Laurel Elisabeth Stevens

Sunday, November 22, marked the end of the church year. It's called Christ the King Sunday according to the church calendar. The pastor our family watched online that Sunday quipped that anything that meant an ending to this year sounded good to her. I agreed with a hearty laugh from my comfortable seat at home. Our presence at home was an indicator of what we'd like to have come to an end--a year of separation, online events, and extra-precaution for in-person gatherings.   We were online that morning, and weren't able to connect to our own church's streaming service at the moment, yet another indicator of things-not-right. And so began the last week of the church year. Thanksgiving, perched almost at the end, a confluence of church and civic calendars, usually offers a chance to gather around a big table. In my family, that means lots of stories and reminiscences. I wonder what we'll say in years to come about this Thanksgiving. We attempted to eat together--yet ...

I tried to tell the Christmas story to my ESL class the other night. My starting point was the carol, Away in a Manger. I figured it would have fewer difficult words than other favorite carols: Hark the herald angels sing . . .mercy mild . . .reconciled . . .O come Immanuel. . . ransom captive Israel . .  I explained manger and hay and then found myself talking about a baby, God's son, placed in a feed box. A place that animals eat from. As a child I had thought that manger was another word for cradle—why else would you put a baby inside it?  Perhaps I should've stopped right there and asked someone in my class to retell the strange story so far.  Later in the evening each ESL class performed skits, and then we all feasted on ham and festive foods brought by teachers and students. As we began cleaning up I saw one of my students waiting by the door. She had told me she was leaving but then I saw her waiting so I asked her, "Do you need a ride home?" ...

It's raining on this second Tuesday of Advent. Our dog paces nervously, as though she's endured a flood and expects another. She settles now on the rug at the foot of my bed, and I settle too, as though the rain is running through me, softening worn joints, loosening tight ligaments.  Water runs down and fills the rain barrel, the drops amplified by the cavernous space. This is winter in southeast Texas—one day 75 degrees, the next 53 and getting colder—the rain and wind are signs of change. A rainy day is, I think, good for Advent. The steady rain makes me contemplative as it runs along the gutter, through the downspout and into the rain barrel. Reminding me of the never failing presence and truth of God's word. Refreshing. And sometimes overpowering. On a rainy day I tend to have one of two mindsets, and yes, I've had both. Some days I fuss and complain that the rain is obstructing my plans, stressing out the dog (which stresses out me), making traffic ...

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. . .We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Romans 8:18, 22-24 Late teenage years— I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, my hand fidgeting with the blue bedspread bedecked with peach and pink flowers. My mom sits at the foot of the bed. I'm puzzling over this passage from the book of Romans that I'm sure I've read before, but is suddenly vivid. Life has gotten scarier. My older brother Tim is down the hall at the other end of the house, his arm in a cast and other bones still healing—his pelvis among them. He'd done something stupid—aided by alcohol, the urging of friends, and his own ri...

I began Advent with many ideas of how we, as a family, would prepare for Christ’s coming, and some of them we carried through with.  Some of them we didn’t.  It was halfway through week 2 of Advent that I made an Advent wreath and we began lighting candles, but I never did get the traditional purple candles, and I’m finding that white looks rather like Easter.  The stories for the Jesse tree are read about every other day, and thoughts of, “Have I gotten all the right gifts?” too often clutter my mind in unproductive wanderings. There have been surprises though.  In working on the two previous posts I listened to many renditions of anthems, once again immersing myself in the story of the lyrics as well as the beauty of the music.  Elisabeth’s piano playing continues to delight me, and my mom has been playing as well—“What Child is This” and “Lo, How a Rose.”  Henry was in his room singing “O Holy Night” making up words to the parts he didn't know....

A week ago a new nephew entered our family.  His name is Charlie and he came one week early.  Nevertheless, it was a long wait.  After my sister-in-law had been in labor for nearly ten hours, the action pretty much stopped.  My brother texted me: “We’re kind of bored.”  I chuckled, and hoped he didn’t think I was condescending when I texted back, “Sleep now while you can.”  Waiting is hard. About ten years ago John and I were trying to sell a house and buy one in The Woodlands and I was always up and down with the good news-bad news of having a house on the market.  My dear husband tried to lighten my mood by quoting a line from The Simpsons one night: “Now we play the waiting game!” and answering himself with Homer’s line, “Awww, I wanna play Hungry, Hungry Hippos.”  So on a whim one night in a hotel we bought the game and probably caused no little annoyance to our neighbors as we drank glasses of wine and played that crazy noisy game....

Elisabeth has been working on a piano arrangement of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel , a hymn dating back to the 12th or 13th century as a Latin plain chant.  Many renditions hearken back to monks chanting in hallowed halls, “Veni, Veni Emmanuel,” but the Baroque version Elisabeth plays is no less mysterious and wondrous to me.   In my childhood though, I became so familiar with the first verse that I found it quite boring and a bit confusing.  I liked the chorus though, because I got to sing it loud and high.   In high school, our choir director asked us every year to memorize five verses of that hymn for a processional, and every year we failed.  Indeed I felt quite guilty that I could not hold up my end of the assignment.  I don’t recall trying very hard to learn them, but I do recall the dread in my stomach when it became apparent to Mr. Moses that we had failed him again.   Twenty-plus years later I love the story these verses tell--of Israel ens...

It was Christmas Eve.   We sat in semi-darkness in the living room in my grandparents’ house on Hunter’s Run, all of us sitting in chairs and on the soft blue carpet, more or less in a circle: Grandmother, Granddad, Dad, Mom, Tim, Josh, Nathaniel and me.   The only lights were those from the Christmas tree.   We had come from church and our fingers and noses were still chilled from the brisk Pennsylvania air.   The exhilaration of singing carols with a brass ensemble coursed through me, but I was content to be home now, waiting.   I was fourteen, but our tradition of opening one present on Christmas Eve and saving the rest until Christmas morning still had me grinning with anticipation.   But before we could do that Dad began talking to us in a thoughtful voice, asking us if we knew the word “incarnation.”  Sure, I knew it.  It was one of those words we tossed about in church.  Salvation, incarnation, revelation . . .I didn’t need to r...