Trains and Christmas tend to be twins in my life. As a child, once the Sears-Roebuck Christmas Book came, I would lie on the floor at our fireplace hours on end; dreaming over each page of electric trains and their accouterments. Yes, I know. It was a catalogue! But it was The Christmas Book, both in my vocabulary and in my heart. The section, usually worn out well before December 25, had pages (yes, plural) filled with elaborate, enticing, electric trains: Lionel, and American Flyer were leading contenders. The locomotives literally came with bells, whistles, and fake smoke; each picture a boy’s dream!

Not relating to Christmas, were visits to uncle Jule’s house in Oconee, GA. He lived near the Central of Georgia, Atlanta-to-Savannah railroad track, separated by a slim dirt street . As passenger and freight trains roared through town I could feel their vortex whooshing past—it was awesome! Uncle Jule made me stand inside his picket fence to watch, but I stood as close as possible. I loved those trains.

Years later, I got to know some railroad men, and sons and daughters of others; I listened closely to stories of joy, terror, laughter, and losses. Lately, I have managed to entice two of my friends to regale me with stories of their fathers’ train careers; one whose father managed a railroad station, the other’s father was locomotive engineer. Every time I cross a railroad track, thoughts of these men flash into my mind.

Two more train tales tie this together: One, The Polar Express —books and the movie; we watched The Polar Express every Christmas. It became our Christmas classic. In its own way it livened my love for trains . The story is fantasy, played out in all its fantastic glamor. A genuine “feel-good” Christmas tale.

The other, was of my 57th Christmas; Paige managed to conceal any hint of her gift to me. On Christmas, we opened gifts with typical excitement. Then there was the creme de la creme. She handed me this very large, unremarkable box. I tore off the Christmas paper; the picture on the box was convincing confidence of its contents—a complete Lionel electric train set. I gazed at it for a moment, looked up and proclaimed, “I’ve wanted one of these for fifty years!!!”

Surprise is stock-in-trade at Christmas. The Birth of Jesus was a surprise; it was also a differently expected event. Mary had been expecting this child for nine months. Differently expected—the Hebrew people had been expecting the Messiah for centuries. The surprise was multi-faceted. The King of the Jews was born humbly; to an unmarried, teenage, girl from an obscure village, giving birth—in a stable. God chose the incongruity of these circumstances; God’s way to introduce humanity to Divine Love, Agape, unconditional love….it baffles still, the wise and the wistful.

I find the timing of this week’s post, and an assignment I’m working on, serendipitous. This Sunday is my rotation in the teaching cycle of the Joyful Sunday School Class (EHUMC via the medium of ZOOM). The topic is, in a manner of speaking, “healing.” Dear Reader, whether you are religious or not, there is eternal truth here.

Gabriel, in the Gospel of Matthew, tells Joseph that the baby to be born of Mary will be named “Jesus.” A loose rapport with words for Messiah. It is also an approximation of, or nickname for, the Hebrew name for God. The Hebrews would not say the name of God, so they called God “Yahweh.” Yahweh may be translated “to deliver,” or “to save,” or “God saves,” Messiah also has the sense of one who saves, or heals. Hence a segway into the next Gospel account.

In the Gospel of Luke (2:10-11), the Angel tells a group of shepherds that a  “Savior, who is the Messiah,^“is born in Bethlehem. Both Greek and Hebrew languages use words for “savior” that speak to our current COVID-19 Pandemic; words like deliverer, rescuer, helper, healer. Of course there is also the Angel’s theological meaning of Savior, or healer, which the world also needed. And shining all about us, are saviors.

Salve comes from an old English sealfian “anoint (a wound) with salve.” Making another connection with salvation. One definition, given by Merriam Webster; Salvation, preservation from destruction or failure; also, deliverance from the power and effects of sin. There is more, but here we have enough grist for this milling. The focus is, the Angel of the Lord announcing the arrival of help, hope, and healing: a Savior.

Saviors tend to pop out of the woodwork in times of great need: WWI & WWII Victory Gardens, hundreds of thousands of volunteers in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and lessor hurricanes; and now, healthcare workers, not to mention the food bank volunteers in communities all over. Healing happens. When you see on TV News, the faces of survivors of a disaster you readily see (and often hear) their sheer gratitude, joy, and relief for their salvation;

Mary and Joseph could never have fully seen the healing the Messiah would bring to this world. This one person rescued/delivered/helped/healed more that anyone could have dreamed. It is illustrated in One Solitary Life, (attributed to James Allen Francia), He concluded by saying; I am well within the mark when I say that all the armies that ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned–put together–have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that one, solitary life.

The First Sunday in Advent is next on the liturgical calendar. Advent always begins four Sundays before Christmas. A secondary meaning of advent, when not capitalized: “a coming into being or use.” Advent calendars are often used with children to help in the season of Advent in preparation for Christmas.

When our children were small we had an Advent calendar. We also had one when our grandchildren came along. It had a pocket for storing icons until the time to post the icon of the day. It was a good way for children, graphically to count down the days until Christmas. Done well, the Advent calendar is a good means for helping children learn our Faith, while pacing their days until Santa comes.

I recently learned o a “Chocolate Advent Calendar;” each day offers another gift of chocolate . I am bummed that I didn’t know about that one sooner!! But, then, I’m sure I would be like a friend, who the other day said, “My Chocolate Advent Calendar shows that Christmas is day after tomorrow.”

On a more serious note, I was also late learning about the season of Advent. In Deepstep, our pastor came only one Sunday each month. Advent was not a high priority in worship. During my college years I worked for a pastor who taught me about the Christian year. Under his leadership, I came to appreciate this holy season of the Christian year.

Paige, my late wife, and I both are graduates of Emory University, Candler School of Theology, Atlanta, GA. We emerged with a deep love for the seasons of the Christian year. Unlike mine, her family made a big deal of Christmas. Our two little girls offered a welcomed opportunity to leap full throttle into the Celebration of Advent and Christmas. Jo Carr, a favorite author, wrote a wonderful Advent Celebration for Home and Family, which we used Sundays in Advent.

This year, more than any other, Advent preparation and anticipation of Christmas, sings joy into our hearts. There can be a blessing in this COVID-19 time of slow-pacing-shelter-in-place. It can merge easily into the day-by-day pilgrimage into Christmas. It gives us time to absorb deeper meanings of Joy, Hope, Love, and Peace. Rector of Boston’s Trinity Church, in the late 1800’s, Phillips Brooks, penned this hymn, a cherished icon of Hope:

O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight (emphasis mine).

Thanksgiving is observed in various customs—some on a different day—pretty much the world over. In this COVID-19 Pandemic, many celebrations will be repositioned. It is crucial for providing safety, physical distancing, and other medically secure measures. Everyone is impacted by this Pandemic in some way.

Johnson Oatman, Jr. wrote, “Count your many blessings name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.” Not long ago, I was waiting somewhere—-we do a lot of that these days. I looked down at my arm. And my hand. I began to give thanks; my fingers work. I can manipulate my keypad, use eating utensils. I can type. I can pick my guitar. I can shower, shave, comb my hair; tie my shoes… The Psalmist said it better: Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! It is amazing to think about. Your workmanship is marvelous—and how well I know it. (139:14 TLB)

Does it seem silly to give thanks for such ordinary things? We tend to take basics for granted. Haven’t you seem someone with difficulty performing “essential functions” of living? Despite whatever limitation in their life, many still find reasons to be thankful. It doesn’t make sense. Yet the spirit of gratitude, out of which springs thanksgiving, is transformative. “Joy is the simplest form of gratitude.” (attributed to theologian Karl Barth).

Years ago, I visited friends near the old Farmer’s Market in inner-city Macon, GA. He and his sister lived in a meager frame house. He was crippled; she didn’t get around much better. They showered blessings on me. Their food was delicious, their friendship even better. I loved visiting them. After every visit, I had to reset my “gratitude clock.” I was being a “glass half-empty” kind of guy. But my friends changed that. Now I’m a “glass-full-and-running-over-the-top” kind of guy. I would be a bonehead, numskull if I couldn’t see reasons to be thankful.

Today, “count your many blessings, name them one by one.” Take your time. I’ll bring snacks. Simply look around; they are there! Some time back, during a tough time, I joined with a cousin of mine, Rev. Carrie Veal on a “Hundred Days of Happiness Project.” It opened my eyes more than ever to reasons to be thankful. Now. Start counting your blessings. Thanksgiving Day is less than a week away, so you have plenty of time—this year you’ve had more time than ever. So hop on it hoss, or lass!!! What a Thanksgiving Day—hopefully a thanks —giving lifetime —it will be!

Merriam Webster defines “home” as “one’s place of residence.” That’s a plain vanilla definition. I like their other definition better; “a congenial environment.” This definition is more ambient, having a welcoming, warm, cordiality about it. When someone asks “Are you going home?” You typically think of a congenial environment; usually your home.

In 1943 when The United States of America was deeply enmeshed in WWII, Kim Gannon wrote “I’ll be home for Christmas.” That Christmas song resonated powerfully. The thought of “Home” became “comfort food” for almost everyone. Thousands of troops did not come home from WWII. Nevertheless, the song remains a staple of Christmas music.

“Thankshanakamas” holidays are approaching—and often we will hear Kim Gannon‘s song lilting almost anywhere. Our thoughts turn to family coming—or our going—home; even though fears remain about it due to COVID-19 Pandemic, happy memories lurk or resound within us. We hover near the abyss; nothing being the same. Nevertheless, let’s lift our thinking above the dreaded and dreary, to higher hopes for home; the joy of loving and being loved by our dear ones. They matter to us.

In Robert Frost’s (very long) poem, The Death of a Hired Man, Warren, and Mary his wife, discuss why Silas, a former hired man, came back home; they conclude that he came to die—at home. In a poignant moment, Mary says, ‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’ Her statement inspires nostalgia for “a congenial environment.” The mind tends to filter out injuries, discomforts, and unpleasantries; yet it tends to attract memories of warmth, love, and hope hovering near; home at its best snuggles in our mind.

Don’t we all sometimes long to return “home?” There’s a place in our memory, vapor though it may seem, nudging us to be better than we are. Home suggests the foundational girding of who we are. Or hope to be. When we stray from our moral compass, that inner call says, “come home.” And. what better sound to hear than, “They’re coming home!”

Gospel of John , offers a profound thought about home; “The Word became flesh and made his home among us.” St. Augustine of Hippo said; “Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its (home) in thee.” (parenthesis mine) It’s kinda like finding your way home.

When my uncle T. Jeff, returned from WWII, he and his bride moved in just around the corner. For several years, not old enough to drive a tractor, I rode beside him or in his lap as he plowed, pulled trailers, and otherwise managed his tractor (all of which would ossify OSHA!). I loved the sun in my face, the dust in my hair, the hum of the tractor motor, and the smell of burned fuel. I thought heaven must be like this.

When I became a teenager, my dad, a truck driver at the time, bought a used John Deere B tractor. I was thrilled! We had only a few acres, but he bought a big tractor; far more power and ability that we could ever need or use. I immersed myself into its “care and feeding.” My dad even trusted me to repair the tractor; first, replacing brake shoes—later, a complete engine overhaul.

There was no electric starter on that John Deere. That model didn’t come with one yet; the way to start the engine was to twist the flywheel, hard. It took strength, but the resounding pop-pop-pop of its two cylinder engine was reward enough. I eventually discovered dad had bought the tractor primarily to keep me from roaming the streets of Deepstep, GA.. Both streets.

John Deere is one of the enduring farm equipment companies from our agrarian past. John Deere now makes all kinds of equipment, from lawn mowers to giant earthmoving monsters. Recently I made a quick trip to Woodstock, GA (in Metropolitan Atlanta) . On the way I saw a dealership displaying acres of John Deere tractors and equipment. It brought back a flood of memories.

As we all grapple with this new world encapsulated by COVID-19 Pandemic, we tend to long for the “good old days.” It is mighty easy to fantasize about how much better things used to be. “The Back To Egypt” Committee’s siren call has a pretty broad appeal, on its surface. But the past is past. We cannot go back. We must learn from it. The author, Thomas Wolfe was correct, You Can’t Go Home Again. Not really. However you can go on from here; the attitude you take is your choice, and makes all the difference.

When I think about it, I don’t want to go back. I remember the sunburned arms, the skinned knuckles, the scar on my middle toe from a wayward axe, the stinky, sweaty clothes at days end. Nor do I want to turn back our way of living; not to the wood-burning stove, the hot, tin-roof house, the facility down the path. No, not for me. Especially, do I not want to relive the vitriolic epithets of vituperation of 2020. We can be better than we are. What I cherish— desire, actually, is this; better for all of us. Better is possible. We find it in God’s faithfulness that comes “…new every morning.”

Merriam Webster’s Definition of hallow: “to make holy or set apart for holy use.” How did this word get stretched to represent scary, twisted, focus on the dead!? Apparently it emerged circa 1700’s from a conglomeration of “All Hallow Even (All Saints’ Eve).”

We will get to that later. Hard evidence for the precise origin of Halloween, (the progeny of hallow) is difficult to nail down. According to the RWV (Revised Willis Version), the present annual celebration morphed from a noble, even sacred ritual. It has become a riotous money machine; a candy-overloaded, community-consuming, costume coup. In many ways it exceeds Christmas and Easter in decoration doodad extravaganzas.

A cursory review suggests maybe the original hallowing of the deceased on All Saints Day, following All Hallows Eve enabled the transmigration; it conjured up images of graves, ghouls, ghosts, and skeletons. The Holy Ghost, nowadays referred to as The Holy Spirit, figures into this imagery. Turn such images over to hyperactive imaginations, and you eventually get—well, Horror Houses, ghosts, goblins— things, all scary frights for a thrill. Add to that, “Trick-or-treat” escapades gone wild (hopefully mostly of bygone days), well, you see the results.

Actually, I am a little sad that the COVID-19 Pandemic has put such a damper on this year’s trick-or-treat celebration. Although many churches had already toned down the creepy, scary elements of the celebration, replaced by “Trunk-or-treat” events flourishing in their parking lots. These chary events largely provide a safe environment, and hopefully, a more joyous, fun celebration for children.

This coming Sunday, on the Christian calendar, is All Saints Day. Most Christian churches will observe a solemn service. At a minimum, names of members who died since last All Saints Day will be read reverently; usually, followed by the toll of a bell. A candle of memory may be lighted. Additional moments of celebration may be included. Some churches afterwards, present to family members the candle, used for their loved one in the service.

I sincerely hope children in 2020 can have a joyous, fun—and SAFE Halloween. They need their fun. I think their fun is far enough separated from the Sacred events that they will not be confused. On another plane, I am thankful for the sacred essence of All Hallows Eve, and All Saints Day; that they maintain solid places in the liturgical calendar. It is ” …holy… set apart for holy use.”

For we, the remaining living, are “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses; we need essential togetherness—all, family members, friends, and the dearly departed, embrace—emotionally, anyway— in our solemn, sacred memories. In these, our days of sheltering-in-place, due to the COVID-19 Pandemic—we relish a redeeming sense of togetherness. The All Saints Day service provides something of that togetherness—even as we celebrate using the technology of Zoom!

My Dear Reader; I hope you noticed a different nucleus in my posting last Friday; It reflects my repentance! No fanfare. No parade. Only simple ambiance. Upon reviewing my most recent Fridays With Willis Posts, I awakened to the reality that I wobbled widely from my bourne; flitting from one attraction to another, like a butterfly with a bad compass.  My original intent here was, is, and shall be, “Finding Joy in the Journey.”  The Masthead states it clearly. You would think the wizard would at least keep on course! Well. He did not. Call it the euphoria of publishing, or the unsettling impact of the COVID-19 Pandemic, or just plain distraction. Whatever got into me, I confess. I missed the target. I repent.

Therefore, I turned over a new leaf. No. Actually I returned to the original: Joy in The Journey. Everyone is on a journey. For some it is a joy-filled journey; for some it is a well-appointed journey—filled with happy discovery of serendipities. for some it is a journey of fits and starts. Everyone’s journey demands attention, one way or another. You either flounder in frustration or hitch up your britches and hike on. Mostly, the journey is what you make it.

Joy in the journey comes in all shapes, sizes, colors, and costumes. Often it sneaks up on you like a summer shower. I recall such a journey, begun ages ago. I was twelve years old. I thought knew all I needed to know—and more, when my mother announced, “We’re all going to the Sunday afternoon youth service. I resisted; to put it mildly. “I won’t know anyone there.” Said I, ” It will be boring. It will last too long.” My protests fell on deaf ears. Well, she could hear, she simply chose not to hear. I went. My expectations were wrong.

Somewhere during the afternoon, my attitude changed. Turns out, looking back on that day, the epiphany of a lifetime-calling (Calling and Vocation are from the same root) came from the event. As I often say, “I tend to see God in action—through the rearview mirror.” Hindsight, it is. Such occasions of hindsight tend to be beneficial for self-understanding—–if they don’t come too late! Sometimes I wish I had reliable radar to alert me to what God is doing, or going to do. I do know this; God was, is, and shall be—doing.

Jesus made it clear; “ Set your heart on the kingdom and his goodness, and all these things will come to you as a matter of course.” (JBP) While doing my doctoral studies, we put a lot of emphasis on “First Things First.” You don’t have to be a “neat freak” to know disorder can steal your joy. You’ve heard that someone “…got up on the wrong side of the bed!” –the person was all out of sorts; didn’t put first things first. In a word, Joyless!

Bill Powell, a “Drive-to-Work” DJ at WMAZ radio, Macon, GA (in the 1970’s), often said, “I-love my work!! If I didn’t need this job to make a living living, I would do this every day for free!” You could tell he found great joy in his work. Work, or a vocation, is essentially a lifelong journey. Someone told me recently,  “If you find a vocation you really love, you will never work a day in your life.!”  Oh, it will be work to someone else, but as Grandaddy Veal would say, “It is hog heaven!” Now, that’s finding joy in the Journey!

One of my fondest memories is that of seeing little two-year-old Karen sneaking a peek while we watched TV with her parents.  She had been “put to bed,” or so everyone thought. But when her dad went to the kitchen for a snack during a commercial break (that’s when we took snack and bathroom breaks back then), he spied her in the hallway. I had already seen that cherubic face, cupped in the palms of her little hands. She was lying on the floor, gazing at the 24-inch black-and-white TV screen; safely shielded behind the hall doorway from her parents’ sight . I didn’t dare rat her out!

The scene was too precious; it burned into my brain. Maybe it was because we had just learned we were now expecting our first child; I exulted in the innocence I saw in Karen’s face, gazing in upon our adult halcyon moment. Never mind her little TV sneak, she never in her entire life sneaked even a jelly bean . Karen grew up to be a magnificent woman; a mom, and scientist.

It really rancors me that the name “Karen” has become, these days, something of an evil epithet.  Robin Queen, Professor of Linguistics  and Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Michigan, thinks Social Media is partly the blame; it very well may be the means by which the name Karen soared into villainous vituperation; thus becoming the the label for an officious, entitled, white woman. It seems to have started when a white woman, (not even named Karen!), called the police on a birder, a black man, in Central Park, New York. However, it has become an easy handle basically, for subjectively objectionable behavior. 

In this case, I immediately see at least two things gone wrong: 

1. There seems to be a caustic collision of civility in social interactions these days. Kindness seems to have evaporated among social interaction. 
2. This issue has become a true disservice to a noble name. Your name is the only one you will ever have.  Even if legally you have it changed, still it was yours once.

I Love the name Karen. “Pure” is what the name Karen means, I have relatives named Karen. I have friends named Karen. The wife of one of my favorite pastors is named Karen. And, of course, there is that little-two-year-old-now-grown-up-Karen. The origin of the name Karen is a Danish variation of Katherine. AND. My granddaughters’-name is Katherine. So There!!! The writer of Proverbs reminds us, “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold.” A person’s name should ever be besmirched.

If anything good comes of the COVID-19 Pandemic, I pray that some good could be that of providing a cure for our crushed civility. And just in time. I thrill at seeing many calm, generous acts happening in neighborhoods, — in traffic (Yes, I have seen even that!) in lines awaiting their turn, neighbors piling up resources and cheerful (even humorous) notes on lawns, in doorways, and driveways; anonymous good deeds done; paying it forward at Starbucks!!! We’re all in this together, so why not reach for the Joy in the Journey!!?

And. I still cherish that mental image, early on burned into my memory; two -year-old Karen, happily, and unseen, watching TV, her cherubic face propped on her tiny hands.

When I was in college some friends and I tagged the end of each missive to our paramour with ‘Mizpah” (Genesis 31:48): yes, we wrote actual letters back then: put stamps on them, and walked them to the campus post office. Mailed them!! To my friends and me, Mizpah not only sounded sweet, but also was a subtle gesture of infatuation.

I now fantasize how some love-sick college student must have found the verse in a Bible reading and thought, “How creative and sweet! I’ll add that to my next letter to my sweetheart!” Obviously a lot of us thought that as well. We took the word Mizpah at face value: we thought it meant “God will watch over and keep us till we can happily embrace again! Till then, both of us will be under God’s loving and watchful care.” 

My! were we wrong! Mizpah, if anything, is contrary to a romantic sentiment. Such a presumption portents language danger: using a pithy, cute term, or aphorism when not knowing its precise meaning. This often happens when Scripture quotations are used to emphasize or elevate meaning in an event. A wedding ceremony is a good illustration; “whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

But I digress. It is fairly easy to get into semantic trouble, not knowing the context and meaning of symbols or phrases: especially when using one in the presence of someone who actually knows the meaning and context. Intent and context are essential in understanding what is actually being said: misused. not so much.

Let’s peruse the Scripture quote above; nowadays couples often write their own wedding vows: eclectic symbolism and accouterments are sometimes brought into the church and ceremony. The quote is Naomi to Ruth, and sometimes read from the Bible, or sung as special music in wedding ceremonies. The words,” whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge” (King James Version)  are from one woman to another woman. In context it is deep loyalty of one widow to another, her mother-in-law. It is sweet. It is noble. It is comforting. It is not anywhere close to a romantic gesture. My humor makes me visualize this gesture as two guys would, going on a camping trip. One says to the other, “Let’s keep together, and setting up camp will be a snap with both of us working together. But you’d better do your part! I’m watching you!” 

 As for understanding Mizpah, read the entire chapter 31 of Genesis. There, one discovers Laban, his son-in-law, and daughters wallowing in a rats’ nest of cheating, swindling, and deceit. Finally, just shy of coming to violence, they settle things. And, not all that fairly. But settled it is. An uneasy peace.  Jacob and his crew set up a pile of stones, a symbol often seen in the Old Testament: . Jacob announces that these stones will always be a reminder of our conciliatory agreement.

Then Laban names the place Miapah ,saying: “May the Lord watch between you and me when we are absent one from another.” Laban follows that statement emphasizing that not only is God watching you, but I too, will keep my eyes on you and your scoundrel ways. “So. Watch it, Buddy!!!” This licks all the red off your candy, if you thought Mizpah is a sweet word that enfolds the hearts of two sweethearts until they are together again. 

Here’s a wild example of how something taken out of context and intent can do damage; Two teenage girls at a swimming party. One of the girls, wearing her fashionable new swimsuit, sits accidentally on a recently painted bench . Her mother gave it to her as a birthday present. She stands up and screams, “My mother is going to kill me for this!!” Taken out of context and ignoring her intent, a passerby might wrongly assume child abuse is in the works. Silly? Maybe. But in today’s culture, such a statement could open up a pandora’s box troubles.

Such mishaps in communication happen too easily: An idea launches a drive; the drive becomes a movement. Such mishap occurs if the idea is nefariously hijacked. Or, just as ignoble, is given an opposite or subversive meaning. I am not decrying the decay of the King’s English: that task is left for more scholarly folk. The English language is an ever flowing stream. Therefore when spoken with clarity of communication it demands our knowing the meaning of words and terms we use.

Maybe I should use Mizpah here; should you or I need to be strictly guarded in our use of “The King’s English!”