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February 25, 2008
The quiet
darkness is almost perfect. Dim light helps me guide my pen across
the yellow page while the faint tick-tock of a clock two rooms away
marks the passing moments of silence. At 4:30 a.m., the city still
sleeps, and I can hide in the darkness.
I breathe in the
silence. Time fills the space between my words as I write. Ink lays
down the mental wanderings of the early morning uninterrupted by the
more familiar clicks of the keyboard.
I savor the dark
morning, wanting to hold it still, a quiet reminder of God’s creation
uninterrupted by my schedule in a daytimer, unplugged from modern
invention.
This pause in
life is a remnant of Christmas past, my last gift from under the tree.
Come away with me, the Babe in the manger invited. And I
nodded. Yes.
Moving closer to
the manger, tucking the edge of the Babe’s blanket into the straw, the
room is warmed by the breath of humans and animals sharing the
morning’s miracle. The only lights outside burn in the sky, flickers
above the clouds, giving faint outline to the hint of a town, of
people, of landscape…a gift of peace.
There is only
one way for me to enter this peace. I must unplug.
So many layers
of Christmas celebration have been added to God’s gift. Shopping.
Christmas cards, with the annual family letter enclosed, a tree
wrapped in strings of lights, gingerbread houses, Mary and Joseph on
the front yard, plugged into a timer to go on & off with the up and
down of the sun.
Each holiday
tradition is a modern celebration of the Babe in the manger. But this
year, I needed more of less.
Finally, at the
base of the Christmas tree, wrapping up the season, putting
decorations back into their box, I began to unplug. I set boundaries
on the office in the next room. Whatever I am able to accomplish in
eight hours each day will be enough. Unfinished business will have to
sit unfinished…until tomorrow.
The computer,
the television…both unplugged. Daily duties and distractions are
quieted. But unplugging is revealed as a moment-by-moment process
that unfolds with each new task of the day. Like pulling petals from
a daisy…do I, don’t I…each action begins with a choice that is now
important.
Do I? Yes, I
must complete my trip to D.C., an airline ticket purchased last month
ties me to duty. But walking through the airport, do I or don’t I
forgo the moving sidewalk? Choosing my path on solid ground, a string
of people slides by on each side of me. I arrive at the gate two
minutes behind them, the price of unplugging, a minor two minute delay
that on its own is not worthy of notice. But unplugging is like
that.
Each modern
moment challenges me for its space in my life. The political season,
the Super Bowl, the church Bible study, a trip to visit children,
taxes to pay, birthdays to celebrate…unplugging is microscopic surgery
where every blood vessel must be carefully chosen and, if cut,
cauterized.
Two months after
boxing up the front lawn’s nativity, I mark my successes in these
quiet morning hours, scratching my pen across the page while the city
sleeps. This is the first writing I have done since the Babe invited
me into the manger. And it is more than symbolic that I have chosen a
yellow tablet over the laptop in my office, plugged in.
Unplugged,
creating space in life, making each action defend its significance,
there are no perfect choices. Do I…don’t I…type my scribbles, two
months late, into the first 2008 column for my website? If I don’t,
another worthy writer will fill the void. If I do, I will use
precious minutes – either gift or sacrifice or indulgence – a writer’s
continual struggle to identify the importance of what we do in the
manger next to the Babe who needs us still, long after the Christmas
boxes are back in the garage.
It began two
months ago, a decision to unplug from distractions and enter the
miracle. Do I…don’t I…on…or off…a question, a choice, unsettled and
unending.
The early
morning quiet still blankets me, the pen starts and stops, a choice
with each word…do I…don’t I?
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December 10, 2004
The Best Part of Snuggling
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