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They say mirrors never lie, and mine said “You look fabulous!” It was one of those nights when my clothes fit perfectly, my hair did exactly what I wanted it to do, and my skin had spared me its temperamental breakouts. I swayed to the beat of my stereo while applying mascara to my lashes without even worrying about whether I’d put out an eye. A little lip gloss, a final full-length mirror check, and I was ready to go. Extrovert that I am, I almost always love going out with friends, but that night, my whole body practically vibrated with energy. I was ready for something to happen. I was on the prowl.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flash of the simple, silver cross I usually wear when preaching. Just before I slipped out the door, I swear I heard it whisper, “Remember, you’re still a minister.” As if I could possibly forget!
It wasn’t that I planned to do anything scandalous. I’ve never really been one to lose control of myself. You won’t find my bra hanging above a bar or spy me stumbling down the street with a stranger in the wee hours of the morning. However, what is a minister to do on those nights when you’d just like to go out, have fun, and maybe even meet someone? Is a minister even allowed to be “on the prowl?”
The formula for other women our age seems to be: wear as little clothing as possible, be prepared to remove even more if called upon to do belly shots or dance on bars, and shake your booty at every opportunity. I like to burn up the dance floor as much as the next girl, but the rest sounds like a recipe for a quick loss of both dignity and job. Read more
As an only child, I never really understood the whole issue of sibling rivalry. I grew up with my own room. My toys were safe from the hands of younger siblings who might play with them and perhaps break them. I had the attention of my parents and maternal grandparents, without the competition of siblings. Then I married an only child as well. We are a good match because we understand the other’s
need for space and independence, even though I have no sister-in-laws to share stories with or nieces or nephews to dote on. Two years ago, we gave birth to our child, who is still an only child herself and an only grandchild on both sides. She has our attention, her own room, the loving attention of four sets of grandparents and one Busha (great-grandma).
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
The lyrics of our final hymn at the Christmas Eve service rang in my ears as I peered into the cold silent night outside the church doors. After closing the doors to this holy night, I blew out the candles that had lit our way to the birth of peace. I gazed out the window to wonder about this tender and mild child that tore open the heavens and came down incarnated in Corinth.
It had happened again. Jesus Christ was born again this day. The mysterious wonder of the incarnate had torn through the heavens as the prophets had hoped. And yet, as I blew out the candles, I couldn’t help but wonder what had changed. We have been waiting for this for the past four weeks. We’ve been preparing for this miracle of birth as Jesus came through the birth canal. We’ve gotten ready for this moment when he was named King over the powers that be, this helpless child over the State, over the ones who loved to oppress. We have been waiting these days for justice to reign. And yet, as I settle into my new home and see this world with new eyes, I wonder about this silent night.
As I blew out the last few candles, my breath mingled with the lyrics of the familiar hymn.
