CHRISMONS?? WHAT? What are they?

  CHRISMONS?? WHAT?
  White and Gold Ornaments on Christmas trees ...                  Christmas 2012
    What are they? 

                                                                         
                                  Christmas 2012, Three generations worked on Chrismon tree,
                                             my mother, my granddaughter and me.
           
             It was my first year as a believer. And December, 1979, came in a glorious way. Every Christmas tree greener, every manger scene pulling me with a power like never before, making me want to kneel and....

             We visited at my in-laws' church. A Methodist church well known in our area. The front near the altar adorned with poinsettias, red bows sprinkled here and there. Just right. Beautiful Christmas carols sung by the choir ... bells aringing ...  and then, I saw it for the first time in my life! The Christmas tree near the altar was decorated with these strange gold and white ornaments. What were those?

              After the service, being of a curious sort, I asked my mother-in-law, "What were those symbols on the tree? Is there a reason why they were only white and gold? Do they come out only at Christmas time?" She stared at my face and waited for me to breathe again.
               
               "Marggie, they're called Chrismons. I have a book at home that explains them. You can have it," she said.
              
                A couple of years later my seven year old daughter and I decided we would decorate by making ornaments for a  Chrismon tree. We worked hard on the symbols and some of our friends and family members were really encouraging. They decided to add to our Chrismons so the ornaments we have today are all special to us. Oh, by the way .... this is what I found out from the book.

       Chrismon: Information and Trivia

         1. A Chrismon is a Christian symbol representing Jesus Christ.

         2. The word Chrismon comes from the Latin phrase "Christi monogramma," meaning "monogram of Chirst."

         3. The Ascension Lutheran Church, in Danville, VA, holds the copyright on the word "Chrismons."

         4. The rights to that word were given to the church by Mrs. Frances Spencer, who originated the concept and brought it to that church in 1957.

         5. Chrismons may never be made for profit.

         6. Chrismons are either all white or all gold or white and gold. The gold represents Christ's majesty as King Of Kings, the white represents His holiness as God and Lord of lords.

        

        *After some research and feedback from other people who have Chrismon trees I learned
         one can place words, objects, letters, titles and names of Christ as a Chrismon on the tree.
         It differs according to how strict or lenient a person wants to be. However, the ornament
         pattern of colors is always the same, white,gold,or white and gold.
                                                                                        

                                                                      

   Crosses crocheted by my mother in 1981.

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS HAPPENING ... The Stranger ... The Retuns

          

                    The Stranger ... The Returns                          From Memoir, A Dot In Time

   

     My old CD chimed within my car, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, as I waited in the parking lot. Outside the store a lady fidgeted with the Redbox kiosk, trying to get her movie. She pulled her sweater collar around her neck. I decided to wait, wrapped in the joyful sound, and delighted to sense my heater's gentle breathing on my sandaled toes.

     Suddenly, I became aware of the presence. A diminutive figure stood  in front of my car like a lone reed.

    Oh, no. I thought.  He doesn't know I've been waiting. He'll get ahead of me. I wanted to return the movie and get on with life. Errands to run, bathrooms to clean, Christmas presents still to wrap.

    I scanned over the fellow before me. His beige, shabby jacket, faded jeans, day-old beard, chopped cropped hair ... and those glasses! Round glass circles, thick, thick, thick. And what pulled me in and glued me to them was that yellow tint.  My mind reeled fast like an out of control broken movie projector. Oh my goodness. Did he have that tint put in intentionally? I traced his figure down a bit and discovered the mustard shirt inside his jacket. Was the tint the reflection of that material? And, I smiled to myself. Mischief crept in. He's not a reed. He's Mr. Hotdog! Mustard and all.  

     I scooted out of my car, hoping Mr. Hotdog would let me go next. I stared into thick yellow tinted glasses on the small face occupied by a giant smile. "You were here first," he said.

    "Thank you. It's only a return," I said. His smile got wider.

    I plunged myself into the machinery to return my DVD  but could not get it to work. One way and another I seemed to place it in the wrong way. Frustrated I glanced at the stranger patiently waiting.

     "Could you help me, sir? I never returned one of these before."     

      He worked at putting the DVD on the right side facing the right way. It took a few tries to get it just right and I thanked him.

     "You're welcome. Sometimes I also have problems with the returns."

     I turned hurriedly to leave. But, heard his voice once again. "Merry Christmas." Merry Christmas?

    I stopped and looked back into his thick tinted glasses. "Merry Christmas!" I returned.

 

   Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.  Hebrews 13:2

TODAY ...

                   

                  Today ...      

 

           His look captured my eyes and then his words plunged into my soul.

           "Organ donor?" He said.

           I froze. Organ donor? Was that to be engraved on my new driver's license? Etched there by my submitted will?  I remembered then what I had asked Him.

          "It's Your celebration this month. What do You want me to give You for your birthday?"

          "Organ donor, Mrs. Rassler. Do you want to be an organ donor?"

          Past fears surfaced to be snuffed out by my mind's picture of a humble stable. A forlorn little stable stamped by destiny with the shadow of  a cross.

          And then, the voice jolted me out of the pensive trance.

          "Organ donor?" he asked once more.

          "Yes. Donor." I said

INSANITY ... THE PERFECT STORM

     
        

                       INSANITY ... THE PERFECT STORM           by Marggie Rassler

                      

        In 1979 the voices moved in. They took residence inside my head and outside my ears.

Sleep became futile. At night, my eyes closed to reveal unwelcome intruders. In the darkness within me the daunting parade of strange faces appeared ... coming closer and closer to my mind's eye. Angry faces. Eyes like razors. One by one they slid closer and closer into me. Each forcefully drawing something out of me. At these times, I trembled and wept. Alone. Couldn't tell anyone I had plunged into insanity. The children ... they would be taken away.

        My heart battled its inner world of constant storms. Biting, crushing words from the voices tormented me with their prophecies of approaching doom. "Soon you will be in a mental hospital. Behind bars.Tied down." Only the loaded gun in the closet whispered relief.

        In my despair I called out to God. Visions came from a supernatural realm and then ... the invitation. Surrender.

        Surrender? Surrender what? Surrender all.

        What else to do? I wrote the open, invisible check and gave it to Him. My life, my soul, my children, my husband ... all. My insanity. All that I had, all that I was, all that I would be. And then, it began. A supernatural existence. The war with a year of the endless battles He and I would fight together ... battles won placing me back into sanity. Lessons I would then spent thirty years teaching others.

         At my house we have a sign on the front door. Shalom. The Hebrew word means PEACE. A certain kind of peace that brings health, well-being, protection and deliverance. Many through the years, have come through our doors, looking for that. In their search I have seen their encounters with God that radically changed their hopeless lives. It is because of the supernatural power of redemption I have experienced in my own life and the same power I have seen manifested in their lives that I believe.

        It is because of the desire in my life to help others so oppressed that I want to write and tell their stories ... His story. Pray for me.

A THANKSGIVING OFFERING

                            

A Thanksgiving Offering  by Marggie Rassler  Thanksgiving 2012

Give Me "your true real,"

Though raw and foul,

The stench of your days old

Crucified flesh,

Screaming loud,

My treasured scent ...

Your thanksgiving offering.

The Amen

ME AND CONFETTI

  

    Me And Confetti               by Marggie Rassler   To my family and friends ... thanks

                                                                      for those  precious dots in time you've given me!

Trace me first with Cross,

That pins my eyes

To the heavenlies.

 Color me blood-red,

 For my Latin love

 Of passion.

 Spray me with

 The scent of just

 Grounded coffee beans.

 

 Sculpture me, with hairpin

 Mountain turns, mirrors of

 my love for adventure.

 

Paint brush me with tears,

Frozen rivers melting now,

For an island's oppressed people.

 

Sing me into a song,

To the beat of the drum,

Of my grandchildren's laughter.

 

  And finally,

 

  Splash me, with

  The multi-colored dots,

  The many people

  Who gifted me with,

  Most unforgettable moments ...

  

  My dots in time,

  My life's Confetti!  

 

THE LORD'S SHOES

 

                                                                         
             

THE LORD’S SHOES        ( October 2011)

  by Marggie Rassler

 

Where does the Lord,

Take off His shoes,

To rest, to gaze, to ponder?

Where does He pause to smile  

Then sing, as children play and wander?

 

Where does the Lord sit for a time,

To hear the wind's soft whisper,

And views fall leaves,

Swaying down from trees,

As happy frolicking sisters?

 

Where does the Lord paint

Party streamers, on evening skies,

Like rainbow sprays from fountains?

Where does He go to see the sun,

Play Hide and Seek with mountains?

 

Where does He trace,

The walks of fawn,

To food in early dawn?

Where does He teach the morning call,

To a rooster standing tall?

 

In Blairsville, Georgia,

When fall is preaching,

And nature’s choir,

My heart is reaching,

I see His Shoes…

And take off mine.

 

 

             “Moses! Moses! Take off your sandals, for you are standing on holy ground.”

                                                                               Exodus 3:4,5

                                                                              

              “He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.”

                                                                              Zephaniah 3:17                                                                      

 

                                                                             

I HEAR THE WHISPER OF THE MOUNTAINS CALLING ...

                                      "I hear the whisper ... the mountains calling me...."

                                                                     
                                 Poem we sing every year on the way to Georgia!
               

      WHEN… I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA?            ( Poem we sing to the tune of,

          by Marggie Rassler (2009)

                                                                                         Deep In The Heart Of Texas) 
            

                                                                     

When nature gloats,                                                   Every year close around this time the

                                                                                   family caravans ... off to Georgia.

In autumn’s coats,                                                      As we go, my grandchildren and their 

                                                                                   Nana, love to turn a little crazy

                                                                                    singing this.

And scarecrows wink,

As birds’ plans sink!

                                                                                                                       

 

                                                    Ooooooo!

                                                    I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA!

 

                                                   When sorghum cooks,

                                                   Around the bend,

                                                   And apple-fritters,

                                                   Temptaions send!

 

                                                   Ooooooo!

                          

                                                   I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA!

                                       

                                                   When the air is crisp,

                                                    And the winds us frisk,

                                                    When leaves come down,

                                                    And pumpkins frown!

 

                                                    Ooooooo! 

                                                   

                                                    I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA!

 

                                                    When the fair is there,

                                                     With the vendor's wares,

                                                     And the big crowds stay,

                                                     To hear fiddlers play,

 

                                                     Ooooooo!

                                                      I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA!

 

                                                     When the corn is picked

                                                      And the hay is rolled, 

                                                      When we hold our breath,

                                                       Beauty to behold!

 

                                                      Ooooooo!

                                                      I WANT TO BE IN GEORGIA!

                                                                         

                                                                           

GOD'S FEATHERS

         

                                   GOD'S FEATHERS                  What are they?

 

               She came in like a whirlwind and threw herself on the couch. She told me a story of

a friend who offended her, wounding her deeply. She spoke and conviction pounded me like a judge's gavel. I had done the same thing to one of my friends. Ouch! God's feathers!                            

                He spoke eloquently, sharing his message.

               "When you walk the path you're clearing it for the next generation."

                The speaker inspired me to ask myself questions. How could I walk the path for my

children and grandchildren so I would clear it?  What exactly is the path? What a message! God's feathers?

                 She served us an Italian dinner at the restaurant. When I asked her why she had

such a good attitude she said, "Why not. I'm thankful for what I have. I might not be able to do this someday. Glad to do it now. " I thought carpe diem ... a topic that had come often to my mind in recent days. Heavenly affirmation for the spiritual study to take? Some just call it coincidence but I have experienced so many of these before ... I call them God's feathers.

                 She came to me for counseling. Her emotions and appearance in disarray. I heard a voice within me say, "She has a gun. Careful." She did. God's feathers.

        God's Feathers?  What are God's feathers?      

         For me they're messages. Words needed at just the right time. On occasions  they have come to convict me. Other times these words came to inspire me or warn me. Sometimes, like with the waitress mentioned, they reinforce the guidance I have been drawn to already. Her words were a repetition of a theme running through my mind ... something  I wanted to study the following week. It just happened that the same theme floated from her lips and that my spirit did a flip receiving it? No. I don't think so.      

        Why do  I name them God's feathers? I choose the term from an instance in the Bible. From a Scripture that describes The Spirit of God, descending on Jesus like a dove. (John 1:32) I picture the Spirit's passage through the lips of a person that's giving me His message. I imagine that He leaves precious feathers, God's message, when he swiftly flies by. God's feathers.

        In my life, throughout the years, I've found interesting facts about The Spirit's  messengers. The Spirit is not partial. He uses multiple messengers of different ages, gender and nationalities. They come with diverse  skin colors and religions ... believers and nonbelievers. Often, the messenger doesn't even know he's giving me a message. The ways of The Spirit are mysterious indeed! Who can fully comprehend them? When the message came to my mind about the gun, was the messenger that whispered it an angel? The Biblical meaning for the word angel is a ministering spirit, a messenger. (Hebrews 1:14)

         I labor at staying open and sensitive but my life, at times, is like a subway train, flashing by with schedules to keep and passengers to get to their needed destination.  I dread to think of messages I've missed that came from such sacred distance.  Precious feathers I have overlooked or, yet worse, trampled.

       So, if at some time you see me gazing upon your face like one hypnotized by what you're saying, there's a good chance I have found, within your words, God's feathers!

                                                                  
                   

AN AMARYLLIS FOR AMARILYS

              
                AN AMARYLLIS FOR AMARILYS                From Memoir, A Dot In Time

                                                                            
                                                      An Amaryllis For Amarilys
                 

                          

           He blew into the demitasse and then sipped his cafecito. He liked it hot. I made sure it was. He took his cap off ... the cap that teamed so well with his peppered moustache to make him look like a Greek sailor, a captain of his ship.

           He brought me two packages. The bigger box he wanted me to open  the next day. The day of my birth. The other smaller one he said to open that day. Inside that one maybe, the answer to my inner question every year? Did my father remember?

           I came to sit with him at the kitchen table. Both of us drinking our coffee a bit fast in contrast with the conversation that usually began like the trickling of a melting stream.

         On occasion he would give me the blessing, that crown on my head, that I would wear joyfully for days. "With you I want to talk. Let me tell you...." Then he would go on to share about what troubled him. In many occasions after he finished his coffee one corner of his mouth would lift and be pinned up for a few seconds, like the first part of a piece of clothing one used to hang up on  clotheslines.  I knew then I'd soon be transported into my father's memory. 

         Themes ran into one another in some of these conversations. Loose wild animals seeking shelter. The poverty of his family when he was a boy, the difficulty of  immigration to a new land, the loss of respect and discrimination he experienced in some of  his jobs because of his nationality ... secret trauma he kept buried.

         I sat quietly, my heart, like a net catching his memories, sensing the sacredness of invitation into his sanctum. Usually, in the midst of his deepest reflections, he would look at his watch and say, "Your mother home soon. Gotta cook."  He would gather his cap with a swift jerk and fold his emotions away in the same way. In those times I moved  also in a whirlwind, catching him before he left.  Kissing him. Feeling the rough edges of  his day old beard.

           "There's an amaryllis bulb in there. Better open it."

           "An amaryllis? You remembered."

           "Sí. An amaryllis for Amarilys." 

                                                                (for my father, Tomas Gacio  1920-1990)

   

                   For A Very Loving Friend

             She came into Panera's with a bag full of presents.

             "Open this one first," she said.

              I stared at the box. The shape seemed familiar.

              "You told me the story about your dad. How he brought you ..."

              I ripped the paper and looked inside. An amaryllis bulb.

             "It's from your dad," she said.

             "An amaryllis for Amarilys," I said.

              I held back the tears. "Thank you, Maria."

              The Greek sailor ... still talking.

                
                                                                                         

                                                                                                   amaryllis photo by Lilja Taylor