Graduating with a Yeti

 This morning I woke up giggling. I  had just had a dream where I am in my grade school auditorium. I am there to help with a graduation. I do not know from what grade these students were graduating from, but the one student I saw was quite young, and was trying to go up the steps to the stage. His mother, or some other responsible adult, told him that  they would not be going on stage, but rather would be on the floor in front of the seats. I replied, "Well, of course he wants to be on the stage."  Someone then decided to open the curtains. Nothing new was revealed at that moment; it was as barren as most auditorium stages are. I then realized that it was almost time to start. I had heard that someone was coming to help us, so I decided to go to the restroom and "freshen up" as women of another time used to say. When in public my mother would ask for "the little girl's room". That phrase always made me uneasy, even when I was one. 

I walked into the very small restroom. In one of the stalls I could see large feet attached to  lower legs that were wide and covered with long white fur. I knew I was looking at a Yeti, obviously one with some sense of decorum. I said no greeting, but quickly washed my hands in preparation for spreading the news about who would be joining us.

I walked back into the auditorium. The curtains on the stage were still open, and some men and women were talking about how the day would go. I announced that I had discovered that a Yeti would be helping us. No one seemed particularly surprised.   

As I wrote this, I did a quick internet search about Yetis - and yes, Yetis is plural, but I think that the plural is seldom used. Most of us will not ever see one Yeti much less two. I capitalized the word because surely a creature so grand and so rare deserves recognition.  When I first started my internet search to investigate how to write the plural of Yeti, all that came up were pricey insulated mugs and coolers with the word "Yeti" inscribed on them. Truthfully, I find that even more disconcerting than the possibility of spotting a Yeti, either in the restroom or in the Himalayas.  

Let us not be reduced to being simply consumers. To that child in my dream and to us all, I say let us keep climbing, and keep digging.  This is the second day of Christmas. To that child who will lead us (Isaiah 11:6), I am grateful.    

Tomtens, Eggnog, and Love

As Tyler and I sat in the living room last night and listened to the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas station, we decided to enjoy an eggnog. Shortly after we mixed and poured and grated nutmeg over the two cups, I received notification that a delivery was on the front porch. I knew it was the two books I ordered: The Tomten and The Tomten and the Fox, both written by Astrid Lindgren. The books are beautifully written and illustrated. I came across them when I was doing a little research about gnomes. I was not familiar with the word Tomten, but had I grown up on a farm in Sweden rather than a ranch in West Texas, I probably would have heard of them long ago. At least I hope I would have. Some would say these books are for children. I say they are for anyone who appreciates tradition, stories, and lore. To receive them on a dark winter night was pretty much perfect.

Tomtens and gnomes have much in common, but I do not think  they are one in the same. Tomtens are considered long-lived watchmen of farms and homes. They tend to move around at night, and in exchange for a nightly bowl of porridge, they keep an eye on the farm, check in with the animals, and keep a wary eye out for foxes.  As we read last night, at least one Tomten could even convince a hungry fox to enjoy a bowl of porridge rather than snag a chicken (Tyler was a bit skeptical about that part.) Tomtens can also converse with very young children. As most of us have witnessed at one time or another, the very young can converse with a variety of beings, both the seen and the unseen. When I was a child, I knew that fairies and elves existed. However, I was a realist (well, ok, not really) and knew that they could not live in West Texas because it was too dry. However, I was pretty content just to read about them. I really believed then, and even now, that if something can be imagined, that it must exist somewhere. Yes, that equation includes hope, peace, joy, and love.   

This Sunday is the 4th Sunday of Advent and the Winter Solstice. If you attend a Christian church, or light Advent candles at home, you will probably witness the candle of Love being lit. Yes, we are long overdue, but timely nonetheless.         

        

            

    

image: You have already seen a photograph of my Christmas gnomes, and I have no pictures of a Swedish farm, a fox, or a bowl of porridge, but I did come across one unexpected  December 2025 sighting which I will share.               

Thine Advent Here

Yesterday I finished my last Advent worship script for this year. I have always liked Advent, but this year, I found the ancient words of Isaiah and Luke deeply moving. Sitting in the predawn hours reading Isaiah proved to be a practice I think I want to continue. The prophet's continual reminder to trust God even in the midst of a marauding empire was humbling. This Sunday my small in number congregation will sing "People Look East" and hopefully as we sing we will remind one another that Love will come as Guest. Love will also come as a Rose, a Star, and  the Lord. Love just continues to come. That is who God is and what God does. The earth is bathed in this love. However, too often, we dismiss love.  In the midst  of earthly violence, despair, and greed, love can seem to be a quaint idea from another time, and Christmas is just another item on the calendar to be checked off come December 26. Let us not be foolish.   

Tyler and I did not put up a Christmas tree this year, but as usual I set out my twelve small gnomes on the speaker by the front window (Well, one figure is actually not a gnome but a small boy who has been with the gnomes for so long that any year now I expect to unpack their box and see that he has grown a white beard.)  I also decorated the mantle. I brought out two small creches, and I found fresh batteries for my candles that sit in the living and dining room windows. I purchased these candles just after 9/11. They automatically come on when darkness arrives, and turn off when there is sufficient light. For some reason, when the batteries expired the last time, I did not replace them. Maybe I needed to get a sense of the darkness of unlit candles - I needed to be reminded  how much a small light matters.  

I am an older pastor. I almost retired last year, but the election brought home to me how  important community is in times such as these.  There are health and mobility concerns  in the congregation now that were not so apparent in past years. One beloved member passed.  About three years ago we sold our much too large for us property. The proceeds have been invested, and we donate any interest we receive to 501c3's who are actively engaged in serving the hungry, the unhoused, and our beleaguered environment. We worship on Sundays in a small historical chapel  on a busy street. I am convinced that when we sing, angels come and listen. Not because we sing particularly well. They come because the acoustics of the building are so good that not only are our voices amplified, but also our hearts.  

 Look for the love; it can always be found, often in surprising places. Listen to the angels who always seem to say, "Be not afraid.". Listen to your heart. I preached all this when I was younger, and I am grateful I can still stand and preach it today.  

I am grateful for all of you.        

        

    

 image:  Gnomes and One More,  2025   

Dreams, Doors, and Shadows

There are strangers at the door   

tall, thin, shadowy,

made of nothing, 

but yet of something.

I am in a house that has been 

showing up in my dreams a long time. 

It is a modest house 

in a modest neighborhood. 

It is not my house. 

Sometimes it shows up as the house of my parents, 

but mostly it shows up as a house belonging to an aunt and uncle 

where Tyler and I stop on the journey 

to see my parents.   

Early this morning it belonged to a friend

who did not appreciate 

the shadowy figures that appeared on her doorstep. 

She locks the door made of glass (usually the door is made of wood.)

They do not leave, but they do not try to come in.   

 But I need to leave. 

I open the door as little as possible,

and squeeze through.  

The figures press closer.  

I shut the door behind me

but it will not lock. 

I am feeling stuck. 

I want to let my friend know 

that the door is unlocked.  

I knock. 

She comes to the door 

and shakes her head no.   

I try to tell her that 

I cannot lock the door.  

She does not seem to see or hear me.  

I worry about that.   

The door then locks.

I worry about that.    

        

  

             

image: When I began to look for an image, I had little hope of finding something that might fit.  However, I think this older photograph does nicely.  If we are fortunate, we all have doors. We certainly all have dreams and shadows, even when we forget.                                                                                   

 

A Dream and a 15th Century Advent Poem

Last night I dreamt that I was traveling through a city that I have dreamt about before. In the dream I am downtown and as always in my dreams, it is dark. There are others with me. I do not know who is driving - it could even be me. However, I do know we are on our way to a class and we are moving through a very hilly downtown. We decide to get out and walk. I do not know why we choose to do that, but now we are walking on a sidewalk that is actually a narrow, crumbling path on a fairly low cliff just above the ocean. The sun reflects off the rippling water and everything is bathed in beautiful light. We cautiously walk in a single file; there is no room to do otherwise, and it would be very easy to get distracted by the beauty and tumble into the sea. The day is clear and the colors are vibrant. The bright light bounces off the brilliantly blue water and sparkles like stars. Gently cresting waves are topped with pristine foamy white on our right, and to the left are small bungalows, each with its own for sale sign. Each dwelling has a small patch of well trimmed emerald green grass for a lawn, and they each are painted a different pastel color from the ones on either side. I marvel that these coastside properties have not been taken up by the wealthy for mansions, and I say out loud that here it seems almost anyone can live by the ocean.

We continue our single file walking, and we begin to discuss where we are going. We are on our way to study with a teacher. I have not met him, but I seem to know what he looks like. I believe him to be East Indian, and he helps people to learn about death. I am told that he will want to touch me on my left shoulder. This is not a somber walk. We do not journey in fearful silence, but neither are we boisterous. We simply seem to be enjoying ourselves and the beauty that surrounds us. I think there are less than ten of us. The teacher's name is never spoken. I believe that this is the first time I have ever been with these fellow students.

At the end of the dream the crumbling path begins to take a fairly gentle downward slope. A paved road is just ahead of us, and despite the fact that we are walking along a cliff, the road seems to cross our path, not just intersect. I do not know which way we should go, and I am grateful there are others ahead of me who are walking confidently.

I then wake.

+++

Today is the second day of Advent. I love this season when we hear again the ancient stories, hymns, and poems inspired by the birth of Jesus. I never tire of hearing about the dreams, the angelic encounters, the excitable shepherds, the sojourning mystics, and all of those who said yes to being a part of the story. It is encouraging to hear the ancient words of the prophet Isaiah reminding us once more to trust God; the way will be made plain, and that we, too, even though we sit in darkness, will see a great light. Yesterday I reminded my congregation that I believe all these wondrous stories, and I believe the retelling of them is so vital, particularly in these jaded times. We all need to learn to dream again. Perhaps in my dream we were on our way to meet Christ. If that is true, then Christ was with us in every wobbly step.

I leave you with the following poem that I found in a publication many years ago. Alas, that publication,"Thin Places", is no longer in existence, but this beautiful poem lives on. As far as I know, the author and the original source continue to be unknown. The photograph is mine.

I also leave you with the encouragement to pay attention to your dreams. You may be surprised to learn who may be tapping you on the shoulder.

Thou shalt know him when he comes

Not by any din of drums

Nor the vantages of airs

Nor by anything he wears

For his presence known shall be

By the holy harmony

That his coming makes in thee.

A Change of View

I woke yesterday morning from a dream where I was driving through a small desert town. I am glancing at my map, and it tells me I need to be on West Winn. I am on East Winn and there  is no West Winn in sight. I turn around and stop at a local, kind of run down bar. I am stopping there not to get a drink (In my waking life I no longer drink and it seems I no longer drink even in my dreams!) but to ask for directions. Everyone in the bar was watching a soccer game, and the first half was just coming to a close. Suddenly, the bar patrons began to change seats. I looked at the screen, and everyone on the screen was changing not only seats but were actually walking across the field and finding new seats on the other side of the small stadium.   

I spoke to a woman who also was just walking in. She introduced herself as the owner and, in contrast to the patrons and myself,she was professionally dressed in a red suit and matching heels. She said her name was Anna Baek, which she pronounced "Beck" (not sure when I learned the spelling). I mentioned how surprised I was to witness the seat changes, and asked if this happens in the big stadiums. She replied not so much anymore, but definitely in the smaller ones.

After people settled in once more, I asked for directions. I was assured by several people, including Anna Baek, that if I continued on East Winn I would eventually come to West Winn. I spoke aloud that I was a little skeptical. I then laughed and said okay, I would try again. There was something about the town, the simple, slightly run-down bar, and the people who also looked to be slightly run-down that I liked. I felt an inherent goodness all around me. I was tempted to stay overnight, maybe even longer. I woke before I made my decision, but I did wake with a smile on my face.    

This dream of changing sides reminds me of a wonderful story that I recently discovered in a sweet and generous book of essays entitled One Long River of Song written by Brian Doyle. In his essay entitled "The Hawk", he tells the story of a man who one summer took up residence on his former small town football field. Doyle wrote that the man, called Hawk, had been a terrific player in high school, showing an ability to wait, yes, like a hawk, until the perfect moment to strike. The name took hold. Hawk went on to play in college and then on to a career Doyle describes as being located in "the nether reaches of the professional ranks, where a man might get paid a hundred bucks a game plus bonuses for touchdowns and sacks". Hawk's career dwindled even more, and one summer he returned to his home field to stay awhile. The town actually let him do so. In turn he kept the field and surrounding area picked up and clean. People would drop by with cookies and sandwiches to see how he was doing. One woman left him coffee every morning. He told Doyle that sometimes he would sit on the visitor's bench, something he had never done before. One day a reporter came to get Hawk's opinion on what she called the "collapse of the social contract". He told her about the cookies and sandwiches. He then told her of the time when a woman stopped by with two infants. She let him hold one "that weighed about half of nothing". He and the young mother talked about football. He then asked the reporter the question, "What could be better than standing on a football field, holding a brand-new human being the size of a coffee cup? You know what I mean? Everything else is sort of a footnote."  

In a nation so polarized, I find comfort in the idea of periodically changing our viewpoints to get at least a glimpse of what the other side is seeing. Sometimes people cross mountains to do that. Sometimes, we simply get up from our comfortable seat to offer help to someone who is having trouble reading the map.

 

Worth Pondering

 This morning I came across this quote by Father Greg Boyle of Homeboy Industries.  I have always appreciated his straightforward language,attitude, and love as he goes about his ministry. Sometimes holidays can pose difficult expectations, making love seem impossible. Perhaps this might help?   

Blessings on your week and go ahead, let your love be known (especially to yourself), 

Sue Ann   

      

"Cherishing is love with its sleeves rolled up."

Father Greg Boyle        

    

     

        

image: Neighborly persimmon tree, November 2025