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Day 22—Truly He Taught Us

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 22

We love because God first loved us.  1 John 4:19

 The lights had just been dimmed a bit more in the sanctuary of the little white church. With my sermon now over, we were making our way through the order of worship, getting ever so closer to the candlelight singing of “Silent Night.” Before that moment, though, there was the soloist who would sing “O Holy Night.”images

I had asked our pianist’s son to be present with us on Christmas Eve to sing this beloved song. I was so happy when he agreed for while he was just out of high school he had a voice that I would place in the same category of Pavarotti. Yes, his voice was that good.

In a way his singing would be a gift to me as it provided what I would call more breathing room in the order of worship for the Holy Spirit to move among us. It was a space for grace in which I as a pastor could sit back and reflect on the words I had just preached. And, hopefully, it would be a space for grace for those in the pews to also reflect on God’s word proclaimed.

And so the last word of my sermon was spoken and I sat back down in the official looking “pastor’s chair” with its ornately carved wooden legs and armrests complete with a regal velvet seat.

The anticipation of the night heightened. Our pianist struck the first ivory key and her son hit the first perfect note.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining.

Within seconds I felt as if I was being transported to that actual night when something so indescribable and so life changing happened. I could imagine the awe, the beauty, the joy…

Indescribable. Life changing. Wait. I didn’t have to imagine. That was happening right here, right now, I realized.

In the past year of ministry together I had many indescribable moments of lives being changed not by the latest church fads or prepackage programs on how to grow your church or lead a successful stewardship campaign. I could tell of many indescribable moments of lives being changed through times of more praying, times of more trusting and times of keeping our eyes on Jesus rather than the stormy waves all around us. No, I didn’t have to imagine something indescribable as God awakening His children. I could see it.

The young Pavarotti from rural America continued hitting perfect note after perfect note.

In all our trials, born to be our friend.

Ah, those pesky trials. There were those as well. Every church has them but just recently I had begun to see the blessings born out of trials. God does do His best work in dark times, I mused, as I thought about how God protected this little white church through showers, squalls and storms. And the storms were weathered due to the fact that deeper friendships were being forged with Jesus through coming together for more prayer, study and times of serving.

The singing continued to gift us all…

Truly He taught us to love one another.

Love. Just the other day a woman from the congregation gave me a Christmas card. It was an adorable bear dressed as an angel smiling and bringing good tidings of joy with the scripture message written beneath, “We love because God first loved us.”

I took notice of that card more than I usually would take notice because I found it interesting the scripture was from 1 John. I had never seen that before on a Christmas card. Usually Isaiah’s words of a “son has been given unto us…and his name shall be…” or the angels’ song of “glory to God in the highest” find their way onto a greeting card. Not this card. This was reminding us of why we love—because God first loved us.

Truly He taught us to love one another.

Love. That’s what it comes down to, I said to myself silently. Jesus had taught us how to love one another and while it seems hard at times or perhaps many times, love really is the glue that holds all things together.

I remember as I was moving up to serve this little village I was given words of advice. First, everyone was related in some way or another, so be careful about what you say about anyone.

I looked down at my engagement ring and wedding band and swirled the white gold and diamonds around my finger. I was now part of the being related to someone in the little village I served as pastor. It was just six months before on a beautiful June morning the “pastor from the city” married the “local boy.” It was a community-wide celebration of answered prayers—and 17 flower girls, all from the village, who were excited that Pastor Donna was finally getting married.

Secondly, I was told the good news about life in a little village was everyone knew you. The bad news was everyone knew you.

Good and bad, people knew what was going on in your life, which at times I had learned could get complicated, tricky or just plain contentious. And yet I had also learned that no matter what differences people had or what long-time grudges were held, when a person was in need, differences and grudges were put aside and love, no matter how difficult to show, was shown.

That was new to me. Growing up in a more congested area, people were quicker to forget you or less likely to help you. But in a little village, there was this overriding sense that no matter what, we were all in this life together.

Truly, the people of the little white church taught me what it meant to love one another. For it was these people I was brought to shepherd who instead shepherd me in the way of forgiveness and by doing so helped me to experience the healing grace it brings.

Churches, I realized, are like families. There will be squabbles and downright disagreements. Sides might be taken and the ties that bind might fray, but in a rural village and church, the frays very rarely snap completely apart.

That night, as the young Pavarotti sang, the lesson of love continued as the Spirit worked among all, opening hearts ever more wider to one another.

I looked out at the congregation and it seemed to me they, too, were being transported to their own indescribable life changing moments God has blessed them with.

It was indeed a holy night.

 

 

Day 21—A Circle of Light

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 21

I spoke the last word of my Christmas Eve sermon and as I did I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. No matter how long one has been at his or her craft—Christmas Eve worship always brings a bit of anxiety.There’s the anxiety of trying to tell the old familiar story in a fresh, new way. images

(Reminder to self: just let God’s Word speak, don’t get cute or fancy. Just be real.)

Then there is the anxiety of what if this would the night in which for the first time ever I blank out up there and forget everything. That’s an anxiety leftover from seminary days.

(Reminder to self: it has yet to happen and so it probably will never happen.)

Then there’s the anxiety of new faces staring back at you from the pews, many of whom probably have no interest in what the church offers beyond Christmas Eve. I have come to realize those who find themselves gathered in a church on that holy night are often gathered out of a sense of tradition, which is not bad at all.

(Reminder to self: the Holy Spirit can work—and does reach hearts—with those simply seeking tradition.)

My task is not to convert people on Christmas Eve. My task is to be as faithful as I can in the telling God’s story of salvation and let my own knowledge of that salvation and grace, speak through me.

Still I have a healthy awareness as to where the Christmas Eve sermon ranks in importance for those gathered to worship.

(Note to self: keep Christmas Eve sermon on the shorter side.)

I would say the sermon is probably at No. 3, right behind wanting to hear the old familiar songs of Christmases past sung once again.

What’s the No. 1 reason many come to church on Christmas Eve?

They come for that incredibly moving moment when the lights go out in the sanctuary. Then, with only the radiant beams shining from hundreds of individual candles, “Silent Night” is softly sung by young and old, believer and doubter, broken and whole, joyful and sorrowful, sinner and saint.

And nowhere more was this beloved tradition so beautifully executed than at the little white church.

It was there that I, a new pastor, was introduced to a new tradition I had never experienced before.

As I was planning my first Christmas Eve, I was told by the faithful and hardworking Worship Committee that while I basically had free reign to do whatever new thing I wanted to do that night, I was not to change how they did the candles during “Silent Night.”

“First we have communion,” said one woman in a way that told me she was used to being in charge. “We have two chalices, one for grape juice and one for wine.”

“We have to remember to put a red bow on the wine chalice so that people know which cup has the alcohol and which one doesn’t,” another committee member chimed in.

(Note to self: remember to announce that on Christmas Eve as well as print the red-bow chalice information in the worship bulletin.)

“Okay,” I said, agreeing with everything so far.

“And then we light our candles from the Christ candle and we begin making a circle all around the sanctuary,” the woman with the drill sergeant voice continued.

(Note to you the reader: This woman with the gruff voice turned out to be one of the most blessed angels in my ministry while at the little white church. I always smile whenever I think of her.)

“You don’t go back to your pews?” I asked, trying to envision the circle being made as folks come up for communion, while others took their lighted candles up the aisles of a church made out of timber some 200-plus years old. I was fond of that church and really didn’t want to see any fires on Christmas Eve.

“Yes,” she said in a way that told me I shouldn’t have questioned it.

“We’ve always done it this way, pastor,” yet another committee member added.

“But what about safety issues?” I asked ever so gently.

“You just have be careful with your candle,” was the reply.

“What about those who have trouble walking and have to remain seated in the pew? We can’t leave them out of the candle lighting?” I asked, thinking of my handicapped brother who would visiting that Christmas Eve and who definitely would be that person forgotten in this beautiful, beloved tradition.

“No problem. Whoever has to remain seated, will stay seated. An elder will light their candle and stay with them as sort of an extension of the circle,” was the reply back.

“Oh, okay. That’s a wonderful solution,” I said, still not certain as to how this was all going to play out on Christmas Eve.

And so I spoke the last word of my Christmas Eve sermon and as I did I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. That part was done. Now, though, there was the angst of the singing of “Silent Night” and the circle of light that would be made in the sanctuary.

Now more than ever I had to trust God.

(Note to self: I am just an instrument. Let God work on this holy night.)

And work He did.

Young and old, believer and doubter, broken and whole, joyful and sorrowful, sinner and saint, all came up to break the bread, then dip in either of the two chalices (the one with the red bow was quite popular), and then light their candle.

Back up the side aisles they began to go. I really couldn’t pay much attention to the formation of the circle, as I was busy administering the sacrament. By the time all were served the bread and the cup, it was time for me to light my candle and say a prayer before the singing of “Silent Night” began.

I looked up and out at the sanctuary for the first time. I couldn’t speak. My throat choked up with emotion and I had to fight the tears.

Before my eyes was an unbroken circle of pure light, with faces all beaming, especially the faces from those on the Worship Committee, who looked at me as if to say, “Isn’t this beautiful? See, you had nothing to worry about, pastor.”

All come for this Christmas Eve moment in which something more powerful than tradition happens—the light of Christ, if only throughout the four or five stanzas of “Silent Night”, is seen by eyes often blind to it.

The smile from a teen as God whispers blessed assurances that life will get better.

The tear coming from the elderly woman as God’s arms wrap around her when her husband’s arms can no longer hug her.

The child, who is fighting his mom to hold his own candle, is finally given the light. He quiets down and holds the light with reverence and awe, as God’s Spirit lights up the world before him.

My brother, seated in the pew, but not alone. The light of Christ shining forth on him in the way of the candle of a church member who chose to stand by him.

Each person, even if it is just for the four or five stanzas in which “Silent Night” is sung, can see the Christ light in their lives.

The little white church’s beloved tradition had become mine. And every year I couldn’t wait to see the circle of light in that historic sanctuary, a reminder of God’s never-ending love upon Christ’s church and its people.

 

 

Day 20—An Advent Prayer

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 20

On this the fourth Sunday in Advent, I invite you to light the candle of love on the Advent wreath (or simply light one lone candle) and join with me in saying this prayer written by one of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen.

 Lord Jesus,

Master of both the light and the darkness, 
send your Holy Spirit upon our preparations for Christmas.


We who have so much to do seek quiet spaces to hear your voice each day.

We who are anxious over many things look forward to your coming among us.

We who are blessed in so many ways long for the complete joy of your kingdom.


We whose hearts are heavy seek the joy of your presence.

We are your people, walking in darkness, yet seeking the light.


To you we say, “Come Lord Jesus!”

 Our advent journey has now become a holy walk to the stable. And so join in tomorrow for the countdown to Christmas Day with “A Little White Church Christmas.”

For now, many thanks for joining me this advent. It has been a blessing for me to share with you the heartfelt God moments that took place—and continue taking place—at the little white church.

And now  I have a candle to light and an Advent prayer to lift up. I hope you take time to do the same.

Till tomorrow.

Blessings and peace,

Pastor Donna (one very grateful “accidental country pastor”)IMG_1828

Day 19—Holy Silences

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 19

What did I love most about being an accidental country pastor?

Many things, but if I had to mention one it would be the holy silences I often found myself immersed in during the season of Advent and Christmas.

Silences?images

Holy?

In the season of Christmas?

I know, I know. You’re probably wondering what in heaven’s name am I talking about, especially now in this the final mad dash to the BIG DAY, when there are very few moments of silence to be had.

Christmas music plays nonstop in the background of malls and grocery stores, reminding you to hurry and shop for time is a wasting. Then there are the churches with their cantatas and choral societies with their concerts tugging at your time. Let’s not forget schools as well have their schedules of winter concerts to attend. On top of all the noise of musical offerings filling up the Christmas airwaves, there is the chatter of all the Christmas parties, both work and family, edging out any opportunity for a moment of holy silence.

And yet my time at the little white church there was always the beauty of the holy silences of Christmas all around me that I treasured.

There was the holy silence in the early morning walk to the chicken coop to say good morning to Drumstick, BBQ, Red, Chick, Sam and Fido. Don’t ask. The kids at the church named my chickens for me.

There was something so healing to my soul to greet my feathered friends and give them fresh water and then peek inside the coop to see what gifts they had waiting for me.

In that quiet moment, all anxious thoughts as to what to preach Christmas Eve melted away into a peaceful assurance that the words would indeed come.

While the coop was a ways from the house and not equipped with any electric, thus, my daily routine of chipping out the ice in their water dish and replenishing it with fresh water, I never minded the walk even in many feet of snow to trudge through.

When I was done tending to them, I would turn back towards the house only to notice how beautifully the sun was coming up over the field. Many times I would find myself standing there in the snow besides the coop not believing God had actually given me this life.

There I stood in holy silence, interrupted only by an occasional cluck, cluck from Drumstick—or Fido—they both sounded the same. There I stood allowing the holy silence to fill my heart with a song of never-ending praise that began my day in the most perfect way.

There was also the holy silence of the season of just sitting on the back porch in the late afternoon before dinner was ready and then heading out to my nighttime commitments at the church.

I would sit on the porch swing and look up at the tree line on the hills of the property. As the sun was setting its beams would peek through the bare trees in such a way that it always formed the image of a cross.

I tried as often as I could to make sure I was sitting on the porch swing at just the right time so I could be blessed by the sun’s gift of an illumined cross appearing, reminding me once again, the best gifts are not from a store. The best gifts are the ones God gives to us that are all around us.

I would swing gently back and forth. No Christmas music, no chatter, not even the sound of car going by…just a sweet stillness and a cross to mediate on.

And then there was my most favorite holy silence. The one that came on Christmas Eve when I would enter into the sanctuary of the little white church yet to be filled with holiday worshippers. With only the light of the setting sun coming through the multi-paned clear windows, I would stop and stare at the beauty of a heavenly warmth washing over the sanctuary’s colonial décor of cheerful yellow walls and wooden pews painted white.

The strong smell of evergreen wafted in the room as there was always a big tree given to the church by a local farm. The holy silence of an empty sanctuary before the doors would open for Christmas Eve worship was for me my time of worship. My time to be still before God and to receive the gift of His blessed presence.

Holy silences are important in our lives. They are especially important at Christmastime for it is in the quiet moments when we finally stop “doing” Christmas that we actual begin to experience Christ with us. And that’s what Christmas is really all about.

And yet we feel there is still have so much to do to make Christmas what we think it should be. Here’s a gentle reality check if your Christmas list still has many items yet to be crossed off.

Jesus came that Christmas so long ago into a world that was not quite ready for him. Mary and Joseph were making a road trip to Bethlehem, thinking they probably would have time to get that darn census taking care of before Mary gave birth. But the baby came before Mary and Joseph were ready. There was no room at the inn. There weren’t any baby clothes or blankets or crib waiting. It’s safe to say there were items left undone on Mary’s list at that first Christmas.

And besides a heavenly host of angels and some shepherds swinging by to see baby Jesus, the world didn’t really do anything extraordinary for our Savior’s birth. Jesus came into a world that was simply going about its business.

We need to remember the lesson in that. So often we look for God in the extraordinary moments of life when in fact God is right there in all the mundane routines—and unfinished tasks—of life. And sometimes the best realization of Emmanuel, God with us, happens when we simply stop running around and allow the holy silences to speak to us.

As the Christmas carol “O Little Town of Bethlehem” sings “how silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given” we are reminded the wondrous gift is still given in the silences we need to either seek or carve out in a busy, loud world.

So if you are looking to create a magical Christmas, start with the holy silences.

I am enjoying one right now as I sit here and type and listen to nothing but a soft snore coming from my bumbling Bernese Mountain dog, Sofie, who is sleeping in the glow of nothing but the Christmas tree lights on in my living room.

I know this holy silence will not last. I have things on my Christmas list still to check off, but I am not going to stress over it. For now I have been given the gift of God’s presence and in this, my holy silence, I whisper my thank you to God.

The countdown to Christmas has begun and with it comes a flurry of last minute items to attend to, but try to make it a priority to create or find some holy silences.

For while the wondrous gift is given in silence, it is also in the holy silences the wondrous gift is truly received.

 

 

Day 18—Wide Eyes and Wonderment

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 18

“How many children do you expect will be at the caroling dinner?” my mom asked, not once, not twice, but a number of times throughout our phone call.

“I’m not sure,” I answered, not once, not twice, but a number of times. I tried not to show my agitation, but I really wasn’t planning on the little white church’s caroling dinner to be a big production. I had envisioned just a low-key night together to share a favorite casserole or dessert and sing some Christmas songs. All I wanted was a simple night of holiday togetherness.

And so the conversation with my mom went as such:

Me:      Why do you want to know how many kids will be at the caroling dinner?

Mom:  Your father just bought a Santa suit.

Me:      What?!

Mom:  You heard me correctly. A Santa suit, and I have to say, he makes a convincing Santa.

Me:      Where does dad plan on wearing this Santa suit?

Mom:  At the caroling dinner.

Me:      What?! (My parents lived more than three hours away from the little white church and so to drive all that distance for some potluck cuisine and off-key singing was dismaying.)

Mom:  We want to surprise the children with a visit from Santa.

Me:      What?!

Mom:  And Santa has to have gifts in his big old sack.

Me:      (Stunned silence on the phone.)

Mom:  So…how many boys do you expect? How many girls? Oh, and can you give me an idea of the age range, so I can get gifts they will like.

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My dad getting ready in my office the year he played Santa for the children at the little white church.

The little white church’s caroling dinner was turning into a big production. Still, even though I had more on my plate to plan, I couldn’t begrudge my parents the delight they were getting from being part of the Christmas celebrations at a church, while quite a distance away from them, was fast-becoming their family of faith. There was no denying, too, my mom sounded really excited to be buying gifts for what would be a handful of children.

Perhaps it was because there were no grandchildren in our family that made my mom interested in showering the children at the church with gifts. I had always wrestled with God as to why I never had the opportunity to have children of my own. Now, though, as pastor of the little white church, I was blessed with many children to love and nurture in the faith. Slowly I processed the pain in my own life and realized the healing and wholeness of God’s plan for my life.

The night of the caroling dinner came and it was turning out to be a beautiful, low-key night, in spite of the extra Santa event that was to take place.

The casseroles came in and were set out. Folks gathered around the table. I said a blessing over the food. Bread was broken. Laughs were shared. And throughout the night, as my mom and dad sat at the table smiling with the secret they had for the children, I kept saying to the kids, “Do you hear that?”

They would all get quiet trying to hear what I was hearing.

“Do you hear it?” I asked again. They all began to squeal, “What, Pastor Donna?”

“Bells. I hear reindeer bells. I think Santa is in our village tonight,” I said.

The older kids gave me “are you kidding me?” looks, while the younger children’s eyes grew wide with excitement and awe. One little boy in particular seemed very intrigued with these mysterious reindeer bells only I was hearing.

All throughout the dinner I would interrupt the children’s chatter and laughter with an impromptu, “Do you hear it? I just heard the bells again!”

Older kids’ eyes rolled growing tired of the “joke.” But little eyes grew wider and wider.

It was time for me to gather the children and begin reading the nativity story. That was my father’s cue to sneak out the chapel door and go outside to the sanctuary door that I had unlocked for him. He would have to walk through the cold and dark sanctuary to get to my office, which sat off the side of chancel. My dad, once transformed as Santa, would then go back outside and jingle the bells he had with him. That would be my cue to say to the children once again, “Do you hear that? I hear reindeer bells. I think Santa’s here.”

The Santa plan went perfectly. At the end of our discussion about the holy night in which Jesus was born, the soft jingle of bells could be heard approaching the chapel door.

“Do you hear that?” I said.

The kids heard, but instead of jumping and running to the door, they looked stunned. I wasn’t expecting that look.

The door burst open and in came my father, um, I mean, in came Santa with his “ho-ho-ho” said in an accent revealing perhaps Santa was from Switzerland and not the North Pole after all.

As the kids clamored around Santa, I noticed once again that one little boy who throughout the night seemed particularly in awe by the prospect Santa might be close by. By now, he was in an extreme state of excitement that he couldn’t even talk. He kept staring at Santa and waving his hands excitedly. And his eyes? They were the widest I have ever seen and they shone with joy beyond joy.

I was mesmerized by his reaction to the point I almost began crying. I could relate to his excitement for I remember a time years ago early in my call to ministry that many times I was left speechless and in awe by how God was working in my life. Many times my eyes would grow wider and wider and shone with joy beyond joy with the God moments happening right in front of me. I looked at the little boy and I looked at the children surrounding Santa and prayed that someday they would have their own wide-eye, joy-beyond-joy God moments.

For now, though, it was clearly a Santa moment and I had to quickly jump in and play Santa’s helper as some of the children were picking up on Santa’s accent and beginning to question where in the North Pole Santa really came from?

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Santa and Pastor handing out the gifts at the caroling dinner.

“Santa, let me do some of the talking,” I said to my dad with big smile.

Together we helped hand out the gifts and as I did so I looked up to see my mom at the table, her eyes were wide as well, wide with love and joy and glistening a bit with perhaps a tear or two as she watched the excitement of the children getting their gifts.

Santa soon had to leave and the children said good-bye, not one of them noticing that my dad was not at the table all this time. It was time to sing carols and perhaps it was just my imagination, but the songs seemed to be sung with more meaning and emotion.

When the last dish was cleaned and the lights of the chapel went out, I walked my parents to their car for their long drive back to New Jersey. In the snow covered parking lot, I thanked them both for the gift they gave the children that night. I thanked them for the gift they gave me, the gift of being such supportive parents, willing to go out of their way to make this a memorable night for the children.

We talked a bit more not really wanting to say good-bye, but it was getting late and it was very cold. So with a hug and a kiss, we parted ways.

“This is Christmas,” I thought as I drove home. The magic in the air, the giving freely of our time to the children, the generous spirit to buy all those gifts, but most of all, the remembering we should always keep our ears attuned not to reindeer bells in the crisp winter air, but to a more beautiful sound that is always there.

We should be listening to God’s whisper of love to us—a love, if we are open to it, will make our eyes grow wider and wider with wonderment and fill us with joy beyond joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 17—Mason Jar Gifts

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 17

I had just settled into my old colonial Saltbox and, in a few days, I would be celebrating my first Christmas Eve service at the little white church. I couldn’t wait to see the luminaries leading up to its wreathed-covered doors, to deliver the message of hope entering in to the world and to see the 18th century sanctuary washed in candlelight as I sang “Silent Night” with all those gathered.

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In just a few days, Christmas would be here.

For now, though, I had a rare night to myself and so I decided to turn on my little TV. That wasn’t as easy as it sounded because to get good reception (I just didn’t want pay for a satellite dish or cable), I had to position the TV in a certain angle in front of the window in the living room facing the east cornfield, and so on and so on.

After playing with the rabbit ears on the TV, I managed to get my one and only station. It seemed my rare night to myself would be spent watching the 1964 Christmas classic of my childhood, “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

I settled into the pile of comforters on the wide plank floor that served as my only place to sit as I had yet to figure out what kind of couch to buy that would fit through the narrow front door of the old house. The sofa I moved with now called the garage home. I wrapped the comforters around me as if I was in a cocoon and began watching. I was half amused and half sentimental when the snowman a.k.a. Burl Ives, who was narrating the story of this special little reindeer, began singing “Silver and Gold.”

Silver and gold, silver and gold, everyone wishes for silver and gold…

All of a sudden I was transported back in time when I would have easily agreed with the singing snowman. Everyone wishes for silver and gold, don’t they? I know I did.

I was a young editor in Manhattan and for me there was no better place to be at Christmastime than in the city. The season was ushered in with grand style. There was the giant snowflake hanging above the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street. There was the Christmas tree in Harry Winston strung with garland made of precious jewels. There was the big tree in Rockefeller Center, which I always thought looked smaller in person than it did on TV. There was the iconic red bow wrapped around Cartier’s façade, while just a few blocks up the avenue Tiffany’s famous window displays dazzled all those passing by.

I’ll admit it. Upon first seeing Tiffany’s windows, I had an Audrey Hepburn moment, finding myself gazing longingly at the windows just as her Holly Golightly character did in the opening of the movie, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

Not only were there silver and gold displays on the avenues of the city. There were many a silver and gold trinket making their way across my desk. As an editor of a jewelry magazine this was a time of year when the public relations departments of top designers, jewelry associations and major retailers, made sure we editors were on their gift giving list.

The typically annoying squeak of the mail cart coming down the hall to my office became music to my ears as I wondered what would be dropped on desk today.

Silver and gold, silver and gold, everyone wishes for silver and gold.

Ooh, what beautiful little gold star earrings. They are going to be perfect to wear on Christmas Day.

Silver and gold, silver and gold…

This silver pendant is going to look so cute with that dress I just bought.

Silver and gold, silver and gold…

And so went my Christmas season as I rushed home with my packages and placed them underneath the pathetic little tree in my apartment that I had pay way too much for.

Burl Ives continued singing to me from the TV positioned in such a way by the window facing the east cornfield. I looked over at my not so pathetic Christmas tree that did not come with an outrageous Manhattan price. Trees were definitely more reasonably priced here in “the country.”

Underneath the tree I realized I had something better than the silver and gold trinkets once given to me in another lifetime. There under the tree placed on top of an old quilt I used as a tree skirt, were precious gifts, shining and sparkling with love, all homemade from the hearts of those who wanted to say they were glad I was with them as their pastor.

There were mason jar gifts of a wide variety of homemade jams and pickles and chutneys. There were homemade chocolates wrapped in simple paper decorated with a jingle bell tied onto a string. There was homemade goat’s milk soap wrapped in burlap.

And, there was a decorative wooden plate hand painted by a member of the little white church with a Christmas scene that would come to life for me in just a few days. It was of the little white church nestled in snow with warm glowing light coming from its windows and opened doors as people made their way inside to worship Christ the newborn king.

I unwrapped myself out of my comforter cocoon and turned off the TV. Sorry, Burl Ives, but not everyone wishes for silver and gold. I have come to realize the thing we all wish for, whether we say it out loud or long for it quietly in our hearts, is to have the gift of love in our lives—a gift that comes wrapped in the most unassuming way, like burlap, paper, string…and, yes, even mason jars.

Come to think to of it, the greatest gift of love I have ever received came wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Didn’t it come to you that way, too?

 

 

 

 

 

Day 16—God Knows the Plan

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 16

Her life seemed to be one struggle after another, with never a moment to catch her breath and process all that was going on. Nagging health issues and mounting bills added to the stress of this newly single mom.

She had the faith of the most battle ready prayer warrior, but even such a warrior stands in the need of intercessions to God from time to time. She was now standing before me, in desperate need of prayer.

I had just come back from a pastoral visit that not only had me physically drained, but emotionally drained as well as I realized one of the saints of the little white church was soon to get his crown of gold. It’s hard being a pastor who falls in love with one’s church for love always comes with heartache.

With the recent visit on my mind I opened the door to the chapel that served as the main gathering hall for all our functions from chicken and biscuit dinners to vacation bible school to Bible studies to just simply hanging out sharing our stories of faith over one of my infamously high octane cups of coffee. Seriously, we’re talking strong coffee to the point I didn’t take offense when the dear souls who accepted a cup from me would go to the kitchen faucet and add a bit of tap water to temper it a bit.

While I was surprised to see her standing there, her eyes told me she was relieved and grateful to see me.

“Pastor Donna,” was all she could get out before sobbing. I had no idea what had happened, but managed to get bits and pieces from her in between the sobs. She had been very close to her breaking point but now the season of “be of good cheer” made her finally break.

“I can’t do it anymore. I just don’t understand why God is not showing me the way. Why, Pastor Donna, why isn’t God answering me?” she yelled with painful defeat in her voice.

Did I mention loving those in your church always breaks your heart? Well, my heart broke for this mother and I never felt so useless as in that moment when I stood there with her in the chapel not knowing how to answer her because from where I stood I had to agree with her. God just didn’t seem to be giving any answers.

I am not sure how it happened, but in an instant I took her hand and told her to come with me into the sanctuary for some time of prayer.

In retrospect, I like give credit to the Holy Spirit nudging me to do this because the Spirit just couldn’t stand watching me be useless any longer. So into the sanctuary we went.

The large room with its 18th century wooden pews that still had its period correct doors on each pew was frigid to the point you could see your breath crystalize in the air. The sanctuary was very expensive to heat in the winter and so the thermostat was kept on the lowest setting—basically “off.”

While it was extremely cold, we both went to the front of the church, by passing the pews, and opting for the simplicity of falling on our knees before God.

Once there, tears fell, sobs came and petitions were lifted to the highest of heaven. I prayed and cried for her heartache. She prayed and cried in return. Back and forth and back again, prayers were being said, when finally our two voices melded together into one prayer that was lifted to God.

I am not sure how long we stayed there on our knees praying but my toes were quite numb from the cold as were my fingers. Still, in spite of the cold, after we were done praying we continued to sit on the floor in a silence that made you realize there was something holy in the moment.

“God is answering you,” I finally whispered.

She simply nodded her head in agreement.

“You know, I have always held on to what God said to Jeremiah about knowing the plans He had for him. Plans for a future full of hope,” I said.

She simply nodded her head in agreement again.

“Did I ever tell you my Jeremiah moment?”

She shook her no.

“During seminary I hit rock bottom, just so frustrated with what seemed to be God giving me the cold shoulder.”

She turned to face me, clearly interested in what I had to say.

“Well, I had no idea how I was going to pay for seminary or keep on top of my mortgage payment. As if that wasn’t enough I was alone, no significant other, except my cat…” (I got her to laugh at that.)

“And,” I added, “I had no idea where I was going to wind up after I graduated seminary.”

I continued with my story telling her about how God wasn’t sharing one part of His plan for me. Or so it seemed. Then came the gift of a little white church. No, not the church she and I were sitting in the sanctuary of.

This white church was a Christmas present from my brother. It was my freshman year in seminary and my brother presented me a large box that had me a bit perplexed. I couldn’t even imagine what it was? Definitely not the standard gift card I had come to expect.

I ripped open the wrapping paper swirled with candy canes and snowmen and pushed aside the tissue paper to find inside a wooden New England style little white church. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen. My ooh’s and ah’s, though, didn’t relay what I was feeling in my heart. For as soon as I saw the little white church, I all of a sudden had this certainty that I was going to be okay. God was leading me even though I had no idea where I was going.

“That’s when I came across the Jeremiah passage about God knowing the plans He had for us, plans for a future full of hope,” I said, explaining how for the next three years of seminary I would mediate on that scripture daily while smiling and staring at the little white church that now sat on a drop leaf table in my living room.

Before I could continue on making the point that God had a plan of great hope for her future as well, she smiled and said, “And now you have your real little white church. Now you have us.”

For I know the plans I have for you.

Christmas is a time of year that can bring many of us to our breaking points. But it also a time of year to remember the silences of God are not what they seem for God is never silent.

God is always at work preparing for us a future full of hope. Sometimes that reminder comes in an impromptu prayer meeting on bended knees in a very frigid sanctuary. And sometimes that reminder comes in the way of a little wooden white church that filled me with unwarranted hope some three years before the actual little white church came into my life and filled me with hope realized.

Postscript

 A few months ago I received a letter from this woman telling me I was right about that Jeremiah passage. Her future, she is now seeing, is indeed God led and one full of hope. She also let me know that when she finally made the decision to join the little white church, when asked to share a scripture that reflected her faith journey, she shared with her faith family the one I shared with her years before:

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future filled with hope. Jeremiah 29:11

“I thought you would want to know that, Pastor Donna. Thank you,” she wrote.

I am glad to know.

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My little white church given to me by my brother as a Christmas present three years before receiving God’s Christmas present—a real little white church to serve in rural upstate New York. 

 

 

 

Day 15—O Little Town Of…

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 15

But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, are only a small village among all the people of Judah. Yet a ruler of Israel will come from you, one whose origins are from the distant past. Micah 5:2

You’re going where?

That was the reaction I received from friends who knew me from my well-heeled days—and my not so perfectly manicured nails—as a Manhattan editor, when I told them I was going to be moving to rural America to pastor a little white church from the 1700s.images

Let me explain here about the not so perfectly manicured nails. I had—and still have—a habit of nibbling on them while deep in the writing process. In fact, one nail just bit the dust right now.

Anyway, the reaction of where I was going didn’t get any better from ministry colleagues whom I thought would understand that this “call from God” thing often took you to the very place you least expected to go.

“I didn’t know you had aspirations of blessing cows,” was the joke made to me when I had to tell the chair of the Committee on Preparation for Ministry (Presbyterian lingo for the committee that guides you through the process to ordination and accepting a call).

“Very funny,” I said, trying to hide my annoyance and then trying to explain the unexplainable. When I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere with the chair of the committee—or anyone else—I would just give up and go along with them.

“Yep, well, what can I say? I’m looking forward to blessing the goats as well.”

Truth was, this move to a little rural village in which few had heard of didn’t make complete sense to me as well. And yet every time I thought of ministry there I was filled with hopeful anticipation and excitement for what God would reveal to me. I just had this incredible peace that certainly did pass all understanding that God was leading me to something I just couldn’t even imagine for myself.

It just didn’t make sense to my Manhattan friends or to my ministry colleagues or even to me. Yet it made complete sense to God. And day-by-day as I settled into role of an accidental country pastor something happened. I fell in love with a region of the country I never thought I would live in.

Each and every day I was in awe of the amazing sunrises. Each night awe struck again by how beautiful the sun set over hills and mountains and fields. The mooing of the cows echoing in the night brought a peaceful smile to my face. Even the smell of freshly sprayed manure made me smile.

My father grew up on a farm in Switzerland and a visit to the family home nestled in the Alps when I was a little girl certainly had its share of freshly sprayed fields. So in a way, the smell was sentimental, connecting me to my Swiss heritage.

I fell in love with the little rural village and its hills and fields and mountains. I also fell in love with its people who showed me it was possible to still smile even when life was tough. The perseverance mixed with a strong sense of community was refreshing and unique having come from city living where one didn’t even know the neighbor living in the apartment right next door to you.

Most of all, though, I fell in love with my life once again for when I first moved to the village on the border of Vermont, I had baggage to unpack. I’m not talking about boxes with my dishes or books in them. I had baggage of being 40 and single and still aching from the unanswered question as to why my boyfriend was killed years before, leaving me on this path of having to live life alone—or so it seemed.

Day-by-day, though, I unpacked the baggage of love lost and crushed dreams and before I knew it, I was coming back to life. But I was coming back to a life I had never expected to live, let alone fall in love with.

And so imagine my dismay when at one Advent Bible study at the little white church, while exploring the significance of Jesus being from Nazareth, a town in which one of his soon-to-be followers initially questioned, “Can anything good come from there?” the remark was made, “It’s like asking if anything good can come from this little rural village.”

Knowing smiles and chuckles came from those sitting at the table. A few days later, while hanging out with the children at the church’s after school program, we began talking about the same piece of scripture the adults had discussed. Same reaction came.

“Can anything good come from…”

“YES!” was my response. Yes, it can and it will. For that is the beauty of the Christmas story. God sees great significance in what the world says is insignificant. God didn’t raise a great ruler from a big and powerful city. God chose a little town. God didn’t choose the brightest and the richest to be the parents to Jesus. God chose regular working class people. God didn’t break the news of the birth of a Savior to the elite. God chose to let the lowly shepherds in on the good news first.

Can anything good come from a little rural village let alone a little rural village ministry?

Yes! It can and it did as day-by-day I saw hearts open to God and wills surrendering to God’s mysterious plans that proved way better than any of our plans.

O little town of…

In the middle of writing this, my reflections of a blessed ministry at a little white church in a rural village, I received an email from a friend who lived just down the block from the church and who would visit me every Sunday morning as I prepared for worship. He wrote:

I am glad this little town, in the middle of nowhere, has made a difference [to you]. It really helps to know that we actually matter, in such a big world. May the love and remembrances of Christmas past fill your heart with the anticipation of Christmas future.

Can anything good come from…

Yes. Good came.

In a a little village my heart was healed and I found a life I never thought I would ever find. I fell in love with the region, the people, my now husband who came from the little rural village and, I fell ever more deeply in love with the God I have come to trust a little bit more.

May we never look at things as little or insignificant, for they are the very things God smiles upon and uses for His purpose of hope and healing.

 

 

 

Day 14—And Hear the Angel Sing

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 14

There’s a figurine of an angel sitting on one of my many 18th century antique finds—an old farm table that I now use as my writing desk.IMG_1725

The angel is kneeling with her head slightly bowed and her hands folded in prayer. In between the tasks occupying my time while at that desk—writing, texting, emailing, making and returning calls—I often find myself gazing at her. And with each gaze I give her, she in turn gives me something back: the resolve to hold on to faith whenever my faith is wavering.

This serene, prayerful angel who restores my faith, though, is no ordinary angel. She is an angel that has been put through the ringer.

It was days before Christmas when I found her sitting on my still-covered-with-snow porch. She was nestled in simple brown tissue paper and gently placed in a just as simple brown paper bag. There was no card or gift tag on the bag, but the beautiful sprig of holly told me who my secret Santa was. I recognized the holly from the Christmas tree farm that was just down the dirt road from my house. And so I knew at that moment this gift was from my neighbor who probably thought I, a busy pastor made even more so due to the Christmas season, could use a little cheer—and perhaps, some extra prayers.

When I took the angel out of her paper bag home, she revealed her heavenly wings to me made out of wire and a wire halo as well. She was the picture of perfection. My bumbling Bernese mountain dog, Sofie, then a puppy, thought this angel was perfect, too. That is, a perfect gift for her.

While I was at Bible study that evening, Sofie decided to play with her new toy, the angel. By the time I came home, wire wings all twisted up greeted me on the floor of the front door and I knew this didn’t bode well for what was to come. Into the living I went and there on the couch was Sofie holding the angel in her two front paws and looking up at me with her big brown eyes, never stopping for one second the enjoyable licking she was doing on top of the angel’s head.

How could I be mad at this puppy? It looked to me as if Sofie, too, love this prayer angel.

I gently pried the angel from her paws and gave her a feeble, “bad, dog,” that didn’t do much good in the puppy training department as it was topped off with a loving kiss on top her head.

I placed the angel up high on a shelf feeling sad for her as it now looked as if she had been through a war. Her hair was licked gone and her wings and halo stripped from her.

As I finally made my way to bed later that night, I passed by the figurine and stopped and stared at her. I know it was just my imagination, but she seemed to glow with joy. Her wings were gone; her halo missing; her brown hair licked away and chewed up and scratches galore; and yet, she was still the picture of perfection with her head gracefully bowed down and hands folded in prayer.

She was the picture of perfection for the perfection she now spoke of was her resolve to never stop praying no matter what. It was in that moment the angel became even more precious to me than when I took her out of the simple brown paper bag decorated with sprigs of holly, because now I saw in that angel a reflection of myself, a reflection of those who called the little white church their home and a reflection of all humankind. We are all battered and bruised. But that doesn’t mean we give up on praying and praising. We keep on lifting our voices to God who always hears us.

While the multitude of the heavenly hosts sing this time of year a soaring chorus of “Glory to God in the highest!” my battered prayer angel sings another song I need to be reminded of at Christmas. A song I need when I begin falling into the trap of thinking my prayers, my sermons, my pastoral visits, my gifts I buy for others, etc., all need to be perfect.

The song my battered angel sings is the old spiritual that goes like this, “some times I feel discourage, and think my work’s in vain, but then the Holy Spirit, revives my soul again.”

I wish everyone had battered and bruised prayer angel sitting on a desk or shelf or a fireplace mantle, especially this time of year.

For Christmas is a time we need to let go of the elusive idea of perfection. (Reminder to all, there is no such thing as a perfect family or perfect children.)

Christmas is the time of year we need to bring our battered selves to the side of the cradle where the Christ child is. We need to pour out our ardent prayers and let the Christ child take our battered and bruised lives and turn them into something beautiful. We, in return, need to keep on praying. Always. No matter what condition we are in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 13—The Christmas Rainbow

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 13

Rainbow watchers.

I had a lot of them at the little white church I served—men and women who after a storm would search the sky for the brilliant rays of red, orange, green, yellow and blue.images

And once the rays were found, I would get text messages with pictures and comments such as, “God’s promises arching over us” or “God smiling down upon us.”

I’ll admit it. I became one of those “rainbow watchers.” I just couldn’t help it because the rainbows in that part of the country were some of the best ever.

Perhaps it was the vast expanse of hills and valleys all around us that made the rainbows seem closer to us than they really were. Or maybe the air was a bit cleaner as there was not that many cars giving off fumes or factories poisoning the air and so we could see God’s palette of colors even better.

Whatever it was, every time it stormed I, too, searched the skies for God’s message of hope to come after the storm was over.

One memorable rainbow came one summer evening. A vacation bible school meeting had just ended with more time taken than usual to pray for the children God would send to us. This time of prayer continued in the parking lot when a few of us, still lingering about, felt the Spirit move and so we prayed some more. (I believe we can never have enough prayer and, boy, was it a blessing to serve a community where impromptu church parking lot prayers happened more than the usual church parking lot squabbles in which churches are notoriously known for.)

So we prayed some more for God’s Spirit to pour out upon us so that we could be used as instruments for reaching the children in our midst.

On my drive home a storm had rolled in quickly and before I could even search the sky for a rainbow, the message alert on my phone dinged. There on my screen was a picture of not just one rainbow, but two rainbows, side-by-side, arching over what looked to be directly above our little white church.

The rainbow was also rare in the way that it was a complete bow, not just part of a bow. It was a leprechaun’s dream rainbow as it clearly had a beginning and an end that one could imagine led to that fabled pot of gold.

The message underneath the picture read, “Look at this, Pastor Donna! God’s reassurance that He has heard our prayers!” It certainly was a blessed reassurance that God was hearing us. And vacation bible school saw many kids attend and learn about Jesus.

Summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter and the rainbow sightings grew fewer and fewer as the season changed.

By the time Christmas approached I wasn’t gazing too much up at the sky searching for rainbows. After all, who finds them in the winter? I never did. No, there would no more rainbow reassurances from God in these wintery skies.

“But, God,” I whispered, “I could REALLY use some reassurance that you are here.”

It was December 21, 2012 and I had a huge weight on my shoulders. In three days I would be preaching about the gift of a Savior born to us and yet I just couldn’t get my mind off of the children who were killed just a week before in a school shooting in Connecticut.

What would I say about the holy night in which God came to us in flesh when lately it seemed as if God incarnate was as fabled as the leprechaun’s pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? In just three days I had to preach about hope born again in our lives.

And so on December 21 I was driving to the grocery store to pick up some items for the caroling dinner the little white church was hosting that night. I was feeling a bit stressed as I wasn’t able to wash my hair or have a hot cup of coffee or enjoy the lights on my Christmas tree because an early morning rainstorm blew through the area. In its path it left behind broken tree limbs and no electricity.

My attitude was not great at all. Not only could I not have a shower and a cup of coffee, I had wanted to write my Christmas Eve sermon, but I had, yet again, forgotten to charge my laptop and so I was even without that.

As I drove the winding road I noticed something beyond the valley arching over a quintessential New England red barn.

A rainbow? This time of year? So close to Christmas?

It was indeed. Its beautiful arches hovered over the land and the colors rivaled even the most precious of stones that I have held in my hands as a young jewelry editor in Manhattan.

I pulled the car over so that I could call my mom. I just had to share the news about this incredible rainbow!

My mom answered the phone but before I could even tell her the reason I was calling she rushed me off the phone with the quickest of explanations. At that very moment the rainbow appeared, my mom was watching on the TV the moment of silence and the ringing of the bells for the children and teachers killed a week before in Connecticut.

I hung up the phone and stared at the rainbow. I looked at the clock in the car. It was exactly the time in which the shooting took the lives of these innocent people, and now here before me was a sign of God’s reassurance that hope does come after the storms are over.

I had my Christmas Eve message:

Years ago God’s announcement of hope breaking into our lives came with the appearance of a brilliant star in the East. The star of Bethlehem, pointing brilliantly to the one who would bring light to our darkened world—pointing to the Christ Child.

I’ve always stared up at the sky on this holy night, wishing that I could somehow be granted a glimpse of such a sign of reassurance that God is still at work in our lives. And I know many of you are looking this day for such a sign. If only we could see that star or see something to know that all will be well.

But, my friends, God is still reassuring us that He has not become to deaf to our cries. Some of you saw that incredible rainbow three days ago. I saw it, too. But what you might not have realized is that rainbow appeared in the sky at the very moment our nation paused in silence to pray for and remember those lost in the evil that struck the school in Connecticut. For those who say God has forgotten us, I say, open your eyes and open your heart. Believe. For a rare Christmas rainbow appeared right before us—God’s reassurance that hope will always break through as it did this night so long ago. God is still speaking in the brilliance of a star, a cry of a newborn baby in a manger, in the songs of the angels, and, in a rare Christmas rainbow.

May you leave here tonight reassured you do not leave alone. God is with you, as promised.

I still find myself every now and then watching for rainbows after a storm. But what I look for even more are signs of God’s reassurances that I have learned come in the most unexpected ways—just like that rainbow days before Christmas.