Thanksgiving on Thursday—love it. Then Black Friday—what a horrible thought! The way-too-much-to-do usually begins the day after Thanksgiving. Or is the Christmas holiday stressful for only me?

Just making my list of gifts can wear me out, despite the fact one son-in-law never wants anything but a gift certificate. And most years rushing from store to store to purchase these gifts is a misery, with or without gale winds whipping icy snow into my face. And then, of course, those gifts I’ve toted home and hidden eventually have to be found and wrapped.

I wish the sweetness of gift giving didn’t seem like such a chore.

Then most Christmases Tony wants to make a batch of fudge. And, without question, he’ll whip up his extra special version of chocolate chip cookies.  And who has to clean up after him?

Once the kitchen is cleaned, wouldn’t it be nice to sit down and eat one of those cookies while we listen to the Christmas music I finally managed to load into the CD player? But there is no time for relaxation. There is a program, or concert, or party to attend. Grab a cookie, I say to Tony, we can eat it on the way.

But before most of this starts, there is the decorating. Without taking a gifts or aptitude test, I’m sure my gift is reading. If I have another, it might be writing. But, for sure, decorating for holidays isn’t. This involves a good many things, but, of course, the biggest deal is the tree.

The first wave of guilt comes when I think of the way it should be. Shouldn’t getting a tree require putting on layers of clothes, rattling down a dirt road in an old truck, trudging with laughing loved ones through the snow, selecting and sawing down a glorious pine, and dragging it home and placing it in just the perfect spot. At the very least it should involve driving something somewhere and selecting a tree you can smell-one of my sons-in-law insists on it. But Tony and I climb into the attic, find our tree in a storage box, and drop it to the garage floor with a thump. Still, by the time we deck it out with ornaments we love and plug in the twinkling lights, we have to admit it’s rather pretty.

Even though I don’t look forward very much to the whirlwind of decorating,  making of and eating tasty morsels, attending concerts and parties, and making a list and checking it twice, those things, for the organized, energetic, and celebratory, all wonderful aspects of Christmas.

But the Christmas carol we love doesn’t say:
O Come, let us “shop ‘til we drop!“ 
O Come, let us “put on the pounds!“
O Come, let us “run ourselves ragged!“
O Come, let us “pretty this place!“

No, Christians are invited to “come and adore him!“ Of all the things to do at Christmas, this is by far the most important; this is the reason for all the rest. But sometimes everything else crowds out adoration and worship.

That might change if we would pause and reflect on the magnificence of incarnation. I’d like to spend a few weeks doing that on this blog. I hope you’ll join me.

I mentioned last week that I sing my grandchildren to sleep, or did when they were younger. These days it happens only on special occasions and by request.

A contender with “In Moments Like These” is the song I began singing when I was working on a speech from the great blessing chapter of the Old Testament, Psalm 103. I leaned over in church this morning and whispered to my visiting granddaughter Mariah, “That’s the song I’m writing about next week!“

“Bless the Lord, O my Soul,“ it begins, “and all that is within me praise his holy name.“

“He has done great things,“ it continues, “he has done great things, he has done great things, bless his holy name.“

How much like the psalm it is. Surely it was taken from Psalm 103, which begins, “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not his benefits.“

So after I sang the chorus once and before I repeated it, I quietly listed the benefits I could remember from my study:

He forgives all my iniquities.
He heals all my diseases.
He redeems my life from the pit.
He crowns me with loving kindness and compassion.
He satisfies my years with good things!

“Sing it again, Ma,“ said Jake, nine years old at the time, “and be sure and say all those words.“

Yes, say all those words.

I was glad to. They are wonderful words. I wanted my grandchildren to think on them, to remember them, because the wise and grateful habit of “forgetting not his benefits” would make their lives quite good, even if the day should come when some things in their lives are not.

I have six grandchildren, and when they were young and stayed with their “Ma” and Papa, they liked for me to sing them to sleep.

My primary lullaby has always been “In Moments like These.“ The kids say they’ll gather around and sing it at my funeral. I’ll take their word for it.

One of my favorite memories is about the night I sang this song to eighteen-month old Avrie, whom I was rocking though she was already sound asleep. Oh well, I thought as I rocked the sleeping child, at least three-year-old Jake is enjoying it—I could hearing him humming along with me in the other room.

What was most memorable about that night and about that song, however, is what Avrie Ann did in her sleep when I came to this line in the verse: “In moments like these, I lift up my hands, I lift up my hands to the Lord.“

As I sang the line, she slowly lifted her little arm straight into the air, looking for all the world like a worship leader, raising his or her hand in a moment of ecstatic praise.

I sang that verse three or four times, just to see if she would do it again, and each time I sang the line, she lifted her arm from her sleeping side, held it high into the air, and left it there until I finished the line. This is something she had never done when she was awake.

She’s a beautiful thirteen now and laughed when I told her that story last weekend. Although they’re big kids now, I still sometimes sing that song when I check on them before they go to sleep, quietly, quickly: “In moments like these I sing out a song, I sing out a love song to Jesus.“

Well, what could be nicer than singing a love song to Jesus? The lines of the chorus are simple, repetitive and true: “Singing I love you, Lord. Singing I love you, Lord. Singing I love you, Lord. I love you.“

When I sang it as a lullaby, of course, I added a personal touch. I sang the chorus a second time and added the children’s names. “Singing Jake loves, you Lord.“ And I added a line for anyone else who was in listening distance and changed the last line to “We love you.“

Have I told my grandchildren that I want my last words on this earth to be, “I love you, Lord”? Surely I have. I suppose this is why I chose this song for their primary lullaby.

I say primary, because many nights I was persuaded to sing several choruses and hymns before they were satisfied, clearly ending the set with “Goodnight, Our God Is Watching O’er You.“

During a period when I was working on a speech from Psalm 103, I sang a song that became a regular when time permitted. I’ll tell you about that fine song next week.

I remember with joy a night, several years ago now, that my grandson Sam spent the night with his papa and me. I remember it because when I tucked him in, he prayed like an angel.

This was so memorable because when Leanne began teaching him to pray at the age of two or three, he’d kneel by his bed and utter one quick sentence before looking up at her and asking, “Is that enough?“

Leanne is also striving to teach Sam obedience.

One night when he was not yet three, she endeavored to put pajamas on him. I say endeavored because he kept crawling away from her, scooting across the bed to the far wall. When Leanne grabbed his ankles and pulled him back, he scampered away again. She pulled him back again; he escaped again.

Finally in exasperation she said, “Sammy, if you don’t get back here and let me put these pajamas on you, I’m going to have to spank you.“

She couldn’t believe it when he turned around, looked her in the eyes, and said, “Go foe it!“

Disobedience in a two year old is not a pretty sight. It’s not a pretty sight in God’s people either.

Hebrews 3 reminds Christians that the Israelites didn’t enter the Promised Land, because they didn’t believe God, didn’t obey him. In this chapter belief and obedience seem to be one and the same. It is important that we don’t “fall by following their example of disobedience.“
Nothing can keep us from unbelief and the disobedience that is a sign of it more than the “living and active” word of God. To be full of belief and inclined to obedience, we need to let God’s word “dwell richly” in us.

Hebrews says nothing is hidden from God’s sight. He sees us. He knows our hearts. Those with believing, obedient hearts will enter his rest.

So Leanne will continue to “go foe it.“ Both of my daughters are striving to teach their children what we tried so hard to teach them: that God desires obedience more than sacrifice (I Sam.15: 22) and that obeying such a loving God leads to abundant life here on earth and everlasting life with him in a place he is preparing for us.

I wonder if that’s why being around these grandchildren, growing up so quickly, is such a delight?

In a response to a facebook comment a few weeks ago, I said that I don’t have a special number, like my daughter who was seven on 7/7/77, like my brother who celebrated a very important birthday on 09/09/09.

A student kindly reminded me that I do, in fact, have a very special number, which I mentioned more than once during my years of teaching. That’s true. I’ve mentioned it in classes and in speeches I’ve given. How could I forget?

The number? 11:11.

Many years ago, I looked at a digital clock, and that’s what it said: 11:11. After that, it seems like every time I looked at the clock it said 11:11.

I mean, if it were a Monday and I was home taking my sweet time getting around in the morning, and if I eventually got in the shower, finally got out again, wrapped my hair in a towel and myself in a robe, padded into the kitchen to pour myself a Diet Coke, leaned against the counter enjoying such luxury, and glanced over at the clock on the microwave, it would be 11:11.

Over and over it happened. Many times I’ve worked in my study while Tony watched the late news in the bedroom and fell asleep. Finally, I’ve put away my things, gone in and taken the remote out of his sweet hand, turned off the TV and his light, gone into the bathroom and taken off what was left of my makeup, crawled into bed beside him, fluffed up a pillow and turned it to the cold side, sunk into it, stretched, thanked God I was in bed, rolled over—and noticed the clock said 11:11.

I probably can’t make you understand how bizarre it has been at time. One year, for example, I was teaching my English Literature class using my Norton Anthology Major Authors, 4th edition. This was a problem, because my students had the fifth. Then one day half way through the semester, I found my 5th edition and took it to class for the first time. I was so excited because we would actually be, the class and I, on the same page (at least literally). When I turned to the poem we were studying that day (the book has over 2500 pages), it was on page 1,111.

I wish I’d kept a record of the various and sometimes astounding times the number has visited me.

A few years ago I told my colleague Rex Wolfe about this phenomenon, and we decided that it might mean that I’m going to die at 11:11.

Still teaching at the time, we also decided it would probably happen on Nov. 11th, at 1111 North Main, the college address, probably during class at 11:11 in the morning. We imagined my precious students stepping over me, thrilled to get out early.

But the thought that that’s when I might die does not bother me in the least. In fact, it has brought me great comfort; it has seemed a reminder from the halls of heaven. If that’s when I’m going to die, then that’s also when, oh greatest of mysteries, I’m going to be with God. Faith will be made sight, wandering, however lovely it has sometimes been, finally over. I’ll be home, really home.

So whenever I see 11:11, I smile and think, “Soon.“

I guess I have a pretty special number after all.