The Grace & Hope of the New Year

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone.” (Isaiah 9:1-6)

I had the privilege of reading the passage above during Mass on Christmas Eve this year. And while it alludes to Christ’s arrival in the world and the grace He brought with him, I find it likewise speaks to the hope of the New Year and the clean slate we should always begin it with. Today, on the second to last day of 2015, Isaiah’s words keep playing over and over in my mind.

The beginning of a new year is perhaps one of the most glorious times of the year. It is a time of hope, forgiveness, new beginnings, gratitude and second chances. The fact that New Year’s falls so soon after Christmas is no coincidence whatsoever. The two days very much go hand in hand. But it wasn’t until the weekend before Christmas this year that I first came to recognize and understand that. 

The Saturday before Christmas I found myself lingering in a very long line at the Cathedral to go to Confession. Advent and Lent are the two big times of the year for people to go to Confession so I was in no way surprised to see so many people. Of all the blessings of being a Catholic, the sacrament of confession is the one I’m most grateful for and have taken the most seriously since coming into the church. The reason for that is simple. Coming into the church was my way of acknowledging that Christ is my salvation….but concurrently, that I am imperfect and need healing and guidance to transform into the best version of myself. 

I’ve heard a lot of people say that the best part of confession is hearing the priest say that they are absolved of their sins. While that is certainly a powerful moment, I feel the greatest power of the sacrament just outside the confessional. While I was at the very end of the line upon arriving at the Cathedral, people continued to pour in behind me as I waited. I was so focused on my prayers though and what I intended to confess that I didn’t realize just how many people. 

After making my confession, I opened the confessional door to walk out. When I first glanced up, I was astounded to see two long lines of people flanking both sides of the aisle and stretching clear back to the altar. As I walked down the aisle between the people, I couldn’t help but feel a remarkable warmth of hope inside me. Here were dozens of people—just like me—who not only felt shame over failures and inadequacies in their lives but who were also filled with hope. The hope for a second chance was the only thing that had led them to the church that day. What a blessing it was to be standing in a room filled with so much HOPE!

On my way out of the church that day, I turned to look back at the confessors in line again and was reminded of one of the last things the priest had said to me that day…..”You’re in a house full of sinners, so you’re in good company.” All of us make mistakes and lead lives that fall short of what we hope and aspire towards. The ones who overcome all of that though are the ones who take responsibility, take action, and always hope.

While each year of our lives marks a special part in our story, it is merely one chapter buried in the middle of the book. Each morning when we wake up and find we still have air in our lungs and a heart drumming in our chest, we need to take that as a sign that God has not given up on us yet. And that there is more to be written still in our story. The New Year, much like Christ’s arrival at Christmas, is that great light in the darkness that beckons to us and reassures that whatever mistakes we’ve previously made we can always repent and move on from, that whatever dreams we’ve failed to bring to fruition can still come true, the burdens and trials currently plaguing us will not last forever, and that it is “never too late to be what you might have been,” as George Eliot put it. 

Reason for the Season

Store parking lots burst at the seams with holiday shoppers. The rustle of tissue paper and furious late night wrapping echoes. Nativity scenes and advent wreaths are carefully arranged on mantles. The soft multi-colored glow of Christmas trees illuminates front windows. Subtle hints of cinnamon, peppermint, fresh dough, and frosting fill the air.

There’s no more denying it….Christmas is nearly upon us!

With over 2.2 billion Christians around the world, Christmas is one of the most anticipated and widely celebrated holidays on earth. It’s utterly amazing, really, when you try to wrap your head around that many people believing and professing in Jesus Christ as their savior. They may do it through different traditions, in different houses of worship, and in different languages….but at the heart of all 2 billion of us, we each believe the very same thing. 

And yet….I found myself astounded three months ago to find the Christian faith alive and well over 6,000 miles from home on a tiny Fijian island in the Pacific. 

As described at length in an earlier post, Andy and I traveled to Matamanoa Island in Fiji for our honeymoon. Having never been to Hawaii or any other tropical island before, it was quite an adventurous treat for me. We took in practically every activity there was to do on the island—nearly all of which involved the ocean in some form. One of the activities I most cherished, however, was one I never expected to partake in while in Fiji.

Each day in the reception area of the resort, there was a chalkboard set up with the day’s activities listed out. One day, Andy and I noticed that there would be a performance by the village church choir that afternoon. I was instantly intrigued and told Andy we had to be there for it. Nearly all of the resort staff are native Fijians and live in Tavua, a village on a neighboring island. Ignorantly, knowing nothing about Fiji’s culture, I assumed they did not belong to any type of Christian denomination. But that 2.2 billion worldwide Christian figure I mentioned earlier should’ve made me wonder otherwise.

The choir was to perform shortly after the daily tea time held at the resort. Andy and I were sitting out on deck chairs near the pool eating the complimentary tea cookies and cakes when the choir arrived. Some were wearing long, white choir robes while others in nicer attire. All of them carried their hymnal books…..some more tattered than others. Several looked a little nervous as they assembled themselves into a group right in front of us. But all of those nervous faces disappeared the moment they started signing.

For the next half hour or so, we listened to the choir sing in a purely acapella style. Several of the songs were sung in Fijian while others were in English. But it was entirely irrelevant whether I knew the words they were signing or not……I understood simply by the power and passion in which they sang them. I remember listening to them sing and thinking what an amazing gift it was to hear songs of praise and adoration for the same God I pray to in a place so different and far away from everything I know. The Fijians look different, speak different, and undoubtedly practice their Christian faith differently from the Catholic traditions I’m used to at home---but the core of their faith is exactly the same as mine. It was a truly beautiful and special moment of Christianity for me….one which I will never forget.

As Christmas draws near and we anxiously await the celebration of the birth of our Lord, I can’t help but find myself thinking about Fiji and all of the wonderful people and traditions we encountered there.  I’m working very hard to keep that image of the choir singing framed in my mind each day so that I never lose sight of the real reason behind Christmas. 

From the Rocky Mountains of Montana to the cerulean blue waters of Fiji, let us all sing Joy to the World for the birth of a Savior who transforms all of our souls to be as white as snow!!

The Magic of Skating

It’s funny the way one tiny moment can stir up a flurry of memories you didn’t even know you still had inside you. A few weeks ago, Andy and I had the privilege of taking our friends’ four and a half year old daughter, Camille, ice skating for the very first time. The outing was an extension of our Christmas gift of hockey skates to her last year.

I was absolutely twitter-pated last December picking out her skates because I remembered how much I loved ice skating when I was little. I grew up thinking that the snow white figure skates with the spiky toe picks you always tripped over were the only skate option for girls. But after wearing and playing in hockey skates for the past four years, I can honestly say they are much more comfortable and user-friendly option. So I knew that’s what I wanted for Camille. After picking out the miniature Bauer skates, I special ordered some hot pink laces to lace them with and give them a little more girly flair. Camille hadn’t even tried skating yet but I already felt like she was ahead of the game from me at her age.

I don’t remember the first time I went ice skating. I can’t recall how old I was, what color of snow pants I wore or how much snow was on the ground that day. I don’t know whether I even enjoyed it at first or not. I don’t remember that day at all. But I do remember dozens of days after that first one…..and all of them took place with my dad on the outdoor rink at Memorial Park. 

I remember sitting on the hard wooden bench inside the warming house at Memorial with one of my feet wedged between my dad’s thighs as he laced up my skates. I remember how tight the leather hugged my ankles but the pain never deterred me from wanting to go outside. I don’t remember how exactly my dad taught me to skate…although I do have fragmented memories of landing on my plushy snow panted butt quite frequently. But eventually, I did learn to skate. And that’s when the real fun started.

The ice rink was always bustling during the day on Saturdays and Sundays with groups of friends and families clutching nervous toddlers. Not exactly the kind of primo ice time my dad wanted for me. I suppose that’s why I often found myself at the rink at night with just my dad and a lonely street light or two to throw light on the ice.  The warming house wasn’t open at night so we had to walk through a tall pair of metal gates left open to get on the ice. Even now, I have a habit of looking to see if those gates are open whenever I drive by the rink in the winter. 

When we skated at night it almost felt like we owned the rink because there was seldom ever anyone else there. The air was always still save for the scraping of our blades across the ice. And it was on one such fateful night that my dad first put a hockey stick in my hands. It was a short little guy made of solid wood like most sticks used to be. I remember skating around in circles and trying to get a feel for passing the puck back and forth between my stick. I wasn’t coordinated enough yet to be very successful at it but I enjoyed the struggle of trying to find a rhythm between me, my stick and the puck.  

I can’t remember how many nights I skated at Memorial growing up, but I do know that my grandpa joined my dad and I for one of them. That was the one and only time I’ve seen him skate. I loved that three generations were on the ice that night knocking the puck between our sticks. It was a night that, even then, I knew I was going to look back on and appreciate. Playing under the street lamps on an outdoor rink is the way hockey was meant to be played after all. 

When a day finally freed up for Andy and I to take Camille to the ice rink, I felt rather nervous. I had no idea how exactly to “teach” her to skate and for all I knew she was going to hate it. She arrived suited up in an adorable pair of pink Carhart bibs and looked ready for action with her helmet strapped snug under her chin. While we were lacing her skates up she looked down at mine to see that my laces were blue. “I want blue laces like you,” she said. I just smiled and explained that I’d picked the pink ones out especially for her but we could look at getting her blue ones too. 

Upon first standing up on her skates, Camille giggled and staggered about like a new born giraffe. Grabbing her hands, Andy and I led her over to the door onto the ice. Her amusement at the whole skating concept only grew upon touching her blades onto the ice. She immediately started swinging her legs back and forth. Andy and I clutched her mittoned hands and held her up off the ice. Little by little we worked her up to letting us push her along across the ice. It was neat to watch her take in skating for the first time. The feeling of it all is so unique and magical, but once you learn to skate, you forget how great it felt the first time.  

 

With sore feet and a hungry tummy, our ice time that day was short and sweet. Not to mention that my back felt like it had aged 40 years from holding Camille up on the ice all afternoon. But I was thrilled to have shared in her first time on skates and was proud of her for simply having the courage to try it. I hope that someday I share in a similar moment with my own son or daughter. Hockey is a tradition and great love in my family, so learning to skate is a must!

With an indoor rink to play hockey on now, I don’t often think about going to skate at Memorial. But I never cease to smile when I drive by it at night and see a few lowly skaters, sticks in hand, circling about on the ice.