|
Christmas Eve, a young father watches his 3-year-old daughter do her best to wrap a present. Using a roll of expensive gold-foil wrapping paper, the girl cut and re-cuts, and uses up most of the roll. The longer the father stays the angrier he becomes, but says nothing, and watches as his daughter proudly puts the present under the tree.
Feeling embarrassed about his anger, on Christmas morning the father puts on a cheerful face, ready for the gift exchange. His daughter hands him his gift, the very present she worked so hard to cover with the expensive gold foil.
Unwrapping the gift, the father finds an ordinary cardboard box. And the box, is empty. For whatever reason, this tips something inside, and he explodes at his daughter, yelling, "Don't you know how rude this is? When you give someone a present, there is supposed to be something inside. You never give someone an empty box."
The little girl looks up at her father, with tears in her eyes and cries, "But it wasn't empty when I wrapped it. I filled it full of kisses. And they were all for you."
This story stands alone.
Sometimes we preachers and writers need to just, well, keep quiet.
And sit a spell with a good story.
But the more I read it, the more it tugs at me. And it tells me that empty boxes are not always what they seem.
It is so easy to scapegoat the father in this story. We would have never been so shortsighted, we tell ourselves.
And yet. Every time I read a book about how to be more attentive or kind or loving or caring or prayerful, I do my best to follow the author's advice hoping to avoid going through what they went through to learn their lessons. But in the end, I do, in fact, go through what they went through, so it's all about what I take with me on the other side.
Advent is about waiting (for the arrival of something or someone very important). (This is to be differentiated from Christmas, which is about waiting in line at the mall. And don't get me started about the parking lot, where this past week I circled five times at Bellevue Square Mall with my window rolled down, using salty language antithetical to Christmas cheer, barking to the tune of Jingle Bells.)
Here's the conundrum: I don't wait well. On my list of favorite things to do, it doesn't make my top 100. And if I have to wait, I have a tendency to create expectations (too often unrealistic) and like the young father in the story--in the end, I see only empty boxes.
Here's how it plays out: I wait and fidget and fret and do my best ADHD imitation. And because I have it all worked out in my head, I foreclose on what is about to happen. Meaning? I'm not really present for the moment when it arrives. And I miss the kisses.
Like that young father, I lost it a couple times this week. Angry. About things that weren't all that important, and with people who had nothing to do with the problem. I know that my anger came from a place of impatience. Somehow, I felt "out of control."
Because, sometimes, life doesn't go the way we plan.
Expensive paper is wasted.
We don't get the present we expect.
And when we unwrap it, we end up with a serious case of heart burn.
Our plans are so well intentioned.
Reminds me of the young couple (a long time ago) looking for lodging.
Their plans called for an inn, a semi-comfortable inn.
What awaited them?
An empty stable.
With not much to offer, but straw and starlight. And the songs of angels.
You never know what the empty box holds.
I can't tell you what to do with your week, but I invite you to this: If you receive an empty box--
Listen
Be open
Live into the moment
Receive the gift
Because of a couple disappointments early in the month, I needed some kind of tonic (and I am out of moonshine). So on a full moon night I walked our lower garden. There are parts of our garden that are now empty. Herbaceous plants, full and vigorous in the summer, die back in the cold weather, and virtually, disappear. Our lower garden wall is a three-foot-high amalgamation of odd gathered round stone, now swathed in a ground-cover plant called Baby Tears. In the summer the wall is invisible, covered, concealed by perennials. Now, in winter, the wall is a piece of art. In the moonlight I see a lime-green old-fashioned-shawl, with bit of granite peeking through. It is serene, calming and reassuring.
Just like those kisses.
If we want to be happy at all, I think, we have to acknowledge that the circumstances, which encourage us in our love of this existence, are essential. We are part of what is sacred. That is our main defense against craziness, our solace, the source of our best politics, and our only chance at paradise. William Kittredge
Stay connected:
terryhershey.com
terry's schedule
| 
