There’s a lot going on right now–wars and rumors of wars, not to mention the churning in my gut and the straining of my nerves. Our reality is shifting, sliding, changing. We are in the process of moving from our sweet island home. And while I am so blessed to spend this transitional time with my darling great aunt and uncle in South Carolina, I am still struggling to grapple with it all; I am straining to waltz rather than wrestle with all the newness.
The holiday sparkle is different this year, not gone, just different. All my ornaments are packed away in who-knows-which box. A bunch of them are lying on a Salvation Army store floor for 25 cents or so.
But even in the dull numbness of my heart, even in this white noise not yet pierced by Bing’s “White Christmas,” even in a world crumbling and shaking, afraid, pretending that it matters what a random celebrity did today–pretending it is all okay, Christmas matters.
It matters, perhaps, more than it ever did.
Decorating, baking, giving, these simple rituals when done for the King remind us that He came. This season of Advent causes us to remember yearning, that already-not-yet tension in which we live.
This year on Thanksgiving I watched the Macy’s parade for the first time in years. It did not disappoint. One of the Broadway acts was from “Fiddler on the Roof,” and we watched as they sang and danced to the music in a minor key.
The Jewish people are known for their music being in minor keys. It has been said that the minor key is the key of nature, such as the wind rustling the leaves or the trickling of springs, all the earth is singing to our Creator in a tone of soft groaning, of anticipation, of hopeful waiting.
So this Christmas and Advent season, as we wait with songs of joy, not for a baby, but a glorified King, let us remember that this celebration matters. Do not lose heart, my friends. Make some hot cocoa, turn on some tunes, and throw a party! Our Guest of Honor is coming back.
Dear Guam,
I am not the white girl who came and left. Please stop saying so; it is simply not true. Well, I am “white,” whatever that means. My genealogy is a quilted mess of British, Dutch, French, German, and Native American. In other words, I am full-blooded ‘Merican. And I did come--twice--to this island, and I left once before and am about to leave again. But I still resent this title.
We like to identify ourselves by our origins, by our homes. Typically we do not realize the mark our spaces left until we find ourselves separated from them. The influence of a place or people group is more apparent when they are gone and their absence juxtaposed with the current place and people.
I had no idea how much being a country girl from the Heartland/Midwest defined me until I plopped down in a new place. And I had no idea how much being a converted island girl defined me until I left the first time. So what happens when you are all of a sudden from different places? When you have homes on opposite sides of the globe, what then?
It is like third culture kids say, “We don’t really have a home.” The beauty of scattered love is always shadowed by displacement. And yet, being displaced, being uncomfortable, missing and being missed, we are constantly reminded: this is world is not our home.
Darling, sweet Guam, you have been a gift to me that goes far beyond salty air and crashing blue waves. God has used you to make me brave, to make me aware, to make me open. And I will miss you more than you can ever know. Most of the people stateside don’t know much about you. So, that is kind of lonely. But instead of waxing melancholy, I will just see myself in a kind of cool, elite club of those who did not just come and go, but those who came and will always be part Guamanian. Because, I will be.
I could make a long list of all your quirks and unique aspects. But for now, just know that I love you–-all thirty-five miles of packed cultural diversity and extremely humid air. You hold some of the most precious people in my life and some of my very best memories. Lord-willing, I will see you soon.
Thanks for everything,
Audrey Ann
Palm trees reflect off of my computer screen. They distract me from the page on which I should be writing, writing. But writing about what? It seems like everyone has something to say these days. Pithy statements are accompanied by striking photos, hashtags, and links back to personal websites. I, too, want to revel in this media-circle fame. Yet I simultaneously wrinkle my nose at the repugnant nature of it all.
The internet has become a dump of human thought and lack thereof, and social media a scattered collage of chosen phrases and photos to show our lives exactly the way we want them to appear. Sometimes the dishonesty gets to me. Once I was ranting to my husband on the subject of people making their lives appear perfect on Facebook and I was worried I was doing the same. He said, “What, do you want to put up a picture of yourself picking your nose?” Okay, okay. He brings me back to planet earth. And I knew he was right.
Truth is not always necessary to share with others. There are those mamas who tell vivid poo and nursing stories (and even bless us with photographic proof of their conundrums). There are those who tell us every emotion they experience in ten minute increments. Maybe honesty is not always the issue. I have this problem with being too hard on people–whether they are saying things I deem stupid, or portraying their lives in a way I deem too-good-to-be-true.
Social Media has never really been the issue. Sure, it is a dangerous tool. However, the real problem has always been me–comparing myself with others and getting frustrated that some seem to have their personal style and business branding all figured out, always have inspirational quotes to share, and seem to have loads of energy even after staying home with their six kids all day. Goodness, I have no children and still desire a nap from time to time!
Deep down I know the truth, anyway. All of my friends on Facebook are real people. Photos on Instagram are merely fractured pieces of real life being enjoyed. And I need to crush this aspect of my overly critical (masked by the word ‘analytical’) self. Social media should never be a fully and intimately accurate portrayal of my life…because then, my life would be all about social media, and I would not really have one.
So, hello. My name is Audrey Ann Sanders Masur. I have good days where I work out and am super productive, and I have days I eat donuts and cry about silly things. Please never think my life is perfect, but please know that it is blessed.
In the drab days, in the artistic days, in all of my days, I am blessed, for Jesus loves us. This I know. I hope you know it, too.
