A New to the Manger


Meredith Bunting shared her post.

December 7 at 11:28am


Meredith Bunting

December 7 at 7:59am

I sense this morning some are seeking "the Light at the end of the tunnel."
The journey to the Manger is shadowed, murky, tunneled dark. The path is cluttered, winding, strange.
Lights blink, blare, blasting neon, stinging eyes, searing brains, saddening hearts.
Where is the Manger Light?
Slow. Stop. Sit. Shut watering weary eyes. 
There is no tunnel - here is, always is - the Presence of God.
The Glory of God surrounds you. His is a devouring fire on top of the mountain of confusion, concern, chaos. His is the Sword flashing like lightening through doubts, fears, despair. His fire "in the sight of all Israel" is YOUR Light still!
This is the only Light we follow on our New Way to the Manger.

Failed Mission?

The man’s response to my gift was not what I had expected. I had gone boldly to bless him and in turn he chastised me.  Two days before, on an overcast morning of autumn’s first chill, I set about my task. Taking recent purchases from their bags, I sorted them out on the kitchen table and organized them into matching piles of razors, deodorants, socks, gum, M&M’s, shampoos, Slim Jim’s, and First-aid kits, all in compact sizes. They fit just right in the large zip lock bags with enough room for the card holding a pocket-sized Cross, a folded five dollar bill, and an invitation to come to my church.

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Recently I asked the Lord for a closer relationship with Him and, as a special favor, perhaps some new wisdom. I have found Him to have a sense of humor, as He has kept company with me through my grandchildren. Also, He taught me a few lessons along the way.

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Saying Goodbye

In two days I will take my little dog to the vet. It will be her last trip, for she will be put to sleep at 2:30 in the afternoon. The decision to do this sits in my throat like a wad of cotton. Am I doing the right thing?

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No Room to Share

Life is a series of good-byes. When you leave something, the most memorable – the ones you keep in your heart forever - are those you have shared with someone else. People, places, and even trees have something to give. A child is too busy perfecting the world she is in to realize this. It takes several good-byes until the lesson is learned.

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Carpool Rule Breaker

Admit it. Even if your carpool days are long over, we all remember the Carpool Rules. In fact some of us still have nightmares about the public shame cast upon those belligerents who broke them. Some may even have spent time in the Principal's Office cutting out Hall Passes. Somewhere, tucked in our Pertinent Records Files, we have pamphlets marked IMPORT

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Making Friends

After my father died, my Mother, at sixty-something, moved into a new town to make friends and start over. I wondered how she would do; sixty- something is late to begin new friendships. I watched from my distance but looked for an apartment, just in case she decided she wanted to live near me.

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Dave and Dan

The closest friend is the one who will stick by forever and cover you no matter what.

Dave and Dan were best friends. Next-door neighbors, grown men, these two, and both in the Navy. One flew jets while the other was a Black Shoe and worked at a desk, which my husband never ceased to remind him.

“Only a Black Shoe would drive the speed limit. Right Dave? I’ll drive, Buddy - that way we can get two beers!” Dave would just smile and say maybe later.

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My Christmas Mother

My husband opened the half-gallon of fruit punch and poured out its contents – fully two thirds of the bottle - down the drain. He then picked up a jug of cranberry juice, just as large and full as the fruit punch, and muttered as he poured.

“We waste so much stuff during the holidays.”

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She appears defeated, like the shivering sky

draped in soggy grey clouds, the sun

retreating to happier grounds.

Her body succumbed to the metal chair,

she lifts her small liver-spotted right hand,

folded and wrapped in a splint with thick foam bands,

and places it on the Formica table.

Slowly, sighing, sinking, she works at the prickling Velcro tabs until

her formless hand is released. Watching her stronger fingers

straighten the limp bent ones, she seems to be preoccupied

with a time beyond the room

of bands, braces, pulleys, and balls.

While the therapist chatters

about cell phones, pansies, and her son in the Navy,

the patient, weary already with the day, turns her flaccid hand

this way and that.

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When I Was Eleven

When I was eleven, my mouse, Melvin, turned out to be a rat.

Glossy tabloid pictures of Ricky Nelson speckled my bedroom wall

my face also had splotches of pimples.

I had a “Blood Brother” named Jack who was my best friend.

We had a fort in the condemned barracks down the street.

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Apple Pie Stories

Black. She could feel it. Her eyes fluttered opened.

Why, I thought I opened my eyes. She blinked a second time. The black was the same. I must turn on my lamp. Whoever shut my blinds so tight?  I thought Margaret left before I went to bed.

She had been feeling weaker than usual. But what could she expect after nine decades.

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