Godsends

Following yesterday's post about taking necessary measures to ensure the overall health of a primary caregiver, I wish to backtrack even farther to two (almost three now) Sundays ago.  St. Paul is writing to the Corinthians, explaining the source of his strength in spite of some uphill battles he's fighting.  That source is the Lord's grace. 

"...My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness."

--2 Cor 12:9

Were I to tally the number of times I felt unequal to the task of caring for four closely-spaced children, I think the number might be astronomical.  However could I, one person with two hands, meet all the simultaneous needs when flying solo?  Even trusting that the Lord wouldn't allow for circumstances that he and I couldn't handle together, the plain truth remains that I haven't grown any more limbs along with the multiple children to corral and hold, though I did have recourse to a third arm for a long time when each of our bambini was an infant. Plenty of times I considered it a Godsend.

As much as I may want to be everything to everyone, that's not realistic -- or even reasonable.  I'm just one person -- a sinful, imperfect one at that.  The young lives entrusted to my care need much more than I as one person can give them, but the Lord knows that and -- I trust -- makes up the difference between my hard-working best effort toward meeting the various needs and completing the fulfillment of those needs by his many conduits of grace. 

When I step back to take a long view, I am reminded that many people who the world would consider "weak" have accomplished amazing things by God's grace.  I'm not trying to be counted among them, but I do draw a lot of inspiration and reassurance from knowing that such has been the case.  May it be so in our circumstances as well.

While it may seem lofty, naïve, or flat-out foolish to believe that the strength I need to fulfill my God-given duties would come in the form of some nebulous and invisible Grace (big "G"), I've experienced it myself, I've seen it in action, and that's enough for me.

the pause that refreshes

Backtracking a little, the Gospel reading this past Sunday is resonating with me several days later. Jesus and his disciples try to take some downtime, only to be met with people in need of their ministry and mercy.  The opportunity to fill in for an absent pianist was in itself just such a retreat from my everyday circumstances for a little while.  Afterward I felt refreshed and ready to dive back into the busy-ness and emotionally demanding work of caring for my four young children (if also a little sheepish about the mistakes that characterize some "rusty" piano playing -- the bambini couldn't care less about those).

How often does it happen to parents who try to take a moment's retreat before reengaging back into the challenging work of ministering to their children that something comes up preventing the parents from taking that time for the purpose of renewing what might be lagging spirits?  In my own experience, it's plenty of times.  I know I'm not the only one to face this.  In the Gospel, Jesus and his disciples are moved with pity for the people who meet them at what is supposed to be their resting place, and those in need are cared for and taught with compassion.  While I do my best, I can't say I'm always as gracious when this scene plays out in my own realm.  We can't give what we don't have. 

It's my nature to keep pushing through fatigue and similar symptoms, but the risk of burnout is great.  The effects of that aren't at all the kind of legacy I want to leave with my children.  While the extraction process for Mama to depart and go do something else for a while, such as play the piano at church or visit with friends or pursue some other hobby lately relegated to the back burner (or cooling rack, as it were, not even simmering anymore) can be fraught with emotion, it's getting easier for me to get out the door and do a few things such as these every once in a while.  The bambini have come to relish their days at "camp" with Grandmare or their time spent at home with Daddy-o while I am out for a little while.  This is a great relief to everyone, as it should be.  I hoped this would eventually be the case, and it often is. 

Sometimes I think I stay a little too close to home, but as the heart of ours, I am happy to be here.  Still, everyone needs a break now and then.  As I get a little more mothering under my belt, I find myself better able to articulate the legitimate need for a change of scenery, a little breathing room, and some time to regroup.  When a rejuvenated Mama returns, everyone is the better for it.

testing

Just as in today's first reading, God put Abraham to the test by asking Abraham to sacrifice his only son Isaac (but stopping him before he did so), each of us is daily undergoing some sort of test.  He gives us free will to decide how we will rise to the challenge.  God being all-knowing, the outcome will be no surprise to him. 

In his homily today, the pastor of our parish made an insight I hadn't thought of but can apply to many situations.  He posited that God didn't test Abraham in order for Abraham to prove his faith in God to God, as the Lord already knew the depth of Abraham's faith.  Rather, the test was for Abraham to see how strong his faith in God was for himself. 

There come to mind heart-breaking situations of families losing loved ones -- babies, parents, siblings, and friends.  I will not presume to think I understand the depth of their sorrow.  I do hope and pray that, in spite of that sorrow, they are able to draw peace and strength from their faith in God that their loved ones are at rest in the perpetual light of heaven and will someday greet those still living when they arrive at the end of their own earthly lives.

The testing of one's faith doesn't come only by way of losing loved ones.  In our fallen world we each are confronted with things that challenge and even shake our faith in the one true God who loves and wants each of us to spend eternity with him.

Each of us has a different hand to play, so to speak.  We can not know the internal struggles the people in our midst are battling.  I pray that by the grace of God, we will each realize ourselves to be stronger than we think we are in the faith we have in him.

real (if invisible). not imagined.

Our almost four-year-old younger lad tends toward the thinker/dreamer type.   Several weeks back he let me know that when he and his brother die, they will be imaginary.  I'm pretty sure my response in real time was a mixture of befuddlement and surprise, what with the din of the Wii in the background and all.  I think I said something like, "well, when you die -- as every person does -- your soul will -- we pray -- be in heaven with God.  You won't need your body anymore, but your soul will live on."  He wondered aloud what a soul was, but he wasn't really looking for an explanation beyond "the part of you that makes you *you* that God made to be with him forever" and changed the subject. 

We've attended two funerals for aunts in our extended family in the past couple of weeks.  I don't think I ever met the aunt for whom last week's funeral Mass was offered, but we went because she was family, and because it was Mass, and because there are fewer (if any) more worthwhile, constructive ventures than praying for each other -- especially for the souls of those who have passed from this life into the next. 

Except, going to Mass with young children isn't always a prayerful experience, as this example illustrates, but this position statement rationalizes.  That's alright.  

I thought of the lad's comment many times of the course of these two family gatherings, always intending to write about it here but not having taken the time to do so until today.  It being Ash Wednesday makes the timing seem appropriate somehow.  I digress...

Along with all the reasons I gave for our attendance, my beloved and I thought it was also important that our children be present at the funerals (the elder lad was in school the day of the second one, but the three littler littles were there) to help solidify the understanding, belief, and hope we have in the everlasting life Christ offers us.  The funeral liturgy is a beautiful aid in that endeavor and, in my personal experience, a great solace for those who are grieving.

The Scripture readings and prayers that comprise a Catholic funeral liturgy are by turns an acknowledgment of the sorrow we feel for the loss of our loved one, an expression of the joy we have by faith that that person is now with God, and a way for us to pray for the forgiveness of any sins our loved ones may have committed while in this life so that he or she may be cleansed of those and enter into eternal life.   It is (usually) Mass as we are accustomed to, with a few added elements pertaining to the person whose soul we are praying for.

Death is never an easy subject of conversation, but that doesn't mean we don't discuss it with our children (even if we might inwardly shudder at the prospect of being separated from each other by death).  They are usually the ones to bring it up, so we try to answer their questions simply and honestly. They know every living thing is created by God and eventually dies, and that just as each of us is born, so too will each of us die someday.  We don't know when but don't expect it to be soon, though we strive to live each day as the gift that it is. And though we don't always understand or find it easy to bid someone we love farewell, we hope that we will see them again someday and trust in God's care for that person until we do, even though we can't see him or her anymore. We believe they live on -- for real. 

Here we are at the beginning of Lent, the time of preparation for Easter when we ask God to create clean hearts in us, and to illumine the shadows in our hearts that keep us from him.  The culmination of this penitential season leads to Good Friday, the day of the Lord's passion and death, followed by his glorious resurrection on Easter.

There is nothing imaginary about the sacrifice of Christ for our salvation.  It's a weighty subject for anyone to deal with, but it's something we as a family will enter into together, so that come Easter morning we will have walked with Christ through death to new life.

keepin' it real

Yes, that was my precious girl letting the faithful gathered for school Mass that "I want the PURPLE bow!"  She also wanted to know if we could "go now" and "have a snack in the car?"

"Soon," I told her in a stage whisper. 

On the bright side, no kneelers were dropped on anyone's shins or toes (though the lass did trip on a kneeler as we exited our pew to go to Communion and wanted to be carried the rest of the way).  The younger lad didn't attempt to slither out into the aisle from our pew (as he is sometimes given to do).  The baby girl registered some squawks as punctuation, but saved the yelling for later in the day when her brother the younger was all up in her face (understandably).  I caught a glimpse of the elder lad with his Bon Jovi hair sitting with his class (and looking the other way), but we made a hasty exit after Mass and thus didn't see him again until pick-up time.

So we made a minor scene today, but that's how it goes sometimes.   It's all part of learning how to behave in church just as anywhere else.  Little children have as much a place in church as adults do.

For the most part, the bambini did just fine. The color commentary (or "signs of life", as the associate pastor who presided at Mass this morning described them) often have impeccable, terrible, or simply comedic timing.  But they're are all a part of keepin' it real.  God willing, we'll be back next week.

God calling

The pastor emeritus of the parish I served as director of music and liturgy in my former life rang me on the telephone this afternoon.  He called to wish me early felicitations for the feast of St. Polycarp, a saint this pastor holds in high esteem who the Church remembers in a special way tomorrow (February 23rd).  Come to think of it, he calls me every year on February 22nd, I think to make sure I remember that tomorrow is his favorite saint's feast day, but mainly to capitalize on an opportunity for a quick hello and aural snapshot of how we're doing here now that I don't see him in the church office on a daily basis.

It might as well have been God himself calling me this afternoon speaking through the voice of this Irish Catholic priest who has long and often affirmed mothers tending to their young children.  He never fails to offer concrete words of encouragement such as "it's important work you're doing," or recognize the intensity of our experiences -- albeit in a lighthearted way such as good-naturedly teasing a mother in a grocery store with multiple children in and hanging off of the shopping cart by asking her what she does in her spare time. His timing was impeccable today, as we were in the throes of Happy Hour here.  The pick-me-up was much needed and appreciated. 

My friend the St. Polycarp fan was instrumental to my having a profession as a liturgical musician before my vocation of marriage led me to motherhood (as he was the pastor of that parish when it instituted the full time position I held for a few years), and he's instrumental now in my living out this vocation of marriage and motherhood.  Having served Christ in untold numbers of faces over the years in various pastoral capacities and still now in retirement, this man of God brings Christ to those who seek him and those who might otherwise not be looking for him, simply by encouraging us in our daily doings with uplifting words and sometimes ornery humor.  God love him.

The Summons

There were so many signs of God's grace present at our littler lass's baptism yesterday, from the family and friends who celebrated with us to the music at the Mass.  Before Mass began and again at the preparation of the gifts, we heard John Bell's  The Summons, a song that resonates deeply with us as it was the processional at our wedding a little over six years ago.

While it is beautiful and moving in any instrumentation and voicing, it was simply awesome presented as it was at our wedding with my college music theory professor -- a mentor and friend -- in command of the massive organ and a dear friend and fellow liturgical musician serving as cantor for the wedding Mass leading the congregation in singing.

I have often pondered the text of this song, every time finding something different that speaks to me in that moment.    Yesterday, it was this verse that spoke to me, both as a mother and about the commitment we have made on her behalf and hope that she will one day take ownership of:

Will you come and follow me
If I but call your name?
Will you go where you don’t know
And never be the same?
Will you let my love be shown,
Will you let my name be known,
Will you let my life be grown
In you and you in me?

At our wedding, the lengthy procession included altar servers, several priests, our wedding party of relatives and friends as close as family, our parents, and us.   My beloved and I processed in together as ministers of the sacrament of marriage together following our parents.

The music filled the church and the procession began.  My beloved and I waited, though, until the final verse:

Lord, your summons echoes true
When you but call my name.
Let me turn and follow you
And never be the same.
In your company I’ll go
Where your love and footsteps show.
Thus I’ll move and live and grow
In you and you in me.

The challenge is as pertinent today -- if not more so -- than it was that morning we married.  

graced and gifted

We returned to the parish where I worked as music and liturgy director before motherhood for the Confirmation of my elder lad's Godmother's 17-year-old younger lad.  The presence of the Holy Spirit was keenly felt in the reverent, relevant liturgy as these young people took ownership of their faith. 

It's been five years since I departed that post, and every time we've been back to visit it's startling to me seeing how the kids I remember as little like my own are now have grown into adolescents and young adults.  I'm sure it will likewise be the case for my own children -- before I know it, they'll be "big kids" like the ones I saw last night.

That parish community will always have a special place in my heart.  They were very gracious to me as a young single gal with a decent amount of musical experience and an aptitude for the liturgical side of things, but lacking in experience serving a parish in this capacity.  I owe them so much for their kindness and willingness to bear work with me.  For their warm welcome and the sense of belonging we feel whenever we return, I will always be grateful.

As they move forward, I pray these Confirmandi (the newly Confirmed) will always be mindful of the gifts and fruits with which they've been sealed in this Sacrament, this visible sign of God-given Grace, and draw upon these to become the people Christ calls them to be.

Easter anticipation

While I might have been a bit uncertain of myself on Holy Thursday, I awoke this morning with great joy that Easter is upon us.  At this late hour I am filled with hope and excitement that we have arrived at long last at the night in which

"Jesus Christ broke the chains of death
and rose triumphant from the grave."*
* From the Exultet, proclaimed at the Easter Vigil after the lighting of the new Paschal Candle which burns throughout the Easter season and at every baptism (among other times) in the year to come.

Now's about the time people who have gone to the Easter Vigil, including those who have come into the Catholic Church, might be returning home or celebrating with their fellow faithful at a reception in the church parish hall.  We didn't go to the Easter Vigil this year, as it begins after the bambini's bedtime and is a long -- breathtakingly beautiful -- liturgy filled with prayer, music, flowers, rejoicing ... all the best efforts of all those who gather to celebrate.

We spent this beautiful Holy Saturday with my parents and sister.  It was a lovely little getaway for us, highlighted by lots of fun outside and an emphatic "this is so fun!" from the elder lad as he hunted for the eggs his auntie had hidden for him and his siblings.

As we begin our Easter celebration -- one that the Church celebrates for 50 days, and every Sunday of the year -- I reflect back on our Lenten journey, grateful for the blessings it brought to light, grateful for the renewal and opportunities for repentance it offered, and grateful for the grace that propels us forward to (by that same grace) maintain this deepened connection with Christ every day henceforth. 

I think the best closing comes from the Exultet again:

"May the morning Star which never sets find this flame still burning:
Christ, that Morning Star, who came back from the dead,
and shed his peaceful light on all mankind,
your Son who lives and reigns for ever and ever."

Amen.  Alleluia!

Liturgy of the Hours -- for mamas

When I was working at the parish, I made it a priority to arrive before work in time to attend daily Mass and Morning Prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours (or Divine Office), the Church's prayer throughout the day.  I am remiss in keeping up with this habitual prayer, but today I ran across this piece by Catholic wife, mother, and author Danielle Bean.  It really speaks to me at this particular juncture.

I pray for the grace to be present at every moment of every day, to recognize the presence of Christ in my beloved and my children, and the fleeting time we have in this tender season together.

Mass with bambini

We Catholics call our communal worship service "Mass" or the Sacred Liturgy*.   It's offered every day of the year except Good Friday and Holy Saturday (until the Easter Vigil begins, in many places after sundown on Holy Saturday).  We go weekly, though I love to go to daily Mass whenever I can (which isn't often these days).

For me, Mass has long been a source of great spiritual sustenance and strength.  I try to keep up with the daily readings at home, though doing so with greater regularity should be one of my New Year's resolutions.  The readings are the first part of Mass, followed by the Eucharist -- what we believe to be Jesus's body and blood in the form of consecrated bread and wine. 

This is one of the central tenets of our faith, one we strive to impart to our children through our faithful attendance of Mass and the living of the Gospel day in and day out.  When we go to Mass each weekend, we go to worship God the Father, His son Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.  If we are open to it, we stand to receive a multitude of grace and blessings, but this is not the primary reason for going.  That would be to worship God -- the One who has created each of us and placed each of us in our particular circumstances, whatever they may be.

Realizing this puts things in perspective when children are fussy or otherwise not as attentive to the goings on at Mass as we expect them to be.  It can be, we do understand, difficult for young children to sit through an hour-long Mass, but it is nonetheless important for them to be there along with us.  They are as much a part of the community as anyone else.

Setting them up for success in Mass goes a long way for everyone's sake.  Here are some of the things we try to do:

• make sure they're fed.  We usually go to 8am Sunday Mass, which leaves little time for dawdling beforehand, but we get them up in time to feed them something (here's where I reiterate my public service announcement about protein, too.).  Blood sugar levels on even keels go long ways in helping everyone have a good experience at Mass.
• pack some age-appropriate church-related reading material and quiet toys for the littlest ones, and make use of children's missals for those who are starting to (or can already) read
  
• point out things around the church, as well as quietly offer brief explanations of what's going on during Mass
• make our expectations clear for their behavior before walking through the door
• commend them on their attentiveness, respectfulness, and reverence when appropriate

Now that my elder lad is starting to read, I often have the hymnal or missal (which contains the texts of the readings and prayers) open and trace the words with my finger so he can follow along.  He is participating in Mass more each week, saying the Creed and other communal prayers, singing the Gloria, and listening to the readings and homily with keen interest.  Seeing him participate makes my Mass experience so much richer.  The greatest gift we can give our children is faith in the God who created each one of them and has a plan for each one of their lives.  To see him beginning to develop his own faith life gladdens my heart profoundly. 

Of course, things don't always go smoothly.  When one of them is really struggling, we excuse ourselves to regroup, but then we return to the pew for the remainder of Mass.  We don't expect complete silence and total stillness for an hour from these young children, and most of the time they are able to conduct themselves with reasonable decorum.  All the same, there is usually a fair amount of shuffling around from lap to lap, rummaging through the aforementioned bag of "amusements," and general whispering and whatnot.  These come with the territory, and from what I understand (and hope to be true) are not generally disruptive to other people as they create a sort of white noise rather than disturbances. This kind of stuff does distract Mama and Daddy, though, and we don't always catch the readings or homily in their entirety.  Sometimes we might even miss the Eucharistic Prayer if we're out placating a child or changing a diaper.  But we always come back for Communion -- the reception of Jesus in the Eucharist.  This is the whole reason for being there. 

Christ deserves our attentiveness and devotion.  He also knows each of our circumstances and realities and is present within them.  The grace we receive in the Eucharist is His gift to us -- noisy children and shuffling of their books and all.   Even if I feel like I've missed most or all of the Mass, reception of the Eucharist makes up for everything. 

Following Communion I offer this:

"Lord I pray You will strengthen me by Your presence within me to do Your will, and to be the person Uou call me to be for the people You place in my midst..."

*The Catholic Encyclopedia (OSV) states:

 The purpose of liturgy is diverse. First and foremost, it is to give glory and honor to God through prayer. Second, it is to build up the faith of the people. Third, it is to teach and instruct the faithful in the meaning of Christ’s word through the sacred mysteries.  Liturgy is not simply an intellectual act but an act of the whole person. The intellect, senses, and emotions are involved.

For further reading, check out What You Need to Know: Mass (The Sacred Liturgy).

great expectations

When I was a novice music director planning the first Christmas liturgies of my service, I selected Marty Haugen's ebullient "Awake, Awake, and Greet the New Morn" as the opening song of the Christmas Day liturgy.*

"Awake, awake, and greet the new morn,

For angels herald its dawning,

Sing out your joy, for now he is born,

Behold! the Child of our longing.

Come as a baby weak and poor,

To bring all hearts together,

He opens wide the heav'n-ly door

And lives now inside us for ever."

Festive, yes, and fitting, sure -- but not "O Come, All Ye Faithful" or "Joy to the World" or some other such bulwark of the Christmas carol repertoire as some might have been expecting.  I was known for introducing a lot of new music to the parish, and Christmas was no exception.

Each of us has our own set of expectations when it comes to such things as major holidays like Christmas.  They are built on tradition, the memories of our childhood, the hopes we have for how we'd like to celebrate in the future, and (at least) what we think the people we plan to celebrate with expect of the holidays.  But what happens when it all turns out differently?

The final two weeks of Advent passed in a blur for our family.  Our lad who seemed so fragile was for good reason.  He was diagnosed with pneumonia, then a week later turned up with an allergic reaction to the antibiotic prescribed to treat the pneumonia.  Before that latter revelation, we were contending with breathing treatments and medicine and such.  This left little time or energy left for fully entering into the Christmas mystery -- at least, in the way I thought I should have.

With Christmas Eve came a blizzard -- an anomaly for our region of the country.  Its arrival meant no family coming over to spend Christmas Eve with us or us going to visit other family on Christmas Day as we had planned, treacherous travel conditions for those who did venture this way, and no outing to Mass -- the centerpiece of our entire Christmas celebration.

Now the weather conditions are improving, and family is on the way to celebrate with us.  May our tidings be festive, joyful, and grateful for the blessings of family, the restoration of good health for our young lad, and most of all for the gift of redemption that comes with the arrival of the Christ child.

Christ enters into our reality knowing full well what it is, and wanting to be a part of it.  Our desire to be still and listen and make every little detail perfect is itself a gift from God -- a stirring of our devotion and faith.  But he knows our particular circumstances -- chaotic and stressful and exhausting though they may be -- and embraces us and them.  Even when we can't come to him, he comes to us.

I don't remember if we got to this fourth verse of the carol that Christmas morning with the obscure music (there *were* other, more familiar selections that morning), but it certainly seems fitting this year:

"Rejoice, rejoice, take heart in the night,

Though dark the winter and cheerless,

The rising sun shall crown you with light,

Be strong and loving and fearless;

Love be our song and love our prayer,

And love, our endless story,

May God fill ev'ry day we share,

And bring us at last into glory."

*In our Catholic tradition, there are several Masses celebrating Christmas beginning on Christmas Eve, including the vigil Mass on Christmas Eve, Mass at Midnight, and Mass during the Day on Christmas Day.

back on the bench

A few weeks ago, the music director for the Catholic parish to which we belonged before moving to bigger digs in a different area of town to accommodate our growing family asked me to substitute for the organist at one of this weekend's Masses.  I agreed with some trepidation, because I just can't "wing it" like I maybe could have a few years ago when I was playing the piano all the time.  Practice time is limited at best.  It cannot be my highest priority.  And besides that, to just "wing it" at Mass is simply disrespectful in my mind and therefore unacceptable.  Christ and His people deserve better.

Still, a trained, seasoned musician like I am should've been able to realize that something was amok *and solve the problem* sooner than I did when I sat down to play this morning.  The piano in this church is situated with its soundboard facing a brick half wall -- not the most ideal, acoustically-speaking.  As I played the first notes of the opening hymn, I tried my best to project the sound as I had been trained.  Try as I might, it sounded as though I were playing in a sock.  Having had only a couple sips of coffee this morning, I thought this was owing to the piano's facing the wall and continued to play as heavily as I could with a disproportionately delicate sound emanating from the piano.  It was only a little while later (after a few more fuzzy songs) that I realized the middle pedal was stuck down, and once I dislodged it, things were much different.  It would not surprise me if people in the back were surprised to hear a piano suddenly playing at all halfway through Mass, as I suspect I wasn't all that audible up til then.

These substitution outings are not easy undertakings for me -- or my family.  There are some logistical aspects of them that are larger than just me.  When I was about 15 or so, I broke my wrist Rollerblading.  Several weeks into my recovery, I boldly told my mother that I was ready to Rollerblade again and that if I got hurt again I'd just have to deal with it.  She was quick to point out that I wasn't the only one having to deal with it -- the entire family was affected.   In some respects, today's outing was similar.  Instead of going to the parish we now call home and celebrating the First Sunday of Advent with our present parish family, we returned to the one we'd left a little over a year ago.  My father came (as would have my mother and sister, had they not been indisposed), and so did my beloved's parents.   It was a later Mass than we usually attend, which spelled a set back in the lunch & siesta routine we try hard to maintain for our bambini's collective benefit.

But I can honestly say it was worth it.  Looking out across the congregation, I caught my younger lad's eye.  He smiled and waved at me.  Seeing his sweet face, and then those of the rest of my family gathered there to support me, I was filled with a sense of gratitude for the season of life in which I now find myself.  I was so happy to see him run up to me after Mass, and hear him thinking back through our outing this morning as he settled in for bed tonight: "You play the pwano.  You not break it.  Daddy not play the pwano.  We stand up.  We kneel..." 

I was honored to be asked to play today, and though I may not have given the cleanest performance, I gave the best one I could given the parameters within which I work these days.  I wanted my children to see me using the gift God has given me in His service.  That's an important example I hope they internalize.

It was a fitting beginning of Advent, the season in which we prepare the way of the Lord, awaiting His coming with hopeful expectation, readying our hearts and minds for God's ultimate gift to humanity.   Stuck pedals notwithstanding, these four weeks of Advent are our opportunity to lay the gifts God has given us at His feet.  His Grace will make them perfect.