mad at Pat for not fixing it. Then mad at him for fixing it. Mad that I can’t get a new stove. Mad at Joanna for not liking whole wheat pancakes, which was what I wanted. Mad that the iron burned a hole in the blanket it was leaning against while I pulled the ironing board down. Mad that some dog had chewed up the carpet in the closet. Mad that the pants I wanted to wear were too tight. Mad that the iron now has to be cleaned. Mad that Pat was awake from 4:00-6:00 thinking of 800 things he needs to do. Made that the whole wheat roll tasted gross with the sausage gravy. Mad that my hair looks like Medusa.

And that’s just the stuff that HAPPENED. There was a litany of other irritations, complaints ricocheting through my head.

But. Oh, the blessed “But”.

There are realities both tangible and hidden that are as real as these momentary triflings. Most important is that God has this universe, all the way down to my puny ramblings, in His hands. A sparrow, a hair, the thoughts before we think them. And He more than knows. He cares. And he literally gushes with promises to help us.

He offers us life in the midst of all this deadness, a bright light shining upon a beautiful slain but risen King, on whom we can direct all our focus, all our love, all our thoughts. The Eternal One invites us - we who some mornings can’t see beyond the crumbs on the kitchen counter - to look to him, to look upon him, to look at everything through him.

Just even the thought of that, the possibility of that, makes me glad. Well, almost. At least not so mad.

There's Nothing Like Bread

A woman doesn’t “wah-lah” bake bread. There are steps. There are details. There is time, and a little wishful thinking, too. She trusts her fingers to know the water is the right warmth to resurrect the yeast; too cool and nothing happens, too hot and she kills it. She hopes it isn’t already dead, which it can be. She can’t tell from looking or smelling, only by giving it a try.

She adds sugar to feed the hungry wee-beasties and the bubbles rising tell her they are alive, so she proceeds to add salt to tame their exuberant reproduction. A little oil; no, not necessary, but most things are better with it.

At first the flour merely disappears into the wetness; a casual observer could mistake the mixture for Bisquick or cake batter. But this woman knows that no adding of flour to those mixtures would ever result in the magic she sees when from her coaxing of these simple ingredients there emerges form, announcing its “breadness.”

She forsakes the spoon, removes her rings, flours her hands, and plunges in, though carefully, respectfully. Measuring is pointless; she adds flour a little at a time. When just enough has been incorporated in so the dough is no longer sticky, she kneads in earnest, swiftly, boldly. The mass responds to hands that know, that have felt what needs to be felt. It grows, swells, is alive, yet complies even as it is punched and pulled and turned.

Then, she covers it, walks away. Like a farmer, she waits on time and weather and invisible processes. The dough rises as it will; sometimes slower than she wants; sometimes faster; possibly not at all. But she’s taken the steps, done the work and is on her way to filling her home with the aroma of a temporary goodness. The browned loaves are offered to her family, perhaps unknowingly, but not incidentally, as a metaphor for what we really need, all we really need for life.

The Power of Suggestion

I saw a deer today – it was the closest I’ve ever been to one. He’d ventured into the parking lot of the Wolf River trail, and, seeing me, didn’t run back, didn’t even freeze- just looked at me. I could have been just another squirrel for all he seemed to care.

Just as I was celebrating such a sighting, into my head popped a story I read recently about a woman getting attacked by a deer. I turned from looking, quickened my step, thought about how I could run for cover.

I braved another look; he was still there, but now too far away to really enjoy. Then he was gone.

Relieved but sad, I thought again about that story. Was it really a deer? Several deer? Maybe it was raccoons. I really didn’t remember. It was definitely something to be found at the Wolf River where I regularly walk, which explains why I’d filed it as a danger to beware, albeit carelessly, given that I can’t say definitely what the attacking animal was.

Who’s afraid of a deer? Should I be? I wasn’t before that story. Before 9/11 New Yorkers didn’t run for cover at a low-flying plane either. Experiences, even rare ones, are powerful. My reaction was a testimony to the power of suggestion, of how what goes into our brains can determine future actions, whether true or not.

Now that I’ve thought it through, I can see there was no reason to fear that deer today, and I hope I won’t spoil another chance like that, should I be given one. If I really knew deer, I'd know there was nothing in that moment to be afraid of.

My pastor spoke Sunday about the importance of Biblical knowledge of God, knowing what is indeed true of Him. False knowledge of God, and there is much said today that is false, will not help us become fruitful, better Christians. Nor, I would say, will spotty knowledge help – snippets from here and there, clipped from truth, pasted together haphazardly, surfacing only when the need arises. Like my knowledge of deer.

Meet My New Friend Pam

At a writing workshop,I recently had the privilege of meeting this insightful, exuberant former English teacher, book illustrator, and world traveler from Queens. No, she's not a nun. "Why does everybody think I'm a nun?! she asks in that impatient New York accent. "Must be the short hair."


Enjoy.



I know. It's ironic that I'm posting this on a blog and that she herself is on YouTube. She didn't put herself there; one of our fellow workshop participants videoed her and had it on there before the last chord had stopped vibrating. She has a couple of other songs on YouTube if you liked this one.

Mistaken Identity

This morning Pat and I had had a few quick conversations by cell phone, coordinating things, all business. I’m going on a trip for a week, and so there are details, reminders.

Wanting to shift gears, be gracious and supportive, he phoned again.

“Hey, you know, I was thinking. Why don’t you take a little time and go and get something new done to your hair? You know, something special, to make you feel good. You and Emily could go. Now I don’t mean get it cut as short as hers, but just something a little different, to go with your trip.”

He rambled on, a lighthearted, enthusiastic conversation in contrast to the earlier ones that were all work and no play.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t talking to me.

“Well, Pat….. thank you, but I already have a hair appointment scheduled for next week.”

He had mistakenly called one of his customers, Margo, who must have been totally confused and caught off-guard. It’s one thing to make paint color suggestions, but advice on personal appearance?

I guess she, who is from Argentina, chalked it up to him being just another brash American.