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Magic

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Something magic comes to life during the holidays, although not in the old ways. I remember one Christmas Eve, when I was a little girl. Before I went to sleep in my bed pushed up against the cold wall on the window side of the flat, I heard, in the snowy night outside that window, sleigh bells.

Or maybe it was Mom and Dad, preparing the scene for Christmas morning, when my little sister and my big brother Ronn and I would wake to the decorated tree in the front room, the colored bulbs lit, presents scattered underneath the tree. We waited for Dad to sit, cross-legged, in front of the tree, and one by one, he brought out the gifts and called our names. Dad enjoyed Christmas morning as much as we did, relishing his role as gift-giver.

There’d been magic the night before, also, when I recited my verse in the Christmas Eve pageant at the Evangelical Lutheran Church where I attended Sunday School . Magic, as all the little children recited their verses to a darkened sanctuary lit only by candles – real candles! – across the altar and hanging high on the walls at the side aisles. Magic! After Christmas Eve worship, each child received a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and we’d drive home, me sitting smugly in the back seat of my Dad’s ‘54 Chevy.

I wait for the magic now. Each Christmas, the magic seems to grow dimmer, but I still love the lights on the tree, and I listen to classical Christmas music, hearing the same songs again and again, without tiring of them. I have a few solemn rituals I follow; each season I watch “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” a beautiful depiction of Dylan Thomas’ remembrance of his Christmases past.

The magic lessens, with each year, it seems. Life in the Bay Area of California does not afford the cozy nights in a warm, warm house, the wind blowing cold off of Lake Michigan against the windows. Still, it is comforting to sit beside the Christmas tree – a presence of its own in the house – in the early dark evenings, the room lit only by the old-fashioned, multi-colored lights. 

And the season passes quickly, each day shorter than the next, each year flying by – where did the time go? I ask the question of myself as the generations before me must have asked the question, and those generations all gone now, a long time ago.

The cat and the Christmas tree, 12/2023  Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert
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“Don’t be so nosy…”

Mary Elyn Bahlert

In the days and weeks before Christmas, when I’m alone and at home, often sitting in front of the Christmas tree, I remember more vividly each person who, once a part of my life, is gone now. And small moments with each one of them seem to be replayed, over and over, in my mind.

Dad liked to have fun. He loved to laugh, and he loved to hear us laugh.

Every year, in the few days right before Christmas, Dad would head out to the Capitol Court Shopping Center – in those days, an outdoor shopping center, not the Malls of later years. He had thought ahead to what he would buy Mom for Christmas, and he headed straight for the place to shop.

By December, the evenings are already dark, and undoubtedly, were cold, in Wisconsin. And the houses – cozy. I can hear now my Dad’s footsteps coming up the back stairs, bringing the cold of the evening with him, and as he turned to the second floor landing, I hear his voice: “don’t be so nosy!” His arrival and his greeting meant that he carried under his arm that important package, the package that held his gift to Mom for Christmas. I can see his eyes, also, sparkling, as he came into the kitchen, saying again: “don’t be so nosy!”

Jeff likes to repeat those words now, every year. A few days ago, I sat in his large and interesting studio in the yard behind our house, and I noticed two holiday-wrapped boxes on the shelf next to the deer’s head. I looked at Jeff. Jeff looked at me: “don’t be so nosy!” he said. And we laughed, remembering.

Nature decorated: photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 11/2023

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Advent, waiting

Mary Elyn Bahlert

The liturgical season of Advent begins four weeks before Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It is always interesting to me that the scriptures for Advent mark events and people who were already present before the Birth of the Child. Advent itself is a more sombre time, as we “wait upon the Lord” to arrive as a child, a poor child, a child born in a manger, because there was no room for him and for Mary his mother and Joseph, her husband, in the inn. We’re reminded of refugees today, walking from their homes, walking to places unknown and probably unfriendly. We’re reminded of refugees today leaving the only place they know to wander, to hope – against hope – that somewhere, somewhere there will be a new life, a safe life.

I expect most folks know the Christmas story, the child, the Star, the Wise Men who traveled far to see this holy One. But Advent? We don’t care about Advent, that sombre season, that season of hope that hopes against hope. When I was a Pastor, it was clear to me that beginning in December, regular church-goers wanted to sing the Christmas Carols, to light the lights, to make Christmas cookies to share with one another. But Advent? There is no place for Advent in our lives, in our culture. We don’t want to wait to see what happens. We want what we want, now.

One Advent, Jeff and I visited together a monastery on the Pacific Coast, and there, among the monks, we heard the Advent scriptures chanted, the voices ringing out into the simple chapel, only a cross on the altar. The monks honored Advent. That was clear.

I tried as hard as I could in each parish I served, to wait until Christmas Eve to sing the Christmas carols, and to sing the Advent songs during the four weeks before Christmas. It didn’t work. I learned to be light hearted about it, as I stuck to the scriptures of Advent as my preaching texts.

In the early 1990’s, Jeff and I served for two years as co-pastors of a United Methodist congregation in Tracy, California. Beginning in December, the sanctuary was decorated with glistening stars and Christmas lights, lights hung along the walls, lights of all colors. And I found, in a little, unused room off the sanctuary, a creche, complete with animals, Mary, Joseph, a baby. And a crib for his bed, filled with straw from the manger.

And so the creche was placed carefully on the top of the piano at the front of the sanctuary. Every week, as I checked out the sanctuary for the coming Sunday, I walked past the piano with the simple creche on top. I noticed as soon as the manger scene appeared, that the baby was in the manger, center stage in the creche. And so I carefully picked up the child and placed him in the little room to the side of the sanctuary. Right inside the door, on a shelf, I placed the child. I knew I would not forget to place him in the manger right before the Christmas Eve service – right where he belonged! But not before! The scene was waiting for the arrival of the Child, as we wait for so many important things in our lives.

Early Sunday morning, the first Sunday of Advent, I walked into the sanctuary through the side door. As I entered, I was greeted with lights – the lights of many colors, like a Christmas tree – the lights on, and Christmas music – loud – coming from the speakers placed all over the sanctuary. And I was greeted by the sight of Pele and his son- our usher and his young son – sitting with smiles of joy on their faces, in the last row, nodding their heads to the beautiful Christmas music blaring over the speakers.

Seeing them made me happy to be there!

I was greeted also – by the presence of the Child, already in the Manger. We were still waiting – I thought! We were in the season of Advent, the Coming – not the arrived!!! So carefully, when I knew that Pele and his son were busy with other things, I moved the baby in the manger to the shelf in the little room to the side of the sanctuary.

I never said a word about it, but each Sunday, I found the babe again, in the manger, in the middle of the creche scene. Each Sunday, I carefully moved him out again, moved him out to arrive again on Christmas Eve. I never said a word about it, and no one else said a word, either.

A Christmas mystery. Certainly.

Our Advent calendar, 2023

memories, nostalgia, remembering, Uncategorized

Thanksgiving

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I love the holiday season, which begins with Thanksgiving Day. When I was pastor in downtown Oakland, the congregation marked the day of thanks by offering a wonderful, complete Thanksgiving Dinner to anyone in the community who wanted to join. Homeless folks, people who did not speak English, people without family or even friends, joined the day’s gathering to sit at a table and to be served by other grateful folks. For many years, that tradition became part of my personal Thanksgiving, as I looked out at the gathered people and said to myself, again and again: “these are my people!”

And Jeff and I mark the holiday every year now by arriving at Norman and Cheryl’s cottage on a hill in San Francisco, climbing the narrow stairs to the top of a hill, our arms filled with pies – our contribution! – and to sit at the long, narrow table filled with an assortment of Bahlert-related people every year. As the day progresses and the dusk and darkness come, families with little ones begin to gather their belongings and leave, with much ado. The tiny kitchen which produced the feast we’d all enjoyed is full of helpers bumping into each other, cleaning up, continuing the dinner-time conversation. And then – just like that! – we all descend the steps and walk to our cars on the quiet streets and drive home, mentioning to one another moments from the day, who had grown, who talked to who, how much older everyone is (except for us, of course!), and probably feeling a bit of sadness that another holiday has passed.

In the Midwest, the shorter days and long evening of dark and cold have begun by this time of year. There’s a sense of “cocooning” that we don’t know in the same way here in California. And missing now, also, is the childhood sense of a quiet and light filled season, beginning with Thanksgiving, that won’t end until after Epiphany, in January.

My mother honored the season of holidays each year by hosting Thanksgiving Dinner at our upper flat, and by creating for my sister Suzie and me a holiday tradition. In the 50’s and 60’s (of the last century), the holiday season did not officially begin until Thanksgiving. On the day after Thanksgiving, my mother and Suzie and I took the 23 bus from the North Side to downtown Milwaukee, now mysteriously decorated with lights and ribbons along Wisconsin Avenue, still a booming shopping district at the time.

We’d step off the bus at 3rd and Wisconsin to walk through the Boston Store, which anchored the downtown at that time. My mother held tightly to each one of us as we walked through the crowded store, the lights and music having followed us from the street into the store.

Then, we’d walk, first to the Wisconsin Electric Company, and then to the Gas Company, to take in the cookie displays at each one. My mother made sure that at each place, she was provided with 3 copies of the new cookie book published by each company each year. She loved to try new recipes, and she loved to re-create those that had been her favorites – or dad’s favorite, or mine, or Suzie’s. Unknown to me, she wrote notes as she baked: “a favorite,” “takes a bit less powdered sugar than called for,” “makes a big batch!”

I didn’t discover the notes until years later, when I had my own apartment in Green Bay, and when Mom presented me with the collection of cookbooks she’d saved, just for me.

I’m not a great baker, although the family in San Francisco allows me to bring pies as my contribution to Thanksgiving. My mother loved to bake: “that’s the fun of it,” she’d say. And I expect she envisioned some sort of future for me and for my sister, based on her own life. Neither of us grew to have quite that future, I expect; it was her dream for us, regardless. The year after I retired, I baked a few batches of cookies, looking for a new way to fashion my life after an adulthood of work, often in a “man’s world.” That’s the year I reached high onto the kitchen shelf reserved for our cookbooks, and retrieved the cookbooks Mom had saved so carefully for me. And that’s when I saw her notes, in her particular hand-writing, written with me in mind, written with the relationship between the two of us holding us together.