Mary's Magnificat

Icon of the Annunciation

Most mornings this Advent season I have tried to rise early ahead of the family for some time alone. After pushing play on the coffee maker my next impulse is to light this candle that sits below a print of an icon of the Annunciation. Though the Orthodox honor the Annunication on March 25, precisely 9 months before a December 25th delivery (I can hear the age-old chuckle, as if anything about Christ's birth went like clockwork), I felt mysteriously led to ponder this event this Advent season, just 2 months following my second miscarriage. I don't know exactly what it's trying to tell me, but I know that it's a message of hope, of comfort, and of future promise. And I feel like I've relinquished my ultimatum with God, that I must bear our daughter a sibling. This poem has been a blessing to me and a summons to feel myself likewise weighted down and up by all this glory:

I thank thee, Lord, that if I die in this,

it will be too much, not too little living,

that I have sunk beneath too heavy fruit,

not withered in a desert far from thee.

Glory to thee, Lord, that thou dost give

harvest so lavish our arms cannot hold

nor heart contain the treasure of thy power.

And in the end forgive if I am proud

to go down blest by more than I can bear,

inadequate to carry out thy will,

inadequate and weak, but chosen still.

Magnificat by Jane Tyson Clement

A Carpenter's Christmas by Peter K. Rosegger

Before that sad day when suddenly the Bruderhof's "Daily Dig" was off the air, I had the good fortune of downloading several of their wonderful Advent readings, many of them reprinted from Home for Christmas: Stories for Young and Old. I relish in reading them year after year.

This morning I read this story on true prayer and was convicted as I was this time last year.

At last it was over, this vigorous sweeping and scrubbing and chasing of dirt, this week-long turmoil during which nothing, not a piece of furniture, not a single wall decoration, remained in place, until every piece of wood had been cleaned, every stone whitewashed, every bit of metal polished. Now the house shone in purest cleanliness.

I won't post the story in its entirety here, but if you'd like it, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it along: brandi.briana@gmail.com .

Awaiting Saint Nicholas

Tonight, all over Europe, children are allowed to leave their boots inside, neatly placed, awaiting the kindy arrival of sweet Saint Nicholas (known as Mos Nicolae here in Romania, Sinterklaas in the Dutch world, and eventually morphing into jolly ol' Santa Claus). Beside our advent candle we read the tender story of the 4th century bishop of Myra who, born to a wealthy family, spent his life quietly helping those in need. "His mother and father taught him to be generous to others, especially those in need. So Nicholas came to see that helping others makes one richer in life than anything else." (I had to substitute goats for girls in the story because Briana sobbed uncontrollably when I read that Nicholas threw gold into a family's window on the night before the father was forced to sell one of his daughters to save the family from poverty's ruin. Goats she could accept.)

Much of the time my mind is heavy with all the things Briana might be missing by not growing up in America, but on this occasion it is made light with the opportunities and blessings made hers by living in Romania. On Sundays when we go to church she sits beside and draws with a girl named Ana, who faithfully attends church each Sunday to worship and to beg for the family's livelihood. Desiring to help Briana to better know the joy of giving than that of receiving inspired this letter left her in the spirit of Saint Nicholas a couple of days ago. It has made my heart glad to watch her spend most of her play time these past two days inspecting, arranging and wrapping the gifts she picked out.

Dear Briana,
Friday, December 5, is the night that I visit all the children of the world to bring them joy, love and surprises, and especially the poor children. There are so many children in the world that I haven’t time to take care of everyone. Can you help me please? I need you to buy Ana and Rares (those beautiful children who visit with you at church) some school supplies and maybe some clothes. Can you do that for me? Leave your presents for Ana and Rares next to your boots on Friday night and I will add some things. Then maybe you can help me some more and take their gifts to church on Sunday. Thank you so much for your help!
See you Friday night,
Saint Nicholas

Some real gems have escaped her mouth lately including, "Mama, Saint Nicholas doesn't just love poor children" and "Mama, are you real or pretend?" Hmmmm.

St. Nicholas' story beautifully told here: http://www.cptryon.org/prayer/child/nick.html

Woodcut print by Mary Azarian

Welcome to the Season of Light

We played in the cold Friday night in Lupeni's park,

its newly lit Christmas tree blazing in the background.

"Light your candles quietly, such candles as you possess, wherever you are."

Alfred Delp

Last evening we lit the first of our Advent candles, welcoming the season of light with glad hearts and expectation. From an unlikely source (Uncle Rock?) we enjoyed this song's thoughtful lyrics for child and grownup alike:

The Season of Light is when we see the way...heyho look to the sky.

How we receive love when we give it away...heyho look to the sky.

Coming soon I hope: track to listen to.

(The Season of Light, Uncle Rock, Uncle Rock U.)