Author: Tamara Belanger (Page 1 of 73)

I decided to write out the Bible in this next year by hand. I’d heard of a man who did that, not even a believer in God. If he could do it, so could I. so I started today. I realize it’s not January yet but I also realize how a promise made in the heat of inspiration in late December might not make it to fruition on January 1. Besides, starting the year feeling ahead can’t hurt.

Hand writing something is like being the driver of a car. When you are a passenger you don’t pay as close attention to how you get somewhere; but when you drive….you feel the twists and turns under your hands on the wheel. The words began to form on the page as I looped my pen around the letters made. “In the beginning, God….” How many times, I mused, must those words get read in any given January as so many people resolve to read the “good book”. And how many still, I further wondered, make it to the book of Numbers before they spin out and end up on the side of the road marked “Unsustainable”.

I chose the Chronological Bible in order to stave off the monotony of the whole book of Deuteronomy. There are a collection of varied passages from different parts of the Bible for each day and, depending on the order in which they occurred in real time, are grouped together for that days’ reading. As the words on my page mounted up, the words original seemed to add to themselves. Was I making any sort of progress? And then I got to the “animally” part where God made all the creatures and I read this sentence.  “And I have given every green plant as food for all the wild animals, the birds in the sky, and the small animals that scurry along the ground—”. He not only said it once but twice!……”the small animals that scurry“. All I could picture were those little folksy woodland animal prints I’ve seen on stationary, stickers and children’s books. I read it over several times and even when I’d made myself move on, I’d sneak back over the words and read it again. I was captivated that God made the small animals and put in the detail that they scurried. And, after the giant whales and massive behemoths with their impressive sight and sound all stomping and splashing, which must have been so fun to create, He threw in a few sprinkles of the scurried kind.

The way it was written sounded playful, God reaching down and scratching their little furry bellies, roughing up their hair with a little holy noogie. It’s really the first time I’d ever pictured God laughing. It’s not really a face I see but more of a warm light and airy breeze making the Aspen leaves clap together like a pleased audience. Earlier this week I turned to the woman sitting beside me in church going through a slap in the face rejection. “You know what the Bible says about you?” I asked her. “God will delight over you with joy, quiet you with His love and dance over you with joy and singing.” I can’t wait to tell her about the scurried sprinkles!

The more I pondered as I wrote out the words, the more I thought about the days that can be long, lonely, full of fear, paralyzed with pain, decisions to be made, ; when little woodland animals offer no answers, no bags of money or medicine. The thing is, He made them scurry. And saw that it was good. It says that about you also. He made you, took joy in that….and saw that it was good. He still does.

My hand grew tired, my head got swimmy but I said I would complete todays’ passage by 4 p.m. and so slog forward, I must. At 3:57, I put the period on the end of the last sentence for today’s passage…. and scurried off.

I got up early this morning, partly because I always do, partly because I had a cream cheese coffee cake to make at my sons’ request. I made it the first time after finding the recipe in a magazine I was reading while he took a nap in the little bed beside me. He was three months old, I was a new mom and this was our first Christmas together. It was a few years before Caleb wanted to try anything with cream cheese in it but eventually his taste changed, kids were added, and one coffee cake turned into two. I have made one (or two) ever since and now kids from afar are making their own. It’s funny how traditions sometimes happen accidentally; how they give cadence to how things play out year after year.

Years went by, the pattern repeated, the fabric sewn into a favorite menu with each person’s choice for a side, the grandparents on Christmas Eve, the wrapping paper picked up after opening dreams come true and fed to the fireplace, satisfied kids gone asleep happy, another Christmas rolled into the new year.

And then one year I found myself alone, a parenting plan to consider, the awkwardness of trying to form new “traditions” that I somehow knew would never really “take” the same. It would be different forever. I would learn the conscious choice of learning to be content in whatever circumstances I found myself in. It rubbed places raw in my heart sometimes. It grew new leaves in other places. And the Christmases rolled into new years, just as before. I was surprised to be breathing still, to be celebrating still, to feel joy in the middle of pain still.

This morning the car was carrying chosen presents. I was heading down the road, the same path my parents used to take to us, to the same old farmhouse my son now owns, making a life for himself. It was still dark outside, the car seats creaking in the early morning chill, the neighbors houses still sleeping. There were just a few cars keeping company on the road. The day hadn’t been unwrapped yet. As the road rolled under me, Christmas music playing softly through the radio, I replayed the years over and a smiled settled inside of me, deeper than just on my face. My heart was at peace. My kids, in their various lives, had found joy of their own. I am proud of them for that. I am thankful to my Rescuer for making all things new, for giving me grace and a life I don’t deserve and didn’t see coming in the hardest places.

My grandson greeted me at the door, showing me all he’d received…so far….;my sons’ special person gave me a hug and words in a card that filled my eyes with happy tears and my nose with happy snot. My son had taken a broken wooden canister from my apartment and researched its history (1950’s Japanese!) , sanded it down and stained it and carefully repainted the design over the original. Nothing is more perfect to me than a gift like that. He invested time and enjoyed doing it for me.

I drove back home this afternoon, thinking about the years when Christmas felt like standing on tiptoe to breathe above the broken. I have found restoration and, as I sat the wooden box my son made new on my kitchen table, I took a deep breath. My lungs filled with air and I looked out the window above it. It’s a mighty fine Christmas. It’s a mighty fine life. <3