Greta McDonald's blog

“Would you like to live in a world where it was always June?” the signboard outside the business asked.

As our bus pulled into the Oakville, Ontario, parking lot, on that third day of the Chapel Choir tour, a man, smiling and waving, bounded out of the back door of the church to greet us. He was followed, just moments later, by several other people, who seemed to have been waiting eagerly for that moment of welcoming us.

It made the evening news, on that first truly warm day last week – a photo sent in by a resident of Naperville, showing a solitary, bright, blooming crocus that had sprung up through the ground. As it appeared on the screen, the newscasters sighed with appreciation, and it got my attention, too – something so beautiful, so tender, so full of promise, that had broken through the hard, dark earth.

The most recent copy of our church magazine for clergy, The Circuit Rider, focused on "holy conversation." We often think of holy conversation as those moments when one person really hears another with love and respect, so that a new understanding can emerge between them. We may think of moments like sharing in prayer in a hospital room; a quiet side-conversation at a family gathering; or the welcome surprise of a phone call from a long time friend.

In the midst of one of our Christmas Eve services, it hit me: this was a moment I had prayed about, and wondered about, way back last June. Back then, as we were packing boxes and preparing to leave a place and a people we loved, to come to the “unknown” of Downers Grove and First Church, I was just hoping – and praying – that by Christmas of this year we would be happy, and beginning to feel at home – in short, feeling as though we were in the “right place.”

We’re at that time of year when we keep lists pretty close at hand – lists of gifts we’d like to buy (at the best price we can find!), lists of groceries to get for holiday treats, lists of special Advent and Christmas events we want to attend.

But there is a different kind of Christmas list someone told me about, that I’d like to pass along to you. You may already be familiar with it – it’s a Christmas list from “The Advent Conspiracy,” a resource developed by a network of local churches to help Christians find ways to weave more true meaning into their holiday observances.

One of my favorite elements of the Thanksgiving story is the surprise that the Pilgrims must have felt when 90-plus Native Americans showed up to share in that “first Thanksgiving meal.” The handful of Native Americans who had worked with the Pilgrims through the spring and summer, teaching them to plant crops that would thrive in the soil of this continent, had interpreted the invitation by the Pilgrims to join in a special meal, as an invitation to a “potlatch.” They knew what that was – a time for the community to gather in fellowship, thanksgiving and feasting.

On my night stand are still three acorns. They are momentos of an afternoon walk with our grandson, through the parsonage back yard to Fishel Park. We’d just read a board book about busy squirrels storing up food for the winter, and sure enough, as we walked we saw squirrels scurrying around the edge of the yard, and felt acorns crunching under our feet. So, of course, it became essential to collect our own little batch of acorns.

It had been a full, good week. Jim and I had been at a (wonderful) preaching conference Sunday until late, late, Thursday night, and then woke up early and eagerly Friday morning to be with our daughter and son-in-law as their second child was born.

By Saturday morning, as I prepared to come to church for a portion of the special weekend adult education presentation, I was thinking, “Boy, this Ched Myers will have to be really good to even make a dent in my consciousness.”

I guess he was good – my consciousness got “dented.”

I had to admit, as I got ready for our church’s first annual Day of Service last Saturday morning, that I wasn’t quite as psyched for it as I thought I would be. Maybe it was the overcast sky and the drizzle, or the awareness in the back of my mind that I would need to get spruced up right afterward for wedding later in the day, but I was sort of hoping, deep down, that I would hear a crack of thunder to let me know our outdoor service project was canceled for the day.