Bearing Gifts

The peri-pubescent 13 year old standing in a bathrobe. Head draped in a towel. A stringy piece of rope trying its best to hold it all together. The side of the refrigerator carton was horizontal, transformed into the silhouette of a camel. The Christmas Concert parents crammed into the darkened church-school basement hall, gawking with admiration at their precious little performing royalties. One third of the traveling kings was over-whelmed with freaking-out panic. Throat in paralysis. The solo of the king was so low it didn’t even exist. That king was incapable of bearing a gift. Be it gold. Be it frankincense. Be it myrrh. Or be it an emerging mystery deep within his very being.

The memories of “… over the bridge and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go …” The near insanity of the bearing of the gifts of commerce. Gifts of big toys. Gifts of puppy dog tails. Gifts to warm the body. Sometimes gifts to warm the soul. Gifts to tickle the sweet tooth. Gifts to weight the anchor-legacy of the hips. Gifts gaily wrapped with impeccable precision by the Martha’s of the world. Gifts haphazardly encased with the bulging paper and sticky tape of the gift-wrapping-challenged yet spiritually-astute Mary’s of the world. And the memory of a gift that was slowly becoming unwrapped.

The memories of a massive sanctuary. The combined choirs. The stressed soloists. The brilliance of the Casavant pipe organ. The thunderous dynamics of “Wonderful.” “Counselor,” “Prince of Peace,” “Like Sheep,” “Gone Astray,” Hallelujah,” “Trumpets Raging,” and that antiphonal chorus of “Hallelujah Amen.” The feeling of the vibrations of the sounds of the gifts, of the glory, of the inspiration, of the orgasmic power of the gift of “The Messiah” in whatever dimension one may be able to recognize and comprehend. And the bearing of a gift to humanity. And the gift to a college student that was terrible to bear.

And like the little child, angry with Santa Clause, because the expected gift did not make it down the chimney, the recipients of another special gift can be angry, frustrated, hurt, exasperated, bitter. The gift received was denied, stomped on, buried, hidden, cursed, shamed, damned, jammed into the closet with the crazy aunt – but unlike the crazy aunt that everyone knows is there and just ignores, this gift becomes brilliantly invisible. And for some, a gift impossible to bear.

But in time, what was brilliantly invisible becomes brilliant. Something changes. Be it space, or time, or circumstances, or society, or religions, or family or the laws of the institutions of the land. The spiritual and life journey moves on. And a gift becomes more bearable.

And for some, in the stillness of the season, the gift can be truly received. It no longer is bearing to bear the gift. Not only bearable, but recognizable for the value it truly is. No gold. No frankincense. No myrrh. But to be chosen by the Soul-Maker to be the fiduciary of a rare and special gift indeed.

And the ability to pray the words – “Thank You, for selecting me as a custodian of this precious gift.”

And hark to you angels and herald it to the world! “The gift given to me is the gift of gay.”

The Refectory Manager

Farina Wus

Farina is a wus . At least that is what my bombastic nemesis Steer E. O. Typical informed me. Mush! Without a theme! The palliative of the toothless of any age. Then to add to the injustice of insult, to disguise him as "Cream of Wheat." For heaven's sake. Caareeeeeeeeam of Wheat! Old Steer told me just to be honest. Call him "Qaueeeeeen of Wheat!" But then, that is to give wussy-mouse wheat a bad name.

So today I made manly cereal. Bold red box. Big lettering "RED RIVER." Little silhouette of an ox-cart. Like what real men drove. Manly accouterments of "100% Natural," "No Additives." "High in Fibre." And just how manly? Dump the raw cracked grain into cold water. Cold water mind out. Like what real men shave with. Then boil. Back off a little and simmer 10 more minutes. Or longer if you want it to stick to your ribs for a few more additional hours. While it simmers, be certain to mix it up with your straight razor a time or two. Cover. Let stand. Carve off a hunk and heap it up in a BIG bowl. Cover with top milk. You know. In the good old days when cream floated to the top of real milk. Top milk. Then proceed to chew. Chew. CHEW. Nutin' wus about this. Nutin' but cracked wheat. Cracked rye. And flax seeds. Stuff left over from what the goat wouldn't eat. Canadian goats that is. For this cereal is authentic Canuk. Where manly little dudleys do right with their bullwinkles.

Old Steer didn't have much good to say about the other wussy horse-feed stuff that comes in convenient little envelopes where you just pour a cup of hot water over it. What isn't used to re-attach the kitchen wallpaper can be called breakfast. Only this stuff has a theme. Pieces of dried up old downed apples. Bits of raisins. Ubiquitous cinnamon. And burrrowwwwwwn sugar. Oh the sugar. Wusses are soooooo sweeeeeeeet. And convenient. Is that what makes it a wus?

So I got to talkin' with old Steer about this wus business. Asked him, point blank? "What's a wus?"

And he weaseled around a little, hemmed and mumbled a bit, and finally burped it out of his beer belly, "Well, hell's if I know. I just knows it when I sees it."

"Oh. I see." I contemplate. "You got somethin' against 'em?"

"You're damn right I do! Abomination, I tell you. Sinners . . . dragging us all to hell."

"Ever think, my old friend Steer, you might be exaggerating just a bit? Like I told you before, a million times, quit exaggerating. Maybe that feared trip to hell is just a little over the top. Wusses been around a long time. World ain't ended yet."

Old Steer E. O. was working himself into his typical exasperation. Fluster, obfuscate, let his red neck turn red, hitch his britches, pick at his ass, and relapse into the platitudes of the gods, the guns, and the geys. "Wusses, the embodiment of evil. The rot that will destroy America."

"Oh. I see." I contemplate. "So, tell me. What do ya think of wheat?"

"What are you talkin' about?

"You know. Wheat. Those fields of waving golden grain. Those rock-hard little pellets that you can crack with your teeth, chew and make gum. The stuff that you can desiccate, then beat the hell out of and make bread. And rye? Ever hear of rye whiskey? And flax? Every seen a field of flax in bloom? Now that'll twist your manly knickers. Pretty pretty blue boy!"

"Got nuthin' to do with being a wus."

"Well, Old Steer E. O. It's like this. Fields of golden waving grain are just that. Golden waving grain. You know? Golden boy? And then different stuff happens. Some of it gets cracked into big pieces. Some gets milled into little pieces. Some gets cooked before it is dumped into the box. Some cooked when it comes out. The little golden boys of wheat coming out of that field of golden waving grain couldn't choose. Didn't choose. Cracked. Crushed. Milled. Desiccated. Cooked before. Cooked after. The perception of the wusiness of their fate is just that. Perception.

"Hell of a lot more than perception to me."

"Tell that to all the little dudleys doing right by their bullwinkles with a steaming bowl of Queen of Wheat."

The Refectory Manager