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?" ...

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...

In each house we lived in growing up, I always knew where the photo albums were. In the house on Snag Lane in Spring, Texas they were in the wood-paneled living room, in one of the many built-in cabinets.  I could pull out the albums and wedge myself between the orange couch and the cabinets, leafing through memories. I would usually set aside the large album with paper pages and a blue and teal cloth cover.  This one held my parents’ wedding pictures, which I didn’t quite value at the time.  The photographs were black and white after all.  My favorites were an album with a cover that looked like basket weave, and one that had a slightly blurry close-up of white flowers on a background of leaves and stems. The photos were held down firmly on sticky pages underneath clear film.   Turning the pages was time travel—sometimes to moments remembered only in photos, others, to glimpses of events well-remembered. There’s one of a naughty two-year old me, try...

         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...

As our van drove up to the unofficial refugee camp, a group of children were already coming over to greet us.  “Hello!”  They practiced their new English with bright vowels.  “Nice to meet you!”    It was a beautiful spring day, and I was over the worst of the jet lag after traveling from Texas to Lebanon with a group of six others from my church.  On day four of our trip we had visited with Christians who were stretching themselves every day to serve refugees from their old enemy of Syria.  Now it was our turn to visit a camp and see it with our own eyes.  Fadil*, our guide for the morning, told us that we were invited by Nadia to visit her tent and talk with her.  The tent was one of hundreds and hundreds nestled close together just on the edge of town.  They were made of wood and covered with plastic, some covered with old billboard material—the walls of homes made from out-of-date advertising.  We took off our shoes an...