Tonight at church we will celebrate the Sounds of the Season, an annual opportunity for gifted members in the congregation to share their musical and dramatic talents with the rest of us who are great at being in the audience. A pot luck dinner will proceed the festivities, we are Methodist after all, and I was charged with making the main dish. Pulled pork feeds many and seemed like a great choice, until I realized I had to run in to the church at 6:30 am to get it started. The temperature has dropped, it is dark and only a few cars joined me as I drove in my chilly car to complete this task, I was I was less than excited about. Yet the quiet surrounded me, I found myself considering the real sounds of the season.

Actually the day began with the thud from a boy jumping from his bed onto the floor, the rustling of the search for slippers and his robe and then the slap on walls as he hit light switches, searching for whatever his elf had done while he slept. “Oh gran, look what elfie did! He is so rotten!” He followed the path of all his matchbox cars as they snaked through the dining room, over chairs and under the table and then into the living room, making car noises that little boys seem wired to create.  Giggles of delight filled the morning quiet of our still sleeping home as he found the tiny wind-up car, twisting the gear, raving it up to race about the table and fall to the floor, eliciting ever louder chortles. This is the sound of the season.

But maybe the sounds began last night as we traveled across town to see a living nativity  displayed by another church. Slurping hot cocoa, nestled under a blanket, wearing pjs and a robe shared with us by a dear friend, he asked about each scene and then told us, “This is true.” I can’t imagine a more beautiful sound than a child professing faith. He asked where other characters were, where was David, where was Goliath. He knows bible stories. The sounds of his Sunday school teachers joined us as we meandered through the scapes, the teachings have settled into his soul, they come forth when he needs those examples. Those are the sounds of the season.

Still with all of this, I was tired and a bit cranky, not enough coffee and there were toy cars all over my house, these issues were clouding my mind. The drive is only 10 minutes, barely time to let loose my thoughts of home before I reach the turn in for the parking lot. Yet the solitude of the drive made my travels more meaningful, I more quickly realized the quiet was refreshing, was welcome. I forget to list out my tasks for the day and instead considered the peacefulness of early mornings, the focus required for dark driving. As I neared the church, the lights, strung all along the circle drive and up to the busy road that leads into the parking lot. The front windows were awash with light, welcoming warmth on this cold morning. Awestruck, I followed the illuminated path, diving deeper into the silence as the gentleness of the spirit guided me. The quiet is the sound of the season.

Entering the building, fumbling with the key I have been entrusted with, the smooth slide into the lock, tumblers falling, rotating, each meaning that this church is home to me, isn’t home where you have the key to enter? Beeps, chirps as I push buttons to set the temperature of the oven, the soft separation of suction as the refrigerator opens, the crackle of foil as I remove the pans and the scratch of pas as I push them onto the racks. A quiet catch as the oven doors close, the sounds of this season when later tonight this meal will feed many who gather in communion and fellowship, the sounds of laughter and chatter echoing about the room, silverware clinking and children racing with spontaneous games of tag.

Retrieving the wooden tree filled with handcrafted ornaments made by a group of friends to sell for our first alternative Christmas market, proceeds benefiting two local organizations, I listened as the keychains rattled against each other, as the last bit of the string of lights bumped along the ground. The pop of electrical connection, the tree lit up,  shining months of dreams and hopes for those less fortunate, our desire to bridge some gaps between our congregation and our neighbors, I feel in love with the ministry of this church all over again.

Snip, snip, chop, drip, I heard the only other person inside the walls of the church at this early hour, the woman who hosts our coffee and donut/fruit bar each Sunday. alone under the glow of all the Christmas lights, she busied about making coffee and setting up trays of grapes that will be accessed by the littlest hands and the oldest alike, she is a mainstay, a fixture that most may not even see anymore. Yet, here on this morning I witnessed her ministry, a radical hospitality that begins each week in the quiet and solitude of this building that will soon be bustling. I heard the sounds of the season as she set out creamer and sugar, as she arranged napkins.

I don’t know what tonight will bring, I can imagine the music will move my soul and that the children will delight in the puppet show. Yet already I am awakening to the sounds of this season, the reminders that a baby was born in the chaos of a stable and brought us peace. May you find peace this season in the midst of the noise, friends.

During the Vacation Bible School this summer, a church member created some amazing decorations for the kiddos using recycled kitchen pans and cans and whisks. These old parts became robots, a delight for all the children. I have to admit that I have been coveting these items for months, knowing I didn’t have the vision or skill set to create such a fun item and also that Plum would love to have his own at home. This week I happened to be at church as the closet was being cleaned and I was offered the biggest robot of all, the one I have loved from its first appearance. Yes, yes, I would love to have this gift, yes, I eagerly accepted this present. Yet as I loaded him up in the car, he fell apart, he lost his body, his head came apart. Legs separated, He reverted to pieces and parts.

Before Plum got home, I pulled out the glue and then the glue gun, I reassembled this work of art as best I could, knowing he would never be the same and yet Plum didn’t know my meager efforts were falling short of the original vision. He shrieked with joy, he created play around his new buddy immediately. The robot has a new home to be loved and admired and stirring hours of imagination. I realized I am like that robot, created to be a work of art, built of pieces and parts that often come undone, that get damaged as we travel through life. Whole and beautiful as we sit in the sanctuary, still we are sent out into the world to bring new life and joy to others. I am created to leave the church and incite play and wonder and rearrange my broken parts to find an alternate purpose, rearranging those old stories and memories into shapes that bring beauty and resurrection. No, I am not built for the trash heap, just as these pans and the old hand held video game spring to life as my Plum describes the battles his robot is entering.

I was gifted with the efforts of another’s vision this week, the transforming power of art and play that lasts long after the show, long after the decorations are stowed for another year. I am reminded that our stories and our testimonies reverberate, that folks we may never even meet gain strength from our admissions of brokenness. from our acts of faith. I found myself in a broken robot this week, in the redemption of old soup cans and dryer vent tubing. I know I am more than the hurts and the wounds, there is hope for me as I am being made new in my faith, as I draw closer to the One who created me.

May you find hope in the resurrection of your whole self, may you realize the opportunities to become new and to spread joy and disrupt anger with play. May you know that the good you put out into the world matters, that it echoes long after you have left the scene. Six months later, I found hope in the artwork of a friend, in the gift from another friend.

  Now, our God, we give you thanks, and praise your glorious name. 

1 Chronicles 29:13

When Plum finished his after school snack, pretend play began in earnest. Our script was  a pick-up basketball game, we began to select players. I was choosing friends from his class, I could keep track of the names better. He was making up names, how he remembers these things, I don’t know. Our teams were set, I thought and then he sprung the surprise pick on me, he said he had one more and it was Michael Jordan. Seriously? Never mind that we are playing pretend basketball and he is going to win anyway, he has to bring in the biggest name, the greatest talent? I tried to forfeit but he wasn’t having it. He wanted to show his skills and let his team kill me. Actually we discovered he was much better than Michael, whom he forget to play mostly. Still, he knew throwing out that name would throw me, would intimidate me.

In this house with a grandfather who obsesses over MJ, Plum can’t help but know about him. We talk about his sportsmanship, about his perseverance. We hold him up as a role model, even if he has fallen for grace a bit in later years. We know all about imperfection. So the name means something to Plum. The reputation has held strong for all these years. Just this week many names are falling, reputations are dropping, as truth about sordid, ugly, illegal behavior by top executives and power houses in industries is being exposed. Heart breaking to hear that idols we have watched on the big and small screen have treated women as objects, have shown so little respect to their peers. Their names will never regain their luster.

On this second day of gratitude focus, I am struck that I do not have to fear the secrets of God being revealed, the bad behavior, the sordid truths. God is God is God. We can indeed praise His glorious name, knowing we are safe in our praise, that this idol will not fail us. Knowing that Plum is aware that his fantastic dunking skills and his beautiful blue eyes and his kind heart are all really from God, I worry little about whose team we end up on. We are both winning with our Maker, who knows our names as well. Following His lead, we can find grace when we are tarnished, we can offer grace to those who falter. Just as I know I will never win a pretend game of basketball with this child, I am sure that God is who HE says He is, and that is everything.

Our clandestine play is based on a cartoon we watched several years ago, early morning TV binging when he was tiny and I needed coffee time. The story followed an incredibly whiny little boy and his baby sister, we watched before Plum even had a sister. Now he has two, one in his home and one he has never met, not even on his radar. Yet something connected for this child, something appealed to this boy about these characters and they have become the structure for our pretend play when no one else is around. “Gran, can we play Rosie and Caillou?” Sure honey, I tell him, even though my passion for this game evaporated about two years ago. “When is grandpa leaving? Can he hear us?” I try to convince him grandpa won’t care that we play this, that he won’t make fun of him, to no avail. It is top secret, this pretend play. We don’t even reference those names if anyone is in ear shot. As much as it drives me crazy, I know he is sharing something incredibly important and special, I play along when he asks.

We play on the front porch until the bus comes or the little boy across the street comes outside, then I am hushed and given the warning look: raised eyebrows over threatening eyes and a mouth that no longer is smiling or chattering but instead displays tightened lips with a chin jutted at me. I know I have pushed my luck, carrying on this play I don’t even want to engage in, just a word or two beyond his comfort. When we are confident the door has clicked closed signaling grandpa has left for work or no other children can hear us as we drive alone in my car, the script begins. We play as we finish breakfast, as he takes his bath, as he brushes teeth and gets his backpack gathered. I would much prefer to talk about real life, like what he is learning and more about his classroom dynamics and who he sits with on the bus. Yet this is what he chooses to share with me, this is the way he looks at his world.

He assigns roles, often I am Rosie’s mom, Braidon, Caillou, Rosie’s father when he is around, sometimes Scarlet joins us and now we have Maggie, a wonderful character based off of a delightful young girl at church. He is always Plum. Can you see why I have lost interest in this game? I have so many roles to play, many voices to keep track of, he is himself, often older, always the hero. I am generally seeking assistance from the imaginary video game we are play (Oh the hours we log on our pretend devices!), asking for tips on the pretend skateboards we are riding, wondering how to do the coolest tricks on the trampoline. My characters most often are impressed that Plum gets to help cook and garden and do wood working while they are unfamiliar with the nuances or safety issues with such tasks. Plum explains to his invisible audience how he has been performing such jobs with his grandmother for years and years, they cannot just jump in without watching how he does it safely, without learning to follow directions. He displays the sharp edges or dangerous cliffs or risky maneuvers until his invisible friends feel more confident and agree to follow the rules.  He is a patient teacher, if somewhat cocky in that he is always the best.

My characters are envious of his chess prowess, his martial arts moves, his understanding of church behavior (yes we play on the way there as well) and he graciously shares his knowledge and skill with all the kids involved, except Calliou. He is the bratty kid who carries all the negative traits my really best boy is working through. Anger outbursts? Jealousy? Chore avoidance? Calliou is the bad boy of our play, Plum has little time or interest in playing with this boy who breaks things and is disrespectful. He doesn’t want to play with a boy who won’t do his homework or include everyone on the playground. He schools Caillou or asks Rosie’s mom to explain the reasoning behind rules, the need for safety googles or why we believe in God. Sometimes he just can’t be bothered with this kid and sends him over to the adult in the story line, his back up when reporting bad behavior.

Sound complicated? I find it to be so, I long for the days ahead when we merely talk to each other, without the extra voices interfering. Yet, when I reflect on what we actually discuss and what we resolve in our play, I know he is holding on to this game for critical reasons. He IS talking to me about what is important, he IS sharing with me what is most valuable in his day. As he seeks to resolve social dynamics, as he looks at the choices he is making and replaying how he could have chosen differently or seeks to assign reasoning to the choices of those around him, he needs a safe place to try out ideas. He needs a place where he can say, “Okay stop that one, we’re going to start again. 3,2,1. Go.”  He needs a safe place where he is always the hero, where he is the smartest, the bravest, the best jumper. His world is getting bigger and wider and fuller. Sometimes I wonder if this  play is his confidence booster, a shot as necessary as the healthy food we insist on feeding him. Clearly it is meeting a need, he won’t let it go despite my groaning.

But what about my roles? How do I choose to portray the people in his world? I have discovered that I am not given much latitude with Caillou but the others, I am given free rein. I use those friends to support his kindness, his sweet spirit, his willingness to learn and assist others in need. I reward his desire to be a leader. We discuss the fallout from Caillou’s poor choices, we wonder how we can bring him along side us and reduce his anger. I seek to normalize the mistakes, the errors, the outbursts, I offer forgiveness and grace to this younger imaginary child. We are stuck in a black and white phase of this game, Calliou has little room for redemption but I am edging him ever closer. Still the other children are more fleshed out, have desires to lead as well, they bring more personality and less hero worship. We are establishing an entire village of friends who are learning how to save their money for the best skateboards and to do chores to buy more apps on their fancy phones. I secretly like these kids who play together so nicely, if only I weren’t in charge of all of them.

So what does it all mean? I wonder if he isn’t speaking to what we all really do, if we don’t create worlds and words and assign motivations for those people in our lives that fit our needs that may have little to do with their own reality. Based on the Brené Brown construct from “Rising Strong” my friend Janet wonders aloud to me quite often when I relate a situation to her, “Or maybe that is the story you are telling yourself.” It never fails to piss me off AND alter my course of thinking. She is allowing the characters to speak a bit more freely, to have voices that share new ideas. She and I play our own version of “Rosie and Calliou” almost every time we meet, in fact I realize now that whenever I meet up with trusted friends, we lay out our villages, we arrange the people either closer or further away from us, we tell the stories of our lives, all of course from our viewpoint. We choose to be the hero, the victim, the distant observer, we choose our role. We give voices and perceptions to all those who cross our paths. The adult version of this game I play every time with my Plum. Is it really so different?

As I go into this week, I am replaying some interactions, moving some of my people around in my mind, allowing them to have voices I had not considered before. I am choosing to lend them some grace, to wonder about the redemption of all of my characters. I know the stories I tell myself and the stories my Plum tells me are where we need the most light. Oh the things this child teaches me. Maybe you will join me in opening up your own pretend play and questioning your own stories. We may find some healing in understanding the voices of others. We may find we are more able to play nicely with others.