I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house.  Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post.  I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week.  We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that.  We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what.  Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to.  I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking.  The kids step up and carry the load I once did.  It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all.  What was it?

Oh, yes!  Now, my old brain catches up.  In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees.  The walnut tree, for one.  The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell.  We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next.  The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air.  It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain.  I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree.  Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun).  In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé.  The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny.  I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers.  They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
 Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world.  But, he did have the right idea about sins.  And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas.  The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns!  There will be pain—and stress.    Angry words will be spoken to salespeople.  Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so.  The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions.  And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven.  Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky.  The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting.  With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

 

“The people who sat in darkness
    have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
    a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

 

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season.  Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu