Laurel Elisabeth Stevens

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?" ...

         I wrote this piece recently for a live story-telling show about motherhood called  Listen to Your Mother.  It was a wonderful  opportunity  to prepare this story and then read it to a live audience in San Antonio. I share it with grief and hope.  LS It was ten years ago this March—ten years ago that the doorbell rang sometime after seven in the evening on that Saturday night.  I was already upstairs getting ready for bed, feeling bulky and cumbersome at nearly 41 weeks of pregnancy.  Our three-year old daughter was sound asleep, and I resented this unexpected intrusion into a quiet evening with my husband John. Through the beveled glass of the front door I saw my parents and younger brother.  Why would they just drop in unannounced when they lived an hour away? I opened the door with a smile, trying to cover the curiosity and irritation I felt.  But when I saw their faces, my stomach churned. “W...

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...

This Sunday in The Woodlands The weather got a little cooler here in the Houston area . . .for a couple of days.  It was already warming back to the 80s today.  But on Sunday we got to wear sweaters and realize that no, we won’t be able to wear sandals all year long. At church I spoke with a friend who was asking how our transition was going, saying that he felt for us, having to leave Germany after just two years.  It nearly made me cry, but at the same time I was grateful for his understanding.  He knows from personal experience the work it takes to move and adjust overseas.   I’ve been looking over my notes and writings from the last two Octobers and Novembers.  Wow--the seasons are really different!  It does feel like continual summer here and, well, I’m not minding it.  Not right now, at least! The entry below was mostly written on a Sunday in November, 2011, when John was in the U.S. for about two weeks.  It was ...