ADVENT 1: Chicken Soup, Nudgings, and Hot Seats

On November 29, 2020November 23, 2020 By Michele Huey, Author & SpeakerIn Uncategorized2 Comments

The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him “Immanuel”—which means, “God with us.” – Matthew 1:23 (NIV)

I can never remember a time when I doubted the presence of God in my life.

There are, however, occasions I struggle with my feelings. Sometimes the One who promised never to leave or forsake me seems to do just that.

Like the time I was in the hospital after giving birth to my second child by Caesarean section. I’d developed a mild but mysterious fever, so my doctor determined I shouldn’t nurse my baby until the matter was resolved. While I accepted this outwardly, my heart cried, I want my baby!

The hospital was miles from family and friends, and winter had arrived, so I had few visitors. Feeling miserable and abandoned, I remembered my mother’s homemade chicken soup, which she made when I was sick, and which never failed to make me feel better. Suffering with Alzheimer’s disease, though, she wouldn’t be making it for me now. Lord, I prayed, when I get home, I want some homemade chicken soup.

Eventually the cause of the fever revealed itself, and I was discharged to spend another week in bed. A day after I got home, my friend Sharon arrived, bringing supper. Yep, homemade chicken soup.

Coicindence? I never believed it was. For me, it was God-incidence.

In the 41 years since, God’s presence in my life has been evident over and over. Not every time I think I need a tangible sign, but enough to bolster my faith and hope in the silent, where-are-you-God times.

Like the time one November I sensed a definite nudging towards the end of my quiet time to go to town and get groceries. Go now, the inner voice urged. My prayer chair became a hot seat. I glanced out the window. Overcast, but no precipitation.

We all know how fickle the weather could be in these parts. Especially in late November. I checked the forecast online and knew that if I didn’t go then, our Thanksgiving would be minus homemade pumpkin pie with extra creamy Cool Whip, my special candied yams, and the aroma of turkey wafting through the house, unless I wanted to fight Old Man Winter on the 12-mile drive to town and then back. I left within the hour—and got home just as the snow, ice, and wind arrived.

Then there are the Bible verses that leap off the page and burn themselves into my mind and heart, the gentle proddings, the encouragement from others just when I need it. I could go on, but like the apostle John wrote as he closed his gospel, “If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written” (John 21:15 NIV).

Tomorrow is the first Sunday of Advent, a time for preparing our hearts for the celebration of Immanuel’s birth. As the first Advent candle is lit, remember the times God showed up in your life, the occasions He clearly whispered and sometimes shouted, “I’m here!”

During this Advent season, be like Brother Lawrence, the monk who saw God even in the hectic kitchen where he worked, and “practice the presence of God.”

Because He’s here, you know. For He has said, “Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5), “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

As I light the first Advent candle and begin preparing for the celebration of the birth of Your Son, dear God, give me an increasing awareness of Your abiding presence in my life. Amen.

Read and reflect on Isaiah 7:14; Matthew 1:18–25.

The Thanksgiving Day Cemetery Run

On November 22, 2020November 19, 2020 By Michele Huey, Author & SpeakerIn holidaysLeave a comment

Dean, Todd, and me on our Thanksgiving Day Cemetery Run - Nov. 26, 2015 — Dean, Todd, and me on our Thanksgiving Day Cemetery Run – Nov. 26, 2015

Remember the days of old; consider generations long past. – Deuteronomy 32:7 (NIV)

Our Thanksgiving traditions were, once again, changing, and not of our own doing or choice.

Growing up, my husband and I had different Thanksgiving traditions. While he spent the day with a whole clan of relatives, enjoying Grandma’s pies — and she baked plenty and a variety — I spent the day quietly reading while my mother, who shooed everyone out of the kitchen, prepared a turkey dinner for just the five of us. If any relative stopped in, it was for only a few minutes. We certainly never went anywhere on Thanksgiving Day.

Fast forward 20 years. Now married with my own family, I wanted to begin a new tradition: We hosted Thanksgiving dinner and invited Dean’s parents, and his sister and her family.

By then my own family was scattered. My brother and sister, both out-of-state, had established their own Thanksgiving traditions. My father had passed away, and my mother was grappling with Alzheimer’s Disease.

This tradition ran its cycle until our three children grew up. I never wanted them to feel obligated to come home for the holidays but rather to establish their own traditions. After all, isn’t that what we raise them for? To live their own lives, to make their own mark in their corner of the world.

But we still celebrated the day with some of our ever-growing family. I didn’t have to cook the entire meal any longer — just bring a dish or two — and that was just fine by me.

Then life changed. Again. This year we faced spending the day by ourselves. I realize there are those for whom Thanksgiving (and any other holiday) is “just another day.” But we didn’t want it to be that way for us. We have too many good memories of Thanksgiving past.

So my husband suggested something unusual: take the day and visit the cemeteries where our parents and grandparents are buried — to thank them for what they contributed to our lives.

And with our oldest son accompanying us, that’s what we did. On Thanksgiving Day, we drove 246 miles, stopped at six cemeteries, and visited our forebears — his parents and grandparents, buried in Jefferson County, and my parents and godparents in the Mon Valley (near Donora). We reminisced — even our son had memories of these precious folks, even though I’d thought he was too young to remember.

We drove through two cemeteries where my grandparents are buried. I didn’t know exactly where their graves were, but just driving through was like a trip down memory lane, my mind and heart making connections I’d avoided making for far too long.

No, it wasn’t morbid. It was enlightening. And freeing.

Connecting with our past, touching base with our heritage, we realized how truly blessed we are. We are what we are because of what they were and what they did.

Seeing those gravestones gave us not a sense of loss or finality, but of continuity and hope. We are, we realized, the connection between the past and the future.

“We should note the days of old. They are what mold us.” (Curt Lovelace, “Memorializing the Past, A Practice in Remembering God’s Goodness”)

Who knows? Maybe we started a new tradition: The Thanksgiving Day Cemetery Run.

Thank you, Father God, for reminding us of the rich heritage we have. Help us to pass along that legacy to our children and grandchildren. May they, too, comprehend the continuity of life. Amen.

Extra tea: Read and meditate on Joshua 4:1–7.

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