Grace and the Christmas Fish: A Reflection on the Gifts of Christmas

"Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone."

~Charles M. Schultz

As an Agnostic Unitarian Universalist, I struggle a bit with Christmas: A virgin birth; a guy in a red suit jetting all over the world in a flying sled; out of control consumerism that starts the day after Halloween; nativity scenes next to giant inflatable snowmen on people's front lawns; cheese balls and fruit cake. If you're not a Christian, what does it all mean? 

For years I wrestled with this, especially when my kids were little. What should I tell them we were celebrating when we decorated our Christmas tree and sang Silent Night? I found some wisdom in the words of religious educator, Sofia Lyon Fahs who wrote a poem entitled "For So the Children Come, " which includes this message about what is holy.

Yet each night a child is born is a holy night.

Fathers and mothers—sitting beside their children's cribs—

feel glory in the sight of a new life beginning.

They ask, "Where and how will this new life end?

Or will it ever end?"

Each night a child is born is a holy night—

A time for singing,

A time for wondering,

A time for worshipping.

I also appreciated the pagan connections between Christmas and the Winter Solstice, and the way all of the winter holidays -- Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Diwali, Solstice -- celebrate light out of darkness, hope and love. Some years we hung pine cone bird feeders in trees on the solstice, or shared hot cider and sunburst cookies on the beach with friends as the sun sank below the horizon on the shortest day.

But, no matter how much I loved all of the depth these new traditions added to an old, familiar holiday, the truth is, my family celebrates Christmas primarily because it is part of our cultural heritage, a passing along of generations of family traditions. And it turns out that's enough. So, I've stopped searching for one cohesive narrative to glue this Christian and Pagan holiday together. Instead, I simply try to practice our Christmas traditions with love and presence. And I wait to see what gifts might arise unbidden each year.

In that spirit, I'd like to share a family Christmas story I like to call, 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

When my daughter Frances was nine years old, she and her brother sat down at the kitchen table to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. She began pondering questions like, how does Santa manage to cover the entire globe in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from Toys R Us if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, well honey, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do YOU think? And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

In any case, I wasn't ready to reveal Santa's true identity yet -- Miles was only six after all -- so the kids proceeded to jot down a little note to Santa about what they would like for Christmas.

Among other things, Frances asked for a Beta fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put the letter in the mailbox and went about our holiday decorating, baking, and nightly reading of Christmas stories. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. And I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "A touch of magic can reawaken the childlike spirit in all of us..." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids sure. But also for me.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could THIS be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us, but there was no name and I couldn't think of who might have sent it. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances downstairs. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. Inside the package was a xeroxed copy of her letter to Santa and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. -- I was as wide eyed as she was! -- Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament to hang on the tree, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year. We told everyone we knew about Santa's mysterious gift.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair, wearing a red and green Christmas sweater and sensible shoes. I've named her Grace. I picture plucking Frances's letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I can see Grace shopping for the chocolates, wondering if Frances would prefer milk or dark chocolate. I imagine her puzzling over how to wrap a Beta fish while sipping a cup of tea, and being pleased with herself for coming up with such a clever solution. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a red Beta fish Frances named Harry Wotter.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like the drawing for the bell from Santa's Sleigh in the popular story, The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace's small act of kindness gave us another year of magic.

***
Christmas means many things to many people. But, no matter what your beliefs, there is always room for kindness, enchantment, and the excitement of anticipation. Like Winnie the Pooh said about eating honey, “Well, what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

Christmas is sparkly and bright, especially on the surface. When you unwrap this big, unwieldy holiday though, sometimes you find you didn't get what you asked for at all. It might be too big or too small, too gaudy or dull. Broken maybe, filled with past pain and disappointment, people behaving badly. Then again, sometimes Christmas surprises you with small acts of kindness that can thaw even the coldest spirit. 

And while you never know what you're gonna receive, you can always choose to be the giver of kindness. You too can delight a child with a Beta fish or make someone's day with a surprise visit. And so I'm offering this simple phrase for all you kids from one to ninety two: Show up for the holidays. Invite Grace and kindness into your heart. Be present for the moment before the honey AND the moment it drips onto your tongue. And if you end up covered in a sticky mess this year, be present for that too. Notice who shows up to help you clean up. There are gifts to be found in all of it. I dare you not to find one.

(Adapted from a Reflection for the Unitarian Society of santa Barbara, December 21,2014)

The Sabbath French Toast

A Reflection on Sabbath

for the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

June 29, 2014

Audio link: http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2013/20140629_Reflection_Charla.wav

Silence walks in and pulls up a chair.

She touches her hand to my shoulder.

Where have you been? You're so hard to find

In this noisy world, I told her.

Please sit down and put up your feet.
I'll make a cup of good coffee or tea.
I want to hear my heart beat.

​Won't you just sit here with me?

I wrote that snippet of a song while I was walking my dog on the beach a couple of years ago. I was thinking about how much I love the time of silence in our church services, how I always want it to be a bit longer, how I wish I could find more moments to sit with silence and feel her soft breath. On that walk -- watching my dog Zeke embrace every moment on the beach -- I left my "to do" list behind, put my smart phone away, and accepted the gifts the day was offering. I listened to the still, small voice inside me and I heard it call for quiet and rest and, what's more, I heard it in a song! I sang out loud as I walked. My heart was light and I felt connected to everything around me, from the sea to the sky, to the creative process within me. I gave myself over to this time I had carved out of my day for renewal.

I wish I could tell you that all of my dog walks are that joyful and mindful, but sadly, at least half the time they feel like one more chore I have to squeeze into an already busy day. Like a lot of people, I am not very good at giving myself permission to rest. Doing "nothing" makes me feel guilty, so I tend to take a more circuitous path to resting that is really not restful at all. I trick myself into slowing down by distracting myself. I'll look at the pile of dishes after dinner and say, I'm just going to check my email before I get started on those. Next thing I know, I've read my email and scrolled mindlessly through facebook, and 45 minutes have gone by. Do I feel rested and renewed after this electronic binge? No. I feel guilty and lazy. I feel like I have had spiritual junk food instead of real sustenance. And I wonder, what if I had given myself permission to sit with my kids in the living room for 45 minutes after dinner? What conversations might we have had? What peaceful silence might we have shared while we read together?

In his book, Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in our Busy Lives, author Wayne Muller writes, "Sabbath is more than the absence of work; it is not just a day off, when we catch up on television or errands. It is the presence of something that arises when we consecrate a period of time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, or true. It is time consecrated with our attention, our mindfulness, honoring those quiet forces of grace or spirit that sustain and heal us."

Sabbath is rest with intention. It is about clearing a space for something to grow, or quieting the din for something to be heard. It is a time to reflect, to play, to bless, to feel gratitude and experience joy in the ordinary. Sabbath is about honoring the rhythms and cycles of our lives and recognizing the importance dormancy plays in growth. In Jewish and Christian traditions, sabbath is not just a suggestion; it is a commandment from God! Remember the Sabbath is on the same list of rules as thou shalt not kill, and thou shalt not commit adultery, for Heaven's sake!

Some of us feel guilty when we stop working. But Sabbath is not selfish. Quite the contrary. We need the sabbath to fill our stores so that we can do good work in the world. When I don't give myself time to rest and reflect, I get sloppy, lazy and resentful. I snap at my kids more than I listen to them, I get impatient with the students I work with, I view my day as one long to-do list. When I don't allow myself to rest I lose my appreciation for the rhythm and cycles of life. Focusing instead on the Sisyphean tasks of chores and obligations. As Wayne Muller writes, "Sabbath is not only for ourselves; rested and refreshed, we more generously serve all those who need our care. The human spirit is naturally generous; the instant we are filled, our first impulse is to be useful, to be kind, to give something away." Muller says that by sabbath-keeping our work will have the "wisdom of rest" in it.

Remember the sabbath. OK, but how do we do that? Some years back I took an Adult RE class on sabbath here at USSB from our own Ken Saxon. We explored the elements that would help us create a practice of sabbath that was meaningful for each of us. We considered the candles, prayers, and food from the religions of our childhood. We explored whether we needed to experience the sacred rest of sabbath alone, with family, in community, or all of the above. We thought about the best times for us to honor the sabbath. Do we want to start our day with a prayer? Do we want to create a weekly meal with family or friends? Is it important for us to be in nature? 

When the class was over I initiated a Sunday afternoon walk with friends, kids, and dogs, followed by a meal of soup and bread with my family. It was a gentle way to end the weekend and prepare for the week ahead. We brought out the good dishes; we lit a chalice; we listened to music; we said a blessing and shared what we were grateful for. And it was lovely. ... Until we began to neglect our sabbath meal and it eventually faded away. Sabbath, like children, marriage, friendships, and gardens, needs to be tended in order to thrive.

Like any good Unitarian Universalist, my sabbath practice is always evolving. Right now it centers on gratitude, silence, nature. ... And challah french toast.

My boyfriend, Chuck, lives in Oakland. We begin every morning by texting each other three things we are grateful for. This morning pause to remember what is good in our lives is like a small prayer to start the day. 

Every evening my dog, Zeke, insists on a sabbath walk on the Ellwood Mesa. He doesn't KNOW it's a sabbath walk, but the joy and connection with the natural world he exhibits have all the earmarks of a sabbath walk and, when I am present and open, I feel that joy and connection too. He reminds me.

And at the end of the day, sitting in my bed, I take out my gratitude journal and write down three more things I am grateful for, enjoying the feel of pen on paper after a day of texting and typing. I could write a whole reflection about how the regular practice of gratitude has changed my outlook on life, but suffice it to say, feeling grateful for all that I have right now is an essential piece, maybe even the crown jewel, of sabbath for me.

And then there is the challah french toast. 

We used to have a family tradition of french toast on Saturday mornings, a late relaxed breakfast of comfort and sweetness. Sadly, this tradition withered in the face of Saturday soccer games and a crumbling marriage. Last year I decided my children and I needed to revive it. Typically we make French toast with thick slices of Trader Joe's cinnamon swirl bread and we do not scrimp on butter and sugar.

But when Chuck started joining us for Saturday french toast, he brought something new to the table: Challah bread, the bread traditionally served at Jewish shabbat meals. Beautifully braided and golden brown, challah bread makes for thick, soft pillows of french toast that soak up butter and powdered sugar and leave a perfect indentation to fill with berries. So good! Chuck's daughter is living in IV this summer, so we are inviting her to join us for challah french toast too. Yesterday I even pulled out the good dishes and lit a chalice. We listened to music; we enjoyed our wonderful children; we slowed time down for awhile. -- And voilà! A sabbath meal was born. I'm even thinking of bringing back Sunday evening soup so that our weekend is bookended by sabbath meals -- restful time with people I love.

***

A couple of years ago I was snow shoeing in Mammoth with five close friends. It was October. There was already a fair amount of snow on the ground, and it felt like we had the mountain to ourselves. As you can imagine, a group of six women does not naturally lend itself to silence. But I insisted we spread out, sit down, and be quiet for 10 minutes. It was such a complete silence, snow buffered and soft. I could have stayed wrapped in that restful place all day. -- Silence, nature, people I love, gratitude -- If that's not sabbath I don't know what is.

I wish I could command all of you to remember the sabbath, to make time for sacred rest in your lives, but I am not God or any kind of boss around here. What I can do, however, is remind you that together we observe the sabbath every Sunday morning right here. We're doing it right now. And I can invite you to join me in restful silence. I encourage you to close your eyes and listen to that still, small voice inside you. Hear what it has to say.

Amazing Grace: Reflections on Repair

Delivered at the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

December, 29, 2013

If you prefer to listen, click on the link below for an audio recording

http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2013/20131229ReflectionCBregante.mp3

"It's not a cry you can hear at night

It’s not somebody who has seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~ Leonard Cohen

I've been a Warming Center volunteer for the past couple of years, cooking and serving casseroles on cold, wet nights under the eaves of Jefferson Hall with friends and my kids. Never have I encountered such gracious dinner guests as I do in the people who arrive, cold, tired and hungry for a meal on those nights. Never have I BEEN such a gracious guest. Some of the guests don't say anything, but many of them express heartfelt gratitude for the simple meal we have provided. It makes me wish I had done more, made homemade cookies instead of store bought. Something to be deserving of such gratitude. I get the sense that when your life is missing so much, you develop a visceral appreciation for things most of us have the luxury of taking for granted: dry socks, hot food, warm blankets, shelter.

It is hard to put into words the impact the warming center has had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to repair the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

A couple of years ago I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He eagerly showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. It was really incredible. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were a feast for a king. His gratitude was genuine and immense. And when he talked about his life, he did not dwell on the brokenness of it. Rather, he held up all that was good and true to him (his dog, his handiwork with his bike, his faith in God). He wanted to share that with me, he just wanted me to listen. And though his was surely a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful and humbling.

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are NOT distributed evenly among us by a long shot. And not everyone accepts their lot like the man on the bike, nor should they. But even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace from time to time, maybe enough to repair a flat tire, or find a hotmeal and a bed for the night. To be human is to be broken. And it is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center and everyone else. 

In her book, Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair, writer Anne Lamott says, "We live stitch by stitch, when we're lucky. If you fixate on the big picture, the whole shebang, the overview, you miss the stitching. And maybe the stitching is crude, or it is unraveling but if it were precise, we'd pretend that life was just fine and running like a Swiss watch. This is not helpful if on the inside our understanding is that life is more often a cuckoo clock with rusty gears."

Sometimes in our effort to repair, we get the thread all tangled up. And that's ok. It happens in spite of our best intentions. A friend of mine has a young adult son who is depressed. He dropped out of college and seems to be at loose ends. Like any loving father, my friend wants to help his son fix things. He gave him all kinds of "useful" advice, but his son just made excuses or, worse, blamed him for the state his life is in. Frustrated, my friend told me, you know what? I give up. I'm just going to listen when he needs to talk and let him know I love him. As you've probably guessed, he's untangling the knot his "helpfulness" created and together they are making small, messy stitches toward repair.

Where do I begin to repair what needs mending? Sometimes, just getting through the day takes all my energy. Can I learn to pick up a needle and thread, pull together the frayed pieces of fabric as best I can, and make one small stitch? And can I appreciate the beauty inherent in my imperfect needlework? Can I let go of my need to control enough to let other people help when I've tangled the thread or don't see a place in the fabric to insert the needle?

I can prepare a casserole for the guests at the Warming Center on a cold night. I can take a moment to remember what being 16 feels like and offer my daughter empathy instead of criticism.  I can apologize to my ex when we've had a misunderstanding. I can put my arm around my son and let him rest his head on my shoulder when junior high school overwhelms him. I can bring my 99 year old grandma a cupcake and see her smile as she devours it. I can have a glass of wine with my aunt and just let her talk, knowing that her days are spent taking care of small children and my grandmother and she is exhausted. I can give myself permission to be good enough instead of perfect. -- Of course I can roll up my sleeves and join forces with other people to tackle the bigger repairs too, homelessness, climate change. But day to day, I can practice doing small things with great love, as Mother Theresa reminds us. I can be an instrument of grace. We all can. And THAT is amazing when you think about it!

Anne Lamott talks about the lost art of darning. Darning, she says, " is to send parallel threads through the damage in socks and sweaters, in and out, in and out, back and forth over and under, and somehow you have a piece of fabric again - such as the heal of a sock, that's good enough again, against all odds. This is sort of a miracle - good enough again." You just have to find a spot in the fabric to start from.

Some time ago I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has pretty severe autism. She is not very verbal, though she does like to sing, mostly Disney songs. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is, screeching and periodically hitting herself on the head. I can only imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. Like all of us, she just wants to shut it out sometimes, scream at the world to stop spinning for a second so she can grab hold again. -- As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I didn't recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, (sing chorus) She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And together we walked back to the car.

I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that makes us whole. Repair happens along the frayed seam, the rough edge. That's where we grow and become stronger. As Leonard Cohen says, the cracks are where the light comes in. And I think it is in the daily mending of this beautiful crazy quilt called life, the appreciation of its mismatched fabrics, in the knots and loose stitches, that we find meaning, hope and grace, amazing grace.

"Amazing Grace how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now I'm found.

Was blind, but now I see."