A Little Magic & Mystery: Tyson Christmas Newsletter 2017

I do love a good story. I always have. And when I find one that particularly captures my imagination, I relive it over and over again. I’ll walk through that magic wardrobe as many times as you’ll let me. I’ll carry the ring of power into the cracks of Mt. Doom, I’ll attend balls with Elizabeth Bennett, or even climb–time and time, again–into a blue box with that madman from Gallifrey. I’m kind of a big kid. I think it’s the allure that C.S. Lewis speaks of, that ability to “become a thousand men and yet remain myself,” to live adventures that are too big and too many for one life to contain. Who wouldn’t want to do that?

This month, I experienced just such a story…five times to be exact. Sara performed in Ballet Memphis’ “The Nutcracker” from Friday, December 15 through Sunday, December 17. At each show, I took in the magic of this timeless ballet, performed by a talented and diverse group of dancers, and made even more breathtaking by the beautiful strains of Tchaikovsky’s score. The story has everything for the holiday season — a starry-eyed girl, a hero, a battle of good vs. evil, and an enchanted dreamland made real for one glorious night. A perfect holiday treat for the senses. I didn’t get tired of it. Not one bit. Even today, running errands, the melodies played in my head, and the streets seemed just a little more magical for it. And that’s why I love good stories. It’s not that they diminish the reality that I trudge around in; they make reality better: “He does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods; the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted” (C.S. Lewis). Stories don’t make the real world less. They make it more. Even the reality of Memphis City streets. And that is no mean feat, my friend!

And yet…

 

And yet, how little the magic and mystery of this Christmas tale compares to the Magic and Mystery of the First Christmas Story, the greatest story ever told. Seriously, Ballet Memphis has the most gorgeous sets for the Nutcracker. They transport you. But they can’t compare to a Story set, not on a stage, but against the backdrop of the entire Universe. It’s a cosmic story of the ultimate Good against the ultimate Evil. A Story of a Hero who sacrifices everything. It’s a story to surpass all others. It’s one of Hope, one of Wonder. One of Mystery. And, yes. It’s a story filled with Magic.

No Words

     I got up this morning, and sat down at the computer for, perhaps, the tenth time… to write something about my Granddad. If you know me, you know that I’m pretty verbose. I like words, and I’m not embarrassed to use them – often and frequently. It’s the English Lit major in me. And yet, each time I sit and stare at the monitor, no words come. My father, husband, and brothers all spoke words of him at his memorial service on Monday. They were true words, honoring words. Words that made us laugh and cry. My sisters, too, have written words, and posted pictures. My Granddad’s brother and nieces have shared beautiful, beautiful words. But I haven’t. No words come.

     I spent much of last week staring at pictures of Odus Rice. I went through photographs, had them printed and framed, put still others in a slideshow. I got to the church early to set those pictures out. I even tracked down an AV guy following the service to make sure that the slideshow played on a loop. All to honor this man that I love. Pictures I had covered. But words? Still. No. Words.

     I begin to suspect that I’ve feared saying the words, talking of him in past tense, because that will make it true. That I will no longer pick up the phone to talk to him. That I can no longer include him in our Christmas plans. Nor can I schedule those days with him for spring break. There will be no more trips, no more memories made, no more laughter shared. He is gone. And there is now a hole in my life.

     Grandparents do die. If the natural order of things is followed, we grandchildren outlive them. It just IS. And I’ve had my very own grandfather far longer than most – 46 wonderful years. But the hard truth is that saying good-bye to him means saying good-bye to aspects that have blanketed me in security and well-being throughout my life –  his unfailing love, his all-encompassing support and encouragement, his pride in me – always disproportionately huge, considering my rather small accomplishments. (HA!) It means saying good-bye to his joy, far more than that one man’s body should have held. And though it’s assumed that a good-bye was always inevitable, the grief seems no easier to bear.

     There is one saving grace in all of this. One very momentous, very important detail that brings grief into focus. Though Granddad is “gone,” he is not “lost.” I know where he is. He now worships at the feet of our Savior, who has received him with those amazing words “Well done, my good and faithful servant!” (You see, my words fail, but our Savior’s DO NOT!!) And his celebration, which began two weeks ago yesterday,  continues. He is joined by all the saints who have gone before him. Joined by my beloved Grandmother, by family members and friends, by heroes of the faith, all worshipping the King. What a gathering! And THERE he’ll be, waiting, when it is my turn leave this earth. Good-bye is not forever. And as our Uncle John Rice said so well, “His best days are JUST beginning.”

     In the meantime, though my words are few and ineffective, I pray that I become more like this man, Odus Rice. who in turn, strived to be like the Savior at whose feet he now sits. May I learn to love unconditionally. May I encourage and support. May I celebrate others’ accomplishments before my own. May my joy overflow into others, simply because it is too big for my body to contain. (Oh, how I need that last prayer the most! Please Lord! HELP! I need LOTS of reconstruction!)

     And there you have it. I’ve managed to turn “no words” into, at least, a cathartic few. Though there really ARE no words – no words to adequately describe this wonderful, wise, witty man. No words to tell of the impact he had on my life, this man who showered love on me, who prayed for me, who showed me Christlikeness in all of its forms.  No words to express the gaping hole, and the sense of loss, that is now present in our family. I’m sure, as the days pass, more words will come. Odus Rice deserves every one. I am blessed to have walked this earth with him, to have known him, to have been loved by him.

May I be to my own grandchildren, someday, what he has been to me.

Great is God’s Faithfulness!

Odus William Rice

August 26, 1936 – October 24, 2017

 Durango, Colorado Family Trip (July 2017)

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No “Warm Fuzzies” Needed

Below is from one of the Christmas letters I wrote several years ago. It’s message seems more and more appropriate with each passing year. There are so many I know who have lost, who grieve, who bear the weight of the world on their tired shoulders. And the Christmas season is a bleak one. So this is for you. No “warm fuzzies” needed. 

I love Christmas. I love everything about it. I love unwrapping our Christmas decorations: Victorian carolers hand-painted by my grandmother, a Nativity given to us at our wedding, ornaments we’ve collected for our children throughout the years. I love our holiday traditions – gingerbread houses, Christmas movies, Advent devotions, holiday events shared with family and friends. I love the smell of pine, of being surrounded by the lights of candles and a twinkling tree. And I love Nat and Harry serenading me with Christmas carols while I snuggle under a warm blanket. It’s a “warm fuzzies” time of year.

Yup. I love Christmas. Which is exactly what I was thinking a few weeks ago, driving the streets of Memphis. Everything was decorated in holiday colors. A little winter storm had just blown threw, leaving trees and rooftops sparkling with ice. I drove down Poplar Avenue, bundled in coat and gloves, heat blasting in the van, taking in the reds and greens of Christmas, the white-laden trees, the heavy frost making surfaces glisten like holiday lights, wiling away some time while my daughter rehearsed for The Nutcracker…and I thought, this feels like Christmas.

He Isn’t Safe

“Next moment she found that what was rubbing against her face and hands was no longer soft fur but something hard and rough and even prickly. ‘Why, it is just like branches of trees!’ exclaimed Lucy. And then she saw that there was a light ahead of her; not a few inches away where the back of the wardrobe ought to have been, but a long way off. Something cold and soft was falling on her. A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air.”

And thus begins the spellbinding adventures of the Pevensie children in the land of Narnia, a story of ordinary kids thrust into a grand adventure: of talking animals, mysterious prophecies, powerful magic, and epic battles. The child in me still loves being whisked away to that land, as much as it did some forty years ago. After all, who wouldn’t want to meet a package-laden faun named Mr. Tumnus, while traipsing around in a snowy wood? (Seriously!)

But as I’ve gotten older and read this story to my own children, it has become more and more meaningful. Forgiveness, sacrifice, and, most of all, the majesty and nearness of a Savior, wrapped up in the beloved character Aslan, touch me more with each reading. Lately, there’s been an excerpt from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that’s been my favorite –

[Mrs. Beaver]: “If there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”

“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

Who said anything about safe?

---

He came to earth those two millennia ago, the God of the universe, wrapped in the body of a tiny newborn. And though our emotions give a sweet tug at that word “baby,” our heads tell us that this infant was like no other. This baby gave light to darkness and form to chaos. This baby spoke, and there was life. This baby held all things together. (John 1:1-4) This baby was, and is, the Son of God, the King of all kings. And to remind us of these facts, a vast army of fearsome angels appeared that same night, lighting up the sky with their brilliance, standing as witness – to the birth of the King. This wasn’t just any army. This was the Christ child’s army – his terrifying, heavenly force. A reminder that He is not safe.

King Herod knew it, too. Oddly enough, he was one of the few who recognized the fact that the Messiah had come! But unlike the shepherds and the wisemen, who met this new King with awe and wonder, Herod knew only fear. He ordered the deaths of the baby boys in Bethlehem, hoping to kill this child. He was terrified. This Messiah, even as a toddler, was dangerous.

Some thirty years later, the leaders of Judea felt the same kind of threat with this man called Jesus. He eroded their positions and power. He threatened their whole way of life. Even more, He saw them for what they were. So they nailed him to a cross. Though all still had yet to be revealed, these men were aware of what we can see in full:

Jesus was the most dangerous man to ever walk the earth.

If the Messiah was that dangerous as a flesh and bone man, walking the earth as a simple teacher, how much more dangerous is He now? Now that He’s taken His rightful place at the right hand of God? Oh. My. Stars.

We have a Lord and Savior who is powerful and majestic and terrifying. He writes history and orders events (Matt. 6:10). He holds Life in the palm of His hand (Psalm 139:16). He commands an army of heavenly beings (Rev. 5:11). This God that became Man has a glory and presence so intense, that when Moses asked to look at it, he was only allowed one small, shaded glimpse of this radiance (Exodus 33:21-23). No man is able to see God’s full glory and live (Isaiah 6:5). He is much, much too powerful, and holy, to be safe. But He is good.

How do we know? That He is both dangerous and good? Because the King of the universe stripped this fearsome glory off, willingly. He put on a human form. And He chose to dwell with us (John 1:14), and then to die for us. The Savior, this King, whose presence is too brilliant to behold, put on a human form with “no beauty or majesty to attract us to him” (Isaiah 53:2b)! He who had the power to speak things into being chose to go to His own death silent: “he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth” (Isaiah 53:7b)! This King, whom the Heavenly armies worship and praise, placed himself on earth to be “despised and rejected by mankind” (Isaiah 53:3)! He bore all of that, this One who isn’t safe, because He is good. My, oh my. He is good.

When the Pevensie children finally meet Aslan, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, it’s like nothing they have ever experienced before:

“People who have not been in Narnia sometimes think that a thing cannot be good and terrible at the same time. If the children had ever thought so, they were cured of it now. For when they tried to look at Aslan’s face they just caught a glimpse of the golden mane and the great, royal, solemn, overwhelming eyes; and then they found they couldn’t look at him and went all trembly.”

Meeting our Savior is the most wonderful thing that could ever happen, but it is also the most terrifying. He is good. But He isn’t safe. He will change you. And I guarantee you, it won’t be how you want to change. He will ask you to follow Him. And it won’t be where you want to go. To His small group of disciples, Jesus said:

“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.” (Luke 9:23-24)

And this, my friend, started a revolution. This handful of uneducated, ordinary men took up their own crosses and followed Christ – into every corner of the empire. They put themselves in dangerous places. They loved dangerous people. They spoke dangerous things. And they considered everything “a loss [nothing] compared to the far greater value of knowing Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:8). They didn’t play it safe. And Light spread throughout the world.

Frankly, the life Christ wants for me is…unnerving. I’m not sure I even want to want these things. I don’t like dangerous places. I’m very sure I don’t want to love dangerous people. And I could totally live without speaking dangerous things. To count everything in my life as nothing compared to knowing Christ? Well, it just isn’t…SAFE. Except for one thing – HE IS GOOD. This Majestic Ruler of the Universe is also our humble, selfless Savior. The One who has loved us like no other. The One who is returning for us to set everything right and “wipe every tear from our eye” (Rev. 21:4). He’s Good. And that makes ALL the difference.

On that night of Advent so many years ago, a Child entered the world that defied all logic and reason, that would be both Danger and Goodness, all wrapped up in one. His birth would change the world. C.S. Lewis sums it up perfectly in his final Narnia book, The Last Battle:

“Yes, said Queen Lucy. “In our world too, a stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world.”

The majesty and nearness of the Savior is overwhelming. He isn’t safe, and He never will be. But He’s good. And he’s the King.

HE IS WORTH THE RISK.

We don’t know what this next year holds. None of us do. There will likely be some risk involved. We may be asked to love people we are afraid to love. If so, remember that we were His enemies, and yet He loved us. We may be forced to change in ways that we don’t want to change. If so, remember that He changed – gave up all glory, and honor, and majesty – to come to earth, to be with us. We may end up in places we are terrified to be. If so, remember that terrifying, lonely place He went to for us – nailed to a cross on Golgotha.

Whatever risk we’re asked to take, He’s done far more for us. He’s the King of the Universe, the Giver of life, the Sustainer of all things. But He is also the selfless Savior who gave up throne, position, power, life for us, His beloved people.

“Course He isn’t safe. But He’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

May you know the Majesty and the Goodness of our King this new year. And may you remember that whatever risk comes…He’s worth it.

 

Spreading Some Christmas Cheer!

Spreading Some Christmas Cheer!

Thought you might enjoy the Tyson Family’s first ever Christmas Single:

“CHRISTMAS CHEER”

Music – Stacy Tyson

Lyrics – Stacy Tyson, Sara Tyson

Lead Vocals – Sara Tyson

Background Vocals – Stacy Tyson, Jill Tyson, Hannah Tyson

Caution: Song is highly addictive! Listen at your own risk!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

A Belated Note of Thanksgiving (It’s a Bit of a Tightrope Act.)

Gratitude is a funny thing. As I sit down at the end of Thanksgiving week, dwelling on the many privileges I’ve been granted, I do indeed feel blessed. And not just a little undeserving. I feel something else, too. A burden of inequality -between myself, one of the “haves,” and the millions of “have-nots” in this world. It’s just too much. And that Chris Rice song plays over and over in my head:

“See you had no choice which day you would be born

Or the color of your skin, or what planet you’d be on.

Would your mind be strong, would your eyes be blue or brown?

Whether Daddy would be rich, or if Momma stuck around at all.

So if you find yourself in a better place,

You can’t look down on the frown on the other guy’s face.

You gotta stoop down low, look him square in the eye,

And get a funny feeling, cause you might be dealing

With the Face of Christ.”

I begin to realize the “better place” I’m in is not one of my own making. I didn’t decide where to be born, or who to be born to. I didn’t choose what tax bracket I would grow up in, or what opportunities I would be given. And if this is true, then my gratitude needs to be more than just a “thank you, Lord, let’s move on” kind of deal. My gratitude needs some kind of action, a responsibility that gives in the same measure that I have been given to – “to whom much was given, much will be required” (Luke 12:48). I am definitely one of the “to whom much was given” crowd. (By the way, if you don’t think you’re in the “to whom much was given” crowd with me, check out Global Rich List at http://www.globalrichlist.com. And be prepared to have your mind blown.) So…that leaves me as a bit of a tightrope walker (and not a very good one, at that), walking a fine line. Gratitude on one side and a growing sense of responsibility on the other.

The Sunshine Family Fiasco

When I was little bitty, I scarred my father for life. I didn’t mean to. Not for life, anyway. But I did.

It all began with the notion of discipline. He thought I should be disciplined. I disagreed. Strongly. As a toddler, I fought this injustice like a true warrior. My battlefield was the dinner table. My battle cry, “Death to Milk!” My mother and father refused to capitulate. They flat-out refused to let me get down from the table until my milk glass was empty. So I did the only thing a toddler-warrior could do; I staged a sit-in. I sat there at that table, refusing to drink…and sat…and sat…with my cup held to my mouth…for hours.

More Than Enough

Do you ever feel like you fight the same battles over and over again? Maybe not.  Maybe I’m the knucklehead of humanity. Everyone else seems to have figured it out. A whole generation of social-networked lives, as pretty and “together” as a Norman Rockwell painting. And I play along. Willing myself to be as “together” as everyone else seems to be. I guess it’s my pet sin Vanity rearing his ugly head straight onto the world wide web. But, really, underneath it all, Jill Christine Allman Tyson is this weak, broken, messy human being, who wonders if anyone would have any use for her if they could see her tattered heart.

Only Yesterday

It was only yesterday that I held my breath, needle piercing my back. And the breathlessness continued, because I knew, KNEW, that whatever happened from that point forward would change our lives forever. It was only yesterday that I was wheeled into surgery, feeling nothing but the elephant feet on my stomach as I was ripped in two. In every sense of the word. Because before the surgeon made that cut, I was whole. ONE. And after that fateful incision, part of me breathed life on her own. Outside of me. And she cried. She CRIED. The little, spindly, wonderfully beautiful part of me cried. Something that the doctors could not, would not, predict. And I cried, too. Great, salty tears. Because her gasps and tiny mews of outrage meant that, whatever else, this small three pound, eight ounce girl, was breathing.

A Christmas Post

“Let the little children come unto Me…for such is the Kingdom of God.” 

This very year, just within the sphere of my own personal knowledge, I’ve watched my sister and her family, as foster parents, give away the beloved daughter of their heart, I’ve prayed as other children fight deadly diseases, or begin the long recovery process from horrific accidents, and prayed, with the rest of this nation, for the families of those “little children” (the very ones that Jesus welcomed into his arms) who were shot and killed by a madman. So much pain and anguish.

In the wake of national tragedy, personal heartaches, and unnamed fears of this past month, this past year, how do we face another Christmas season? How can we celebrate the Light coming into the world, the Light that welcomed children? I hug my own children close, wondering if I could sustain what others have been through, wondering if I could still rely on a good, kind, loving Heavenly Father to support me?