Merry, merry Christmas, my beloved Siestas. It’s about 1:00 PM on Christmas Eve afternoon and I’ve got a little down time for a few precious minutes. I’m out on my back porch watching the birds at the feeders and Beanie in my flowerbeds and having another cup of coffee. I finished the last of the wrapping late this morning then started the preliminary cooking for Christmas dinner tonight. We relish the leftovers on Christmas Day after opening presents and eating a big, lazy breakfast but there’s much to do before then. The cornbread (baked in bacon grease, of course) and biscuits are cooling on the kitchen counter in high hopes of transforming into my mom’s unsurpassable cornbread dressing. Sometimes I hit the mark. Sometimes I don’t. Dressing is fickle that way. But even if it’s not as good as Aletha’s, it’s plenty good enough for the Moore’s who are used to my cooking. Rachel Ray I’m not but Happy I am.

I made iced sugar cookies last night. A little while ago I finished the homemade bread and it will rise and be ready for baking by late afternoon. I’ll make brown sugar and cinnamon sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, roasted Turkey, and the best danged gravy in the South if I do say so myself. It’s my specialty. I’m not getting too fancy because it’s just six of us this year: Keith’s parents, Melissa, Colin, Keith and me. Every other year is huge because the entire extended family plans their “Moore” Christmas on the same year. That’s the way we like it so all the aunts and uncles and cousins can be together for Christmas at least once every two years. We celebrated with Amanda, Curtis and Jackson over the weekend and they headed up to Missouri to be with the Joneses. Amanda has terrific in-laws. They built a home themselves on ten gorgeous acres outside Springfield and just moved into it. Jackson will have such a blast running his legs to near nubs on that oversized yard with his best friend, Beckham. They were expecting a light snow and I so hope they get it. As I recall, Amanda and Curt first kissed in a Springfield snow about seven Christmases ago.

This morning in my quiet time I read the profound, almost inconceivable words of John 1:1-16. They were especially on my mind because of something Melissa mouthed to me yesterday during the sermon. Pastor Gregg was preaching on Anna, Simeon and the Christ Child in the temple courts and made brief mention of the infant cries of the baby Jesus. Melissa looked past Colin and one of my darling young girl friends who was sitting beside me, fixed eyes on her mother and whispered, “The Word made flesh.” Ah, yes. The Word made flesh. Who can fathom it? I’d memorized the segment of Scripture many years ago (in fact, on the airplane trip where I brushed the old man’s hair) but I wanted to read it this morning as if I’d never seen it. I picked up a different version so I wouldn’t anticipate the words and slowly read John 1:1-16, trying to ponder it. Breathe it.

The tears stung in my eyes as the thought hit me afresh: Four hundred years of silence had followed the last of Malachi’s words. According to the Prophet Amos, generation after generation of God’s covenant people had “staggered from sea to sea” and wandered “from north to east, searching for the word of the Lord” but did not find it. There was a famine in the land. “Not a famine of food or a thirst for water, but a famine of hearing the words of the Lord.” Many leaders rose and fell in Israel. Some served the people well. Yet I am amazed – so intrigued – that the masses never mistook a single one of their great leaders for an authentic prophet speaking the inspired words of God. They knew the difference. It seems that in their desperation they would have done everything they could to conjure up some kind of word yet they didn’t. Couldn’t. What a testimony to the canon of Scripture! And to God’s determination that His words be utterly distinct yet humanly recognizable.

When any of us wants someone to hear something special, we ask everybody to be quiet so the drama of the sound will increase in its contrast to the silence. That’s what God did. He ordained 400 solid years of silence so that every willing ear would be alert and in-tune when He once again opened His mouth. The drama in the heavenlies would be at fever pitch and the robes of angels would be bursting at the seams.

And there it came. Reverberating from a crude stable and the arms of poor, inexperienced parents. The silence of God was shattered in the form of a wailing infant fresh from his mother’s womb. Absorb it again. God broke the sound barrier with a squalling baby boy. Hope was born amid the soiled sod of earth. The Logos was engraved from the inside out on a precious parchment of human skin. “The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” Oh, that this Christmas we would behold His glory! The glory of the One and Only who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”

“From the fullness of His grace we have all received one blessing after another.” John 1:16

I love you.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 24th, 2007 at 6:52 pm and is filed under Beth, family. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.