November 23, 2025 • 44 mins
To find the complete text plus over 70 recipes and crafts not included in this podcast series, you can purchase a copy of Glad and Golden Hours wherever books are sold. Or get a copy of our just-released Glad and Golden Hours: Kitchen Companion, a recipe-only, spiral bound cookbook exclusively available at store.rabbitroom.com.
Tangible acts of feasting and festivity have filled Lanier Ivester's home for decades. Yet woven into that joy are the sorrows that have shaped her life--and her story reminds us that even in seasons of loss, we can still find wonder, hope, and glad and golden hours of celebration.
At its heart, Glad and Golden Hours embodies a rich theology of Creation--showing us what it means to live fully, even when life holds both grief and joy. It is a feast for the table and the soul, guiding you to anticipate the true Feast to come: the Kingship of Christ revealed in the seasons of Advent and Christmastide.
"This is not a manual or a how-to, or a glorified to-do list, but a companion, in the neighborliest sense of the word. The recipes and crafts in these pages, even the suggestions themselves, are merely that: suggestions to help you contemplate your own holiday with creativity and significance. It is, above all, an invitation, regardless of your age, marital status, or living situation, to experience Christmas as a place of rest--not in spite of, but in the very midst of the merriment of these glad and golden hours." - Lanier Ivester
Bring beauty, meaning, and joy into your Advent and Christmas celebrations this year with Glad & Golden Hours.
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
S1 (00:00):
The following is brought to you in partnership with Oasis Audio.
Welcome to Rabbit Room Press Presents, a podcast series of
great audiobooks, one chapter at a time. We at Rabbit
(00:21):
Room Press are proud to present Linear Investors Glad and
Golden Hours. If you've ever felt worn out by the
holiday season or struggled to find joy in this time,
that's supposed to be the happiest of the year, we
hope you'll find a companion in this book. It offers
a path through the grief and overwhelm that tend to
(00:43):
crop up this time of year, a path into an
authentic anticipation of Christ's coming in advent, and an embodied
joy of his arrival at Christmas.
S2 (01:06):
Oasis Audio Presents Glad and Golden Hours by Lanier Ivester
read for You by Anne Richardson. All ye beneath life's
crushing load. Whose forms are bending low. Who toil along
(01:27):
the climbing way with painful steps and slow. Look now
for glad in golden hours. Come swiftly on the wing,
O rest beside the weary road. And hear the angels sing.
Edmund Sears. This book is for you. In setting out
(01:47):
to write a book, it is important to acknowledge who
you are writing it for. This book is not for
the polished or the elite. The people who have it
all or who have it all together. It is not
for social media influencers seeking inspiration to curate little squares
of perfection on the internet, or for those seeking to
(02:07):
impress other people with their cooking or decorating or craft making,
or gift giving. It is, however, for the dear souls
mentioned in Edmond Hamilton Sears verse people crushed by life,
toiling along under heavy burdens, desperate for a place of rest.
It is for those who long to be re enchanted
(02:30):
by the very old, very true, very beautiful story of Christmas.
It is for someone who might never have experienced a
truly sacramental holiday in their own homes. And by sacramental
I mean quite simply, a holiday which articulates unseen realities
in practical, tangible ways. It is for the weary, the homesick,
(02:56):
the wistful and the countercultural. It is, above all, for
the childlike. For it is only to such hearts that
the greatest mysteries are unveiled. I remember the first time
I encountered Sia's lyric. I was playing Christmas carols on
the piano in my childhood home when the words fairly
(03:17):
leapt off the page. I stopped playing and read them again.
Then I typed them up on the computer in a
large font, printed them out, and taped them to the
refrigerator where everyone in the family could see them every day.
I thought the words were beautiful, but something told me
that the experience they pointed to was lovelier still. At
(03:42):
17 years old, I confess that my sensibilities engaged more
readily with the promise of those glad and golden hours
than with any dantean fellowship of suffering souls in their
purgatorial clime. But I loved the idea of Christmas being
more than a holiday. It was a resting place. At
(04:05):
the same time, I saw so many unhappy attitudes about
Christmas in the world around me, from the jaded ennui
of my peers to the haggard exhaustion of adults, mostly women.
And I longed to remind the whole world that Christmas
was still and always would be, an absolute miracle. It
(04:28):
was worth all the fuss and bother the messes and
the memories. It was, as Washington Irving had said, King
of the year for the King of Creation had dignified
the human race with his presence in our midst. No
earthly shadow should diminish the glory of what those angels
(04:48):
were singing about in the Bethlehem sky. And no amount
of effort was too great for so grand a cause.
But I wasn't the one doing all or even most
of the work to bring this glory down into the
practical experience of the people I loved best. That lot
(05:09):
fell to my mother. And as much as she treasured it,
sometimes it made her tired. Sometimes it even made her
a little exasperated. Like on Christmas Eve, when my sister
and I generated yet another unplanned mess in the kitchen,
or an unexpected guest dropped in with an unexpected present
(05:29):
which sent mama scurrying for the gift stash in the
back of her closet for some suitable offering in exchange.
There was the year that our pipes froze and then
burst on Christmas morning. And the year that the goose
she had been basting all day long with brandy and
apricot glaze turned out to be full of shot and
(05:49):
therefore inedible. There were Christmases spent on the phone with
the doctor when my sister was too sick to get
out of bed, and there were years in which mama
was stretched so thin with homeschooling three children that the
holidays must have felt less like 12 days of merriment
and more like the 12 labors of Hercules. Nevertheless, Christmas
(06:15):
in our house was a magical respite from the rest
of the year, a time in which time itself seemed
to bend to the greater laws of divine and familial affection.
Looking back, I know it cost my mother considerable effort,
enormous intention, and great love. But I hailed those glad
(06:36):
and golden hours in my heart, because they had always
been just that mama had seen to it. I remember
standing in the kitchen one Christmas with one of mama's friends.
It was a different year, but still. The Sears lyric
was taped to the fridge, a bit dog eared from
being removed and replaced over successive holidays. She paused to
(07:00):
read it and then she laughed. Wouldn't that be nice?
She said with a shake of her head. But who
has time to rest this time of year? Her words
and the tone in which they were spoken made me
feel self-conscious and green. What did I, an idealistic teenager,
(07:21):
know of real weariness or even of real rest for
that matter? People were tired, and sometimes the holidays were
just really hard. Not everyone had grown up in a
home where the good times far outweighed the bad times,
and some people had reason to distrust some of the
(07:42):
sentiment and excesses of Christmas. Nevertheless, something in me silently
pushed back. I knew that Christmas did not have to
be a desperate round of commitments and tasks. I knew
that even the humblest experiences could be shot through with
eternal radiance, and that there had to be some middle
(08:03):
ground between too much and not enough. Some lovely overlooked
via media that could cut through the thickets of overdoing
and overwhelm and overeating and overspending with which a modern
holiday has come to be associated. There was more going
(08:23):
on here than childhood memories and food nostalgia. Even more
than the simple acknowledgement of Christ's birth in celebrating Christmas,
we were not just remembering. We were reliving the fact
that God had become one of us. Later, as I
started to tease out some of these intimations in my
(08:45):
own home, I began to understand just how tricky it
could be to create a meaningful holiday without losing sight
of what it was all about. Christmas was a resting place,
but it was one that must be cared for and cultivated.
Preparations were important, particularly if I wanted to give my
(09:05):
people a thoughtful taste of a coming kingdom that is
already in our midst. But those preparations would always have
to give way to the people themselves, not the other
way around. Furthermore, even the most sacramentally intentional Christmas could
be a lot of work, a sort of practical liturgy
(09:25):
of generosity, hospitality, attention, and love. And sometimes I would
get tired. Sometimes I would lose my bearings, or my way,
or my temper, or my peace and need to be
shepherded back to my soul's rest. Always I would need
the sweet simplicity of Christ. For over two decades, I
(09:49):
have grappled joyously with these tensions because I believe that
there is gold at their heart. I believe that it
is not only possible, but crucial to steward these set
apart days in a way that makes space for mystery
and wonder amid the rituals and traditions of our lives.
And I believe that ritual and tradition are always the
(10:13):
servants of relationship with God and with other people. Without relationship,
even the most exquisite holiday is about as lovely as
a child banging a pot with a stick. And so
if you are tired or disillusioned or curious about shaping
a holiday season that makes present the astonishing fact of
(10:35):
God with us, then I would like you to consider
this book my Gift to you. It's not a manual
or a how to or a glorified to do list,
but a companion in the neighborly sense of the word.
Whether you choose to read this book, this story simply
to enter into its twists and turns, its hopes and sorrows,
(11:00):
its people and its places, or whether you elect to
participate in it yourself via its many recipes, crafts and
holiday suggestions. My prayer is that you will find a
friend in these pages, and that the ideas and activities
with which these reflections are threaded will be like small
(11:20):
domestic liturgies, tangible acts that integrate what we believe with
what we do. You might try only a single recipe
or craft each week, or even each year. You are
welcome to pick and choose. Selecting only that which suits
your needs and desires for the meals and menus and
(11:42):
ideas in these pages. Even the suggestions themselves are merely
that suggestions to help you contemplate your own holiday with
creativity and significance. It is, above all, an invitation, regardless
of your age, marital status or living situation, to experience
(12:04):
Christmas as a place of rest, not in spite of,
but in the very midst of, the merriment of these
glad and golden hours. His glory is already breaking over
the rim of the world. My friends, let us turn
eastward with the devotion of our hearts and the work
of our hands, and watch for the steady rise of
(12:27):
our great day. Star Lanier A Ivester rough House October 2023.
Before it begins. Otium sanctum. It had been a morning
of misadventure and I was growing desperate. My guests, the
(12:51):
girls of Miss Kane's domestic science class, clustered around my
kitchen table, observing the proceedings with wide, attentive eyes, and
I began to sense that prickle at the back of
my neck and that pounding of my heart, which inevitably
accompanies plans gone awry. Already we had attempted Victorian style
(13:12):
paper cones crammed with candy and nuts, but one of
the girls had a nut allergy and all of the
cones fell apart owing to the fact that they were
fashioned with vintage wallpaper so yellowed and employable it cracked
when rolled into a conical shape. I had been sensible
enough to move on, however, and now the components of
(13:34):
a gingerbread house were spread out before me on the table,
accompanied by a mixing bowl filled with what ought to
have been a thick, stiff, glossy decorator icing, but which
was in fact a thin, insipid mess. I seized a
slab of gingerbread, piping the edges liberally with ill fated frosting,
(13:56):
and jammed it alongside an adjoining wall, praying against all
the laws of chemistry that the stupid thing would stick.
It did not. It stood there for a breathless second
or two, as if debating its options, and then fell
face down, taking out the opposite wall in its course.
(14:17):
I sighed and dredged up a smile. Looks like we
need just a little more powdered sugar, I said with
far more optimism than I felt. It would take a
lot more than powdered sugar to get me out of
this mess. It would take a miracle. And how, you ask,
(14:38):
did I find myself in this predicament? I asked myself
the same thing as I dumped sugar into the bowl
without bothering to measure it out. I had, I knew
overmixed the icing to begin with, and it was a
wet day which never did icing any favors, and I
had been racing around doing too many things at once.
(15:00):
That was it. Of course, the very thing mama was
always warning me against, the very thing my friend Lauren
and I were always resolving not to do. Whisking determinedly,
I reflected upon the events of the previous Christmas the
visit of Lauren and her crew from Oxmoor House publishing.
The excitement and happy upheaval of a photo shoot. The
(15:24):
lush Garland and boxwood wreaths strewn about by the stylist
with dizzying abandon. Lauren was the editor of Christmas with
Southern Living, an annual hardcover crammed with world famous recipes
and photographs of immaculate homes decked to perfection for a
girl growing up in the South. Southern living was the
(15:47):
epitome of taste, culinary and otherwise, and I was astonished
when Lauren had floated her idea. What about a photo
shoot at the rough house? I had known all along
that the draw was not me so much as my home.
I had, after all, only been married a little over
a year, and my domestic prowess was largely untested. The
(16:12):
rough house, on the other hand, named for its mid-19th
century builder, is an increasing rarity in our part of
the world. A sensible white clapboard farmhouse settled in a
scrap of undeveloped farmland. First time visitors are often amazed
to find it tucked away amid its suburban setting. I
(16:33):
know I was even more amazing is the way This
old House wraps its welcome around you the moment you
step inside, as if it were glad to see you,
and eager to provide shelter independent of anything I have
ever done to put my stamp on its big, high
ceilinged rooms. It seems to have gathered up the warmth
(16:54):
and light and life of all the times it has
ever known, even the hard times, so that its substance
is like a living presence. For the rough. House isn't
just a house, it is one of the principal characters
in my story. And as you will see in the
pages to come, its fortunes are tied with mine in
(17:16):
a way that I believe transcends this life. In advance
of the team from Oxmoor house. Our friends had come
alongside to help us get ready. Jenny Joy spent an
afternoon with me making Garland for the staircase out of
Fraser fir trimmings I'd collected from tree lots all over town,
(17:36):
and Taylor offered his collection of silver plate ornaments to
adorn our tree. My mother provided armloads of magnolia from
the stately specimens in her yard, and an ample serving
of unsolicited advice. Don't get carried away, she told me.
And whatever you do, don't compare yourself. This is not
(17:58):
a competition. Cheerfully ignoring her on both counts, I proceeded
to wear myself out, cleaning and polishing, saturating the woodwork
with Scott's liquid gold and dusting our meager furniture until
I threatened to rub off the veneer. The photo shoot
was a resounding success, thanks to Lauren's laid back sincerity
(18:23):
and her stylist's tasteful eye. And when the book came
out the following October, mama bought multiple copies. Phillips mother, Janice,
bought multiple copies as well, and was instrumental in my
being asked to speak at that month's event, hosted by
the Women's Ministry of the church. Lauren was asked to
(18:46):
and together with another capable young Southern Living editor, we
gave an hour long presentation on preparing for the holidays
and being present to its joys. In my enthusiasm, I
may have overstepped my time allotment, reducing Lauren's floral demonstration
to a rushed five minute affair, but the crowded room
(19:09):
had seemed so receptive to my untried opinions and naive
assertions that I just couldn't rein myself in. I was,
it seemed, a Christmas professional, and the thrill of the
thing went to my head like wine. After the program,
a woman introduced herself. She was the teacher of a
(19:29):
fledgling home arts class based upon the ideals in Edith
Schafer's book, The Hidden Art of Home Making. And during
my presentation, it had occurred to her that perhaps I'd
be open to a visit from her high school aged
girls later that year. She didn't have to ask me twice.
And before parting, we had agreed upon a date in
(19:49):
early December upon which she would bring her students to
the rough house for a morning of domestic instruction and inspiration.
In retrospect, it is easy to see how my idealism
and inexperience combined to produce the disastrous results on display
in my kitchen that day. Scarcely a decade older than
(20:10):
the fresh faced girls around my table. I had yet
to face off perfectionism for the foe that it was,
and I still believed that every line in my planner
was meant to be filled by some task or idea
Year with which I was meant to exhaust myself. I
was old enough to be influenced by the domestic taste
(20:30):
makers of the day, and young enough to think I
could do it all. Accordingly, I had stacked that morning
with expectations and the days leading up to it with
feverish preparation, not only for this gathering, but for Christmas itself.
But the icing just wasn't cooperating. If only one thing
(20:53):
would go right today. I was just lowering the gingerbread
roof onto the irresolute little structure when the phone rang.
These were the days of answering machines blaring messages to
whomever happened to be within earshot. And this message was
from my mother. Oh, Lanier, she gasped, electrifying the whole
(21:16):
room with her panic. Pray for Bell. She just ate
rat poison and were racing to Doctor Wolff. There was silence. Tense. Questioning.
Somewhat appalled. I blushed to the roots of my hair.
Belle is my mother's dog. I hastened to explain. And
(21:38):
Doctor Wolff is a very good vet. He will know
what to do. I'm sure she'll be fine. Another uncomfortable moment, then.
One of the girls spoke up. She had a porcelain
complexion and a wide red mouth that looked like it
had never known anything but smiles. Should we pray for Belle?
(22:01):
We did. And then I resumed my demonstration. But the
last remnants of proficiency had drained out of me. I
attached the chimney, then watched in quiet resignation as the
structure buckled in upon itself and slithered to the table
in a heap of frosting smeared gingerbread. I looked up
(22:23):
and regarded the bright, albeit bewildered, faces. And the lesson here, ladies,
I said, mopping my hands on a dishcloth, is that
sometimes things just don't work out. It was a lesson
I was loath to embrace at the time. I still
(22:44):
believed that with proper planning and a goodly amount of discipline,
I could get it all done and still have margin
in my life for the things that made life meaningful.
By all I meant, of course, a perfectly clean house,
an orderly and productive garden, a routine that ran like clockwork,
(23:05):
and a weekly menu of delicious and nutritious meals. Oh,
and a personal fitness regimen, a daily quiet time, a
yards long reading list, a writing rhythm, church membership and
a social life. Nothing unreasonable. Life would in time battered
down the obstinacy with which my standards were enshrined. Mama,
(23:29):
on the other hand, urged me to hold those standards loosely,
never confusing them with holy ideals of homemaking, hospitality and beauty.
She sometimes took the direct approach, the talking to when
it appeared I was getting tangled up in perfectionism, or
the extended exhortation when she discerned I was running myself
(23:53):
ragged over other people's expectations. But often it was the
gentle route, the email or handwritten note containing a quotation
or two from the endless collection she kept of helpful
and beautiful words. Once she quoted Saint Paul from First
Thessalonians chapter four, let it be a point of honour
(24:15):
with you to remain calm. Another time it was Saint
Teresa of Avila. Emphasis. Mamas, remember that you have only
one soul, that you have only one death to die,
that you have only one life which is short and
has to be lived by you alone. And there is
(24:36):
only one glory which is eternal. If you do this,
there will be many things about which you care. Nothing.
There were indeed many things about which my mother cared.
Nothing like perfectly clean houses and what anyone else thought
of her. I have never known anyone more willing to
(24:58):
laugh at herself, or more indifferent to keeping up appearances.
And yet her whole life was an embodiment of hospitality.
She was an excellent, largely self-taught cook, a cheerfully dismal gardener,
and she had a lively, highly literate mind. Our modest
(25:19):
home was tasteful and inviting, and mama was never happier
than when it was filled to bursting with people she loved.
The things she didn't care about made abundant room for
the things she did. One night when I was about
19 years old, I was standing beside her in a
receiving line at the front of a small Baptist church.
(25:41):
My family had just joined. Mama was by this time
a seasoned Christian and a passionate encourager of other women,
particularly young mothers. But she rarely missed an opportunity to
shoot from the hip. A woman came down the line
carrying a baby with 2 or 3 small children clinging
to or attempting to climb her person. She looked weary
(26:05):
and bedraggled, and there was a gleam of desperation in
her eyes. I'm so glad you're here, she panted when
she reached my mother. It's a lot of work. Not me, sister,
mama rejoined without missing a beat. I did all my
Christian work before I got saved. It was true. Before
(26:29):
giving her life to Christ, mama had done all the
things she had taught Sunday School out of a vague
sense of Christian duty, and attended committee meetings uncountable, all
while serving on the right boards in the right community,
maintaining an active membership in the Junior League, and raising
three small children. I know her heart went out to
(26:51):
that woman because she had once been her exhausted, encumbered, desperate.
In Jesus, however, mama had discovered a new freedom not
merely to do the right things, the things to which
she personally had been called, but to release the rest
with light hearted Abandon she had learned, in short, to
(27:14):
serve from the resting place of God's unconditional love. This
is not to say that she never got tired or overwhelmed,
but when she did, she always found her way back
to that refuge. One of the things Lauren and I
loved to talk about was how to in flesh our callings,
particularly in the domestic sphere, without allowing our ideals to
(27:38):
obscure the realities to which they point. Home, hospitality, beauty
were not merely ends in themselves, but contexts within which
time bound souls experienced their belovedness as children of God.
A few years after the photo shoot, Lauren shared an
(27:59):
ancient Latin phrase she had discovered Otium sanctum, or holy leisure.
The Church Fathers used it to describe a posture of
heart that promoted awareness of the presence of God in
the details of life and the particular freedom that accompanied it.
Holy leisure didn't mean that we did not work, but
(28:21):
that we did it with faith and fidelity from a
place of peace. It also cleared the ground for the
right things to grow, namely relationships with God and with
one another. All of our work should ultimately serve this end.
We agreed, or we ought to be questioning whether we
should do it at all. Mama's exhortations and Lauren's Otium
(28:47):
sanctum eventually began to breathe a new expansiveness into my
overdriven existence, allowing me to embrace my limitations not as hindrances,
but as guardrails to guide me along the path to
abundant life. But as I stood there in my kitchen
with Miss Kane's class that day. My limitations on full display.
(29:11):
All I could see was a mess of my own making.
The morning had been a complete disaster, and I had
nothing but my own embarrassment to show for it. This
is not to rank the ruin of a gingerbread house
among the real disasters of life, of which I've seen
a few. But it underscores my tendency, especially in the
(29:33):
early days, to elevate preparations over the thing prepared for,
in this case, an opportunity to demonstrate to these younger
women not only that beauty and hospitality mattered, but why,
two decades later, I was kneeling on the hearth in
that same kitchen, stoking up the fire to a merry blaze.
(29:55):
From all around came the music of talking and laughter,
fellowship and the sounds of feasting. It was Christmas Eve
and my rooms were full. Likewise my heart. I looked
up to see my friend Louise's teenage daughter Evelyn, smiling
down at me. I had known Evie since she was
a baby. Phillips and Louise's parents had been friends before
(30:19):
either of them were born. Mrs. Lanier. You won't believe it,
she gushed. But a lady I babysit for says she
knows you. She said she came here once back in
high school. I felt the colour rise to my cheeks.
Surely not. She told me you had her class out
(30:40):
to talk about homemaking and Christmas and all that, and
she said she's never forgotten it. She said it gave
her this whole vision of what she wanted her life
to look like. You know, making things beautiful and not
worrying about it being perfect. I laughed outright, not in derision,
(31:00):
but from pure joy. I had gotten my miracle after all,
it seemed, for only God could take such a series
of mishaps and shape them into something transcendent. And it
was always his way. Transfiguring broken things with beauty. I'd
had plenty of cause to bear witness to this over
(31:21):
the intervening years, as well as to the inherent holiness
brimming beneath the material substance of life. Nothing was beyond
his use or his reach, even a collapsed gingerbread house.
These days, my preparations for Christmas are no less enthusiastic.
I would even say idealistic than they were when, as
(31:44):
a young wife, I sought to embody my joy at
Christ's coming with every means at my disposal. But I
have learned, by the grace of God, to work from
a place of rest, fueled by my acceptance in the beloved,
to undertake only that which contributes to my peace. And
to that of my household. I don't have to do
(32:07):
it all. What's more, I don't want to like my
mother before me. I want to cultivate a playful unconcern
over the things which lie beyond the pale of my priorities,
bringing my best to the things that actually matter. I
want the freedom to take traditions up as well as
(32:28):
to let them go. I want, above all, to have
a heart that's made room for love himself. It takes
work to maintain a home, care for relationships, and yes,
prepare for Christmas. Even a simple one. But we have
a resting place, my friends, within which quandaries are quieted,
(32:50):
messes are redeemed, and all the cares of life fall
away before the consuming fire of a perfect love. Preparing
heart and home. As late as the 13th century, nearly
all the sacred music associated with Advent and Christmas was
(33:14):
still being written in ecclesiastical Latin, intended for choirs but
unintelligible to ordinary men and women. It wasn't until the
Franciscan poet and friar Jacopone da Todi began to pen
his lauds in the vernacular, that the songs of the
church started to seep into the practical experience of the congregation.
(33:35):
History may remember him as the writer of the Stabat Mater,
one of the most famous hymns of all time, but
we also have him to thank for one of our
earliest Christmas carols, written for the first time in the
language of the people. Give now your thought and care. Prepare, prepare. Sweep,
(33:56):
hearth and floor. Be all your vessels store shining and clean.
Then bring the little guest and give him of your
best of meat and drink. Yet more ye owe than meat.
One gift at your king's feet. Lay now I mean
a heart full to the brim of love. And all
(34:16):
for him. And from all envy clean. I love the
way this Carol brings the reality of the incarnation down
into the tangible matters of our lives, seamlessly merging personal
devotion with practical love. We are to prepare, Friar Jacopone urges,
not only our hearts, but our homes, offering clean rooms
(34:40):
and a stocked larder alongside a newly swept conscience and
gleaming motives. This is no time to compare our best
with someone else's or to start making frantic lists. This
is the time to pause and reflect upon how we
might actually welcome Jesus into our lives and our celebrations,
(35:02):
and how we can welcome others in his name. What
activities or rhythms will best serve the members of our
household or our immediate circle? Which traditions are worth fighting
for and which ones might need to be laid gently
to rest? What can we actually afford in terms of time, money,
(35:24):
and effort? Above all, how are we going to protect
that better part? Luke chapter ten, verse 42 of an attentive,
listening heart in the midst of our planning and preparations,
seeing as morning prayer is central to a Christ centered holiday.
For me, mid-November is the time I like to start
(35:47):
thinking about which advent devotional I'd like to use that year.
It is also when I begin to make space in
my calendar for a few simple household tasks, which will
facilitate easy hospitality in the weeks to come, like cleaning
out the back hall, coat closet and taking stock of
my candle supply. I always organize and scrub the larder
(36:10):
shelves before Thanksgiving in advance of all the extra ingredients,
and once a year treats with which they will soon
be crowded. And I regard the deep freeze in the
basement with a ruthless eye tossing old ham bones and
frost burnt vegetables to clear the way for cookies and cakes, casseroles,
bags of pecans and pans of cinnamon rolls. I also
(36:33):
make sure I have batteries for my candle lamps, stamps
for my invitations, and plenty of 22 gauge paddle wire
for garlands and greenery. One of my favorite pre-holiday tasks
is polishing the silver punch bowl and coffee service that
my parents gave us as wedding gifts, and the silver
(36:54):
candelabras which belonged to my grandmother. Silver has rather slipped
out of fashion these days. Particularly pieces as big as these.
But I cherish the sparkle it lends to a room
or a festive table. I use my silver because I
think it is beautiful, and because it lends an effortless
(37:15):
touch of contrast between the everyday and the exceptional. I've
been known to lug that coffee service into the middle
of a field for more than one picnic over the years.
But I also use it because I don't believe in
having things that are never pressed into active duty in
the name of love. Each year I polish up this
(37:38):
little vessels store not to impress or to distract, but
to serve. Another thing I tried to do ahead of
time is to stock the freezer with cookie dough. I
love having lots of homemade cookies on hand throughout the
holiday season to give as gifts or to share with guests.
But I enjoy it so much more when my freezer
(38:00):
is already well supplied with dough just waiting to be
rolled out, decorated and baked at my whimsy or leisure.
Making up the dough in November grants me a little
more margin in December, when kitchen time is at a premium,
and when one less mess to clean up feels like
nothing short of a heavenly blessing. I usually set aside
(38:25):
an afternoon around the middle of the month and make
a real spree of it. Sugar cookie dough, gingerbread dough jam,
thumbprints and snowball cookies, tea cakes and the makings of
mince tartlets. At the end of the day, I have
flour on my nose and likely in my hair, a
sink piled with every mixing accoutrement I own and a
(38:47):
molasses and milk spattered countertop. but I also have an
array of tidy packets. Ranged in the freezer downstairs, wrapped
and labeled each one a little gift of time to
myself that will become a gift of love to someone else.
None of this matters in the least. However, if my
(39:08):
heart is cluttered with misplaced priorities or anxious care, these
must be cleaned out as well. And my soul given
a thorough airing before I can begin to approach this
holiday season with any sort of holy intent. Historically, advent
has been a time of self-examination and penitence, an opportunity
(39:32):
to trim the wicks of our lamps, as it were,
and to invite the Holy Spirit to point out areas
in our lives that need his light. No amount of
advance preparation can produce in me the kind of heart
I want to pour out in love for God and others.
Only Jesus himself can do that, but it is a
(39:53):
process I can and must cooperate with, inviting him into
the details of my days and offering my frailty and
my hope. And this story is rife with both as
evidence of my need for him. Tip. My friend Jenny
Joy showed me a way to remove tarnish that involves
(40:15):
more magic than elbow grease. Simply line the bottom of
your sink with heavy duty aluminum foil. Sprinkle it liberally
with baking soda and heat a large kettle or pot
to the boil. Place your silver in the sink, making
contact with the foil, and pour in the boiling water
until the silver is completely submerged. Then stand back and
(40:40):
marvel as the chemical reaction safely dissolves the oxidation. Waiting days.
It was a labor of love, she said. She smiled
and handed me a tissue wrapped package at the front
door on a late November day, as I slipped it
(41:01):
from its folds and turned the package over in my hands.
There was no doubt of either the labor or the love.
A host of paper leaves, hand tinted and varying hues,
encircled a month's worth of tiny paper doors, each one
numbered in fine black ink. Rachel had invested countless hours
(41:23):
of careful work, and the joy Philip and I had
in it that December was measureless. We took turns each
day folding back the stiff flaps to reveal a quarter
inch scrap of enchantment within dancing couples and sledding children,
glitter dusted angels and cross-shaped stars. It was the first
(41:46):
advent calendar I'd had since I was a child. But
even decades later, I still remembered the tingle of excitement
when it was my day to turn back a well
creased paper door or window and peek in at the
angel or shepherd or star within. The waiting for those
small moments of revelation seemed endless back then. The long
(42:11):
December days stretched out into impossibility, and Christmas Eve was
a miracle itself. Emerging radiant and triumphant from a month
of anticipation, Christmas comes around more quickly than I'd like
to admit now, but the sweet expectation lingers is sweeter
than ever, perhaps, for I now know what it really
(42:34):
means to wait. The expectancy of advent throws a reflected
light over the waiting days of our lives. All my
desire is before thee. We whisper and ranged in the
shadows of time that surround us on all sides. A
multitude without number sends up an echo that has not
(42:56):
been silenced since God's promise first taught man to hope
in his coming, his coming to the human race, and
his coming to each of us in the intimacy of
our need. Centuries of yearning behind the fulfillment of our
Lord's appearance have myriad small incarnations in the hearts of
his people. We're all waiting on something, waiting for God
(43:20):
to fix a problem, waiting for him to give us
the desire of our hearts, waiting to see him face
to face. It's tempting to let the season underscore what
we still don't have, even though another year has rolled around.
But how much richer it is? I am learning to
embrace the stark solemnity of the Great universal waiting for
(43:44):
the Messiah, and to find a parable of it in
my own desires. God doesn't give us the big picture
all at once. He opens one window at a time,
giving us glimpses of the glories undergirding the everyday.
S1 (44:01):
God in Golden Hours is published by Rabbit Room Press.
The audiobook is published by Oasis Audio. Copyright by linear 2024,
music by Chris Baedeker. To find the complete text, plus
over 70 recipes and crafts not included in this podcast series,
(44:22):
you can purchase a copy of Glad and Golden Hours
wherever books are sold, or get a copy of our
just released Glad and Golden Hours Kitchen Companion, a recipe
only spiral bound cookbook exclusively available at store. Com.
The following is brought to you in partnership with Oasis Audio.
Welcome to Rabbit Room Press Presents, a podcast series of
great audiobooks, one chapter at a time. We at Rabbit
(00:21):
Room Press are proud to present Linear Investors Glad and
Golden Hours. If you've ever felt worn out by the
holiday season or struggled to find joy in this time,
that's supposed to be the happiest of the year, we
hope you'll find a companion in this book. It offers
a path through the grief and overwhelm that tend to
(00:43):
crop up this time of year, a path into an
authentic anticipation of Christ's coming in advent, and an embodied
joy of his arrival at Christmas.
S2 (01:06):
Oasis Audio Presents Glad and Golden Hours by Lanier Ivester
read for You by Anne Richardson. All ye beneath life's
crushing load. Whose forms are bending low. Who toil along
(01:27):
the climbing way with painful steps and slow. Look now
for glad in golden hours. Come swiftly on the wing,
O rest beside the weary road. And hear the angels sing.
Edmund Sears. This book is for you. In setting out
(01:47):
to write a book, it is important to acknowledge who
you are writing it for. This book is not for
the polished or the elite. The people who have it
all or who have it all together. It is not
for social media influencers seeking inspiration to curate little squares
of perfection on the internet, or for those seeking to
(02:07):
impress other people with their cooking or decorating or craft making,
or gift giving. It is, however, for the dear souls
mentioned in Edmond Hamilton Sears verse people crushed by life,
toiling along under heavy burdens, desperate for a place of rest.
It is for those who long to be re enchanted
(02:30):
by the very old, very true, very beautiful story of Christmas.
It is for someone who might never have experienced a
truly sacramental holiday in their own homes. And by sacramental
I mean quite simply, a holiday which articulates unseen realities
in practical, tangible ways. It is for the weary, the homesick,
(02:56):
the wistful and the countercultural. It is, above all, for
the childlike. For it is only to such hearts that
the greatest mysteries are unveiled. I remember the first time
I encountered Sia's lyric. I was playing Christmas carols on
the piano in my childhood home when the words fairly
(03:17):
leapt off the page. I stopped playing and read them again.
Then I typed them up on the computer in a
large font, printed them out, and taped them to the
refrigerator where everyone in the family could see them every day.
I thought the words were beautiful, but something told me
that the experience they pointed to was lovelier still. At
(03:42):
17 years old, I confess that my sensibilities engaged more
readily with the promise of those glad and golden hours
than with any dantean fellowship of suffering souls in their
purgatorial clime. But I loved the idea of Christmas being
more than a holiday. It was a resting place. At
(04:05):
the same time, I saw so many unhappy attitudes about
Christmas in the world around me, from the jaded ennui
of my peers to the haggard exhaustion of adults, mostly women.
And I longed to remind the whole world that Christmas
was still and always would be, an absolute miracle. It
(04:28):
was worth all the fuss and bother the messes and
the memories. It was, as Washington Irving had said, King
of the year for the King of Creation had dignified
the human race with his presence in our midst. No
earthly shadow should diminish the glory of what those angels
(04:48):
were singing about in the Bethlehem sky. And no amount
of effort was too great for so grand a cause.
But I wasn't the one doing all or even most
of the work to bring this glory down into the
practical experience of the people I loved best. That lot
(05:09):
fell to my mother. And as much as she treasured it,
sometimes it made her tired. Sometimes it even made her
a little exasperated. Like on Christmas Eve, when my sister
and I generated yet another unplanned mess in the kitchen,
or an unexpected guest dropped in with an unexpected present
(05:29):
which sent mama scurrying for the gift stash in the
back of her closet for some suitable offering in exchange.
There was the year that our pipes froze and then
burst on Christmas morning. And the year that the goose
she had been basting all day long with brandy and
apricot glaze turned out to be full of shot and
(05:49):
therefore inedible. There were Christmases spent on the phone with
the doctor when my sister was too sick to get
out of bed, and there were years in which mama
was stretched so thin with homeschooling three children that the
holidays must have felt less like 12 days of merriment
and more like the 12 labors of Hercules. Nevertheless, Christmas
(06:15):
in our house was a magical respite from the rest
of the year, a time in which time itself seemed
to bend to the greater laws of divine and familial affection.
Looking back, I know it cost my mother considerable effort,
enormous intention, and great love. But I hailed those glad
(06:36):
and golden hours in my heart, because they had always
been just that mama had seen to it. I remember
standing in the kitchen one Christmas with one of mama's friends.
It was a different year, but still. The Sears lyric
was taped to the fridge, a bit dog eared from
being removed and replaced over successive holidays. She paused to
(07:00):
read it and then she laughed. Wouldn't that be nice?
She said with a shake of her head. But who
has time to rest this time of year? Her words
and the tone in which they were spoken made me
feel self-conscious and green. What did I, an idealistic teenager,
(07:21):
know of real weariness or even of real rest for
that matter? People were tired, and sometimes the holidays were
just really hard. Not everyone had grown up in a
home where the good times far outweighed the bad times,
and some people had reason to distrust some of the
(07:42):
sentiment and excesses of Christmas. Nevertheless, something in me silently
pushed back. I knew that Christmas did not have to
be a desperate round of commitments and tasks. I knew
that even the humblest experiences could be shot through with
eternal radiance, and that there had to be some middle
(08:03):
ground between too much and not enough. Some lovely overlooked
via media that could cut through the thickets of overdoing
and overwhelm and overeating and overspending with which a modern
holiday has come to be associated. There was more going
(08:23):
on here than childhood memories and food nostalgia. Even more
than the simple acknowledgement of Christ's birth in celebrating Christmas,
we were not just remembering. We were reliving the fact
that God had become one of us. Later, as I
started to tease out some of these intimations in my
(08:45):
own home, I began to understand just how tricky it
could be to create a meaningful holiday without losing sight
of what it was all about. Christmas was a resting place,
but it was one that must be cared for and cultivated.
Preparations were important, particularly if I wanted to give my
(09:05):
people a thoughtful taste of a coming kingdom that is
already in our midst. But those preparations would always have
to give way to the people themselves, not the other
way around. Furthermore, even the most sacramentally intentional Christmas could
be a lot of work, a sort of practical liturgy
(09:25):
of generosity, hospitality, attention, and love. And sometimes I would
get tired. Sometimes I would lose my bearings, or my way,
or my temper, or my peace and need to be
shepherded back to my soul's rest. Always I would need
the sweet simplicity of Christ. For over two decades, I
(09:49):
have grappled joyously with these tensions because I believe that
there is gold at their heart. I believe that it
is not only possible, but crucial to steward these set
apart days in a way that makes space for mystery
and wonder amid the rituals and traditions of our lives.
And I believe that ritual and tradition are always the
(10:13):
servants of relationship with God and with other people. Without relationship,
even the most exquisite holiday is about as lovely as
a child banging a pot with a stick. And so
if you are tired or disillusioned or curious about shaping
a holiday season that makes present the astonishing fact of
(10:35):
God with us, then I would like you to consider
this book my Gift to you. It's not a manual
or a how to or a glorified to do list,
but a companion in the neighborly sense of the word.
Whether you choose to read this book, this story simply
to enter into its twists and turns, its hopes and sorrows,
(11:00):
its people and its places, or whether you elect to
participate in it yourself via its many recipes, crafts and
holiday suggestions. My prayer is that you will find a
friend in these pages, and that the ideas and activities
with which these reflections are threaded will be like small
(11:20):
domestic liturgies, tangible acts that integrate what we believe with
what we do. You might try only a single recipe
or craft each week, or even each year. You are
welcome to pick and choose. Selecting only that which suits
your needs and desires for the meals and menus and
(11:42):
ideas in these pages. Even the suggestions themselves are merely
that suggestions to help you contemplate your own holiday with
creativity and significance. It is, above all, an invitation, regardless
of your age, marital status or living situation, to experience
(12:04):
Christmas as a place of rest, not in spite of,
but in the very midst of, the merriment of these
glad and golden hours. His glory is already breaking over
the rim of the world. My friends, let us turn
eastward with the devotion of our hearts and the work
of our hands, and watch for the steady rise of
(12:27):
our great day. Star Lanier A Ivester rough House October 2023.
Before it begins. Otium sanctum. It had been a morning
of misadventure and I was growing desperate. My guests, the
(12:51):
girls of Miss Kane's domestic science class, clustered around my
kitchen table, observing the proceedings with wide, attentive eyes, and
I began to sense that prickle at the back of
my neck and that pounding of my heart, which inevitably
accompanies plans gone awry. Already we had attempted Victorian style
(13:12):
paper cones crammed with candy and nuts, but one of
the girls had a nut allergy and all of the
cones fell apart owing to the fact that they were
fashioned with vintage wallpaper so yellowed and employable it cracked
when rolled into a conical shape. I had been sensible
enough to move on, however, and now the components of
(13:34):
a gingerbread house were spread out before me on the table,
accompanied by a mixing bowl filled with what ought to
have been a thick, stiff, glossy decorator icing, but which
was in fact a thin, insipid mess. I seized a
slab of gingerbread, piping the edges liberally with ill fated frosting,
(13:56):
and jammed it alongside an adjoining wall, praying against all
the laws of chemistry that the stupid thing would stick.
It did not. It stood there for a breathless second
or two, as if debating its options, and then fell
face down, taking out the opposite wall in its course.
(14:17):
I sighed and dredged up a smile. Looks like we
need just a little more powdered sugar, I said with
far more optimism than I felt. It would take a
lot more than powdered sugar to get me out of
this mess. It would take a miracle. And how, you ask,
(14:38):
did I find myself in this predicament? I asked myself
the same thing as I dumped sugar into the bowl
without bothering to measure it out. I had, I knew
overmixed the icing to begin with, and it was a
wet day which never did icing any favors, and I
had been racing around doing too many things at once.
(15:00):
That was it. Of course, the very thing mama was
always warning me against, the very thing my friend Lauren
and I were always resolving not to do. Whisking determinedly,
I reflected upon the events of the previous Christmas the
visit of Lauren and her crew from Oxmoor House publishing.
The excitement and happy upheaval of a photo shoot. The
(15:24):
lush Garland and boxwood wreaths strewn about by the stylist
with dizzying abandon. Lauren was the editor of Christmas with
Southern Living, an annual hardcover crammed with world famous recipes
and photographs of immaculate homes decked to perfection for a
girl growing up in the South. Southern living was the
(15:47):
epitome of taste, culinary and otherwise, and I was astonished
when Lauren had floated her idea. What about a photo
shoot at the rough house? I had known all along
that the draw was not me so much as my home.
I had, after all, only been married a little over
a year, and my domestic prowess was largely untested. The
(16:12):
rough house, on the other hand, named for its mid-19th
century builder, is an increasing rarity in our part of
the world. A sensible white clapboard farmhouse settled in a
scrap of undeveloped farmland. First time visitors are often amazed
to find it tucked away amid its suburban setting. I
(16:33):
know I was even more amazing is the way This
old House wraps its welcome around you the moment you
step inside, as if it were glad to see you,
and eager to provide shelter independent of anything I have
ever done to put my stamp on its big, high
ceilinged rooms. It seems to have gathered up the warmth
(16:54):
and light and life of all the times it has
ever known, even the hard times, so that its substance
is like a living presence. For the rough. House isn't
just a house, it is one of the principal characters
in my story. And as you will see in the
pages to come, its fortunes are tied with mine in
(17:16):
a way that I believe transcends this life. In advance
of the team from Oxmoor house. Our friends had come
alongside to help us get ready. Jenny Joy spent an
afternoon with me making Garland for the staircase out of
Fraser fir trimmings I'd collected from tree lots all over town,
(17:36):
and Taylor offered his collection of silver plate ornaments to
adorn our tree. My mother provided armloads of magnolia from
the stately specimens in her yard, and an ample serving
of unsolicited advice. Don't get carried away, she told me.
And whatever you do, don't compare yourself. This is not
(17:58):
a competition. Cheerfully ignoring her on both counts, I proceeded
to wear myself out, cleaning and polishing, saturating the woodwork
with Scott's liquid gold and dusting our meager furniture until
I threatened to rub off the veneer. The photo shoot
was a resounding success, thanks to Lauren's laid back sincerity
(18:23):
and her stylist's tasteful eye. And when the book came
out the following October, mama bought multiple copies. Phillips mother, Janice,
bought multiple copies as well, and was instrumental in my
being asked to speak at that month's event, hosted by
the Women's Ministry of the church. Lauren was asked to
(18:46):
and together with another capable young Southern Living editor, we
gave an hour long presentation on preparing for the holidays
and being present to its joys. In my enthusiasm, I
may have overstepped my time allotment, reducing Lauren's floral demonstration
to a rushed five minute affair, but the crowded room
(19:09):
had seemed so receptive to my untried opinions and naive
assertions that I just couldn't rein myself in. I was,
it seemed, a Christmas professional, and the thrill of the
thing went to my head like wine. After the program,
a woman introduced herself. She was the teacher of a
(19:29):
fledgling home arts class based upon the ideals in Edith
Schafer's book, The Hidden Art of Home Making. And during
my presentation, it had occurred to her that perhaps I'd
be open to a visit from her high school aged
girls later that year. She didn't have to ask me twice.
And before parting, we had agreed upon a date in
(19:49):
early December upon which she would bring her students to
the rough house for a morning of domestic instruction and inspiration.
In retrospect, it is easy to see how my idealism
and inexperience combined to produce the disastrous results on display
in my kitchen that day. Scarcely a decade older than
(20:10):
the fresh faced girls around my table. I had yet
to face off perfectionism for the foe that it was,
and I still believed that every line in my planner
was meant to be filled by some task or idea
Year with which I was meant to exhaust myself. I
was old enough to be influenced by the domestic taste
(20:30):
makers of the day, and young enough to think I
could do it all. Accordingly, I had stacked that morning
with expectations and the days leading up to it with
feverish preparation, not only for this gathering, but for Christmas itself.
But the icing just wasn't cooperating. If only one thing
(20:53):
would go right today. I was just lowering the gingerbread
roof onto the irresolute little structure when the phone rang.
These were the days of answering machines blaring messages to
whomever happened to be within earshot. And this message was
from my mother. Oh, Lanier, she gasped, electrifying the whole
(21:16):
room with her panic. Pray for Bell. She just ate
rat poison and were racing to Doctor Wolff. There was silence. Tense. Questioning.
Somewhat appalled. I blushed to the roots of my hair.
Belle is my mother's dog. I hastened to explain. And
(21:38):
Doctor Wolff is a very good vet. He will know
what to do. I'm sure she'll be fine. Another uncomfortable moment, then.
One of the girls spoke up. She had a porcelain
complexion and a wide red mouth that looked like it
had never known anything but smiles. Should we pray for Belle?
(22:01):
We did. And then I resumed my demonstration. But the
last remnants of proficiency had drained out of me. I
attached the chimney, then watched in quiet resignation as the
structure buckled in upon itself and slithered to the table
in a heap of frosting smeared gingerbread. I looked up
(22:23):
and regarded the bright, albeit bewildered, faces. And the lesson here, ladies,
I said, mopping my hands on a dishcloth, is that
sometimes things just don't work out. It was a lesson
I was loath to embrace at the time. I still
(22:44):
believed that with proper planning and a goodly amount of discipline,
I could get it all done and still have margin
in my life for the things that made life meaningful.
By all I meant, of course, a perfectly clean house,
an orderly and productive garden, a routine that ran like clockwork,
(23:05):
and a weekly menu of delicious and nutritious meals. Oh,
and a personal fitness regimen, a daily quiet time, a
yards long reading list, a writing rhythm, church membership and
a social life. Nothing unreasonable. Life would in time battered
down the obstinacy with which my standards were enshrined. Mama,
(23:29):
on the other hand, urged me to hold those standards loosely,
never confusing them with holy ideals of homemaking, hospitality and beauty.
She sometimes took the direct approach, the talking to when
it appeared I was getting tangled up in perfectionism, or
the extended exhortation when she discerned I was running myself
(23:53):
ragged over other people's expectations. But often it was the
gentle route, the email or handwritten note containing a quotation
or two from the endless collection she kept of helpful
and beautiful words. Once she quoted Saint Paul from First
Thessalonians chapter four, let it be a point of honour
(24:15):
with you to remain calm. Another time it was Saint
Teresa of Avila. Emphasis. Mamas, remember that you have only
one soul, that you have only one death to die,
that you have only one life which is short and
has to be lived by you alone. And there is
(24:36):
only one glory which is eternal. If you do this,
there will be many things about which you care. Nothing.
There were indeed many things about which my mother cared.
Nothing like perfectly clean houses and what anyone else thought
of her. I have never known anyone more willing to
(24:58):
laugh at herself, or more indifferent to keeping up appearances.
And yet her whole life was an embodiment of hospitality.
She was an excellent, largely self-taught cook, a cheerfully dismal gardener,
and she had a lively, highly literate mind. Our modest
(25:19):
home was tasteful and inviting, and mama was never happier
than when it was filled to bursting with people she loved.
The things she didn't care about made abundant room for
the things she did. One night when I was about
19 years old, I was standing beside her in a
receiving line at the front of a small Baptist church.
(25:41):
My family had just joined. Mama was by this time
a seasoned Christian and a passionate encourager of other women,
particularly young mothers. But she rarely missed an opportunity to
shoot from the hip. A woman came down the line
carrying a baby with 2 or 3 small children clinging
to or attempting to climb her person. She looked weary
(26:05):
and bedraggled, and there was a gleam of desperation in
her eyes. I'm so glad you're here, she panted when
she reached my mother. It's a lot of work. Not me, sister,
mama rejoined without missing a beat. I did all my
Christian work before I got saved. It was true. Before
(26:29):
giving her life to Christ, mama had done all the
things she had taught Sunday School out of a vague
sense of Christian duty, and attended committee meetings uncountable, all
while serving on the right boards in the right community,
maintaining an active membership in the Junior League, and raising
three small children. I know her heart went out to
(26:51):
that woman because she had once been her exhausted, encumbered, desperate.
In Jesus, however, mama had discovered a new freedom not
merely to do the right things, the things to which
she personally had been called, but to release the rest
with light hearted Abandon she had learned, in short, to
(27:14):
serve from the resting place of God's unconditional love. This
is not to say that she never got tired or overwhelmed,
but when she did, she always found her way back
to that refuge. One of the things Lauren and I
loved to talk about was how to in flesh our callings,
particularly in the domestic sphere, without allowing our ideals to
(27:38):
obscure the realities to which they point. Home, hospitality, beauty
were not merely ends in themselves, but contexts within which
time bound souls experienced their belovedness as children of God.
A few years after the photo shoot, Lauren shared an
(27:59):
ancient Latin phrase she had discovered Otium sanctum, or holy leisure.
The Church Fathers used it to describe a posture of
heart that promoted awareness of the presence of God in
the details of life and the particular freedom that accompanied it.
Holy leisure didn't mean that we did not work, but
(28:21):
that we did it with faith and fidelity from a
place of peace. It also cleared the ground for the
right things to grow, namely relationships with God and with
one another. All of our work should ultimately serve this end.
We agreed, or we ought to be questioning whether we
should do it at all. Mama's exhortations and Lauren's Otium
(28:47):
sanctum eventually began to breathe a new expansiveness into my
overdriven existence, allowing me to embrace my limitations not as hindrances,
but as guardrails to guide me along the path to
abundant life. But as I stood there in my kitchen
with Miss Kane's class that day. My limitations on full display.
(29:11):
All I could see was a mess of my own making.
The morning had been a complete disaster, and I had
nothing but my own embarrassment to show for it. This
is not to rank the ruin of a gingerbread house
among the real disasters of life, of which I've seen
a few. But it underscores my tendency, especially in the
(29:33):
early days, to elevate preparations over the thing prepared for,
in this case, an opportunity to demonstrate to these younger
women not only that beauty and hospitality mattered, but why,
two decades later, I was kneeling on the hearth in
that same kitchen, stoking up the fire to a merry blaze.
(29:55):
From all around came the music of talking and laughter,
fellowship and the sounds of feasting. It was Christmas Eve
and my rooms were full. Likewise my heart. I looked
up to see my friend Louise's teenage daughter Evelyn, smiling
down at me. I had known Evie since she was
a baby. Phillips and Louise's parents had been friends before
(30:19):
either of them were born. Mrs. Lanier. You won't believe it,
she gushed. But a lady I babysit for says she
knows you. She said she came here once back in
high school. I felt the colour rise to my cheeks.
Surely not. She told me you had her class out
(30:40):
to talk about homemaking and Christmas and all that, and
she said she's never forgotten it. She said it gave
her this whole vision of what she wanted her life
to look like. You know, making things beautiful and not
worrying about it being perfect. I laughed outright, not in derision,
(31:00):
but from pure joy. I had gotten my miracle after all,
it seemed, for only God could take such a series
of mishaps and shape them into something transcendent. And it
was always his way. Transfiguring broken things with beauty. I'd
had plenty of cause to bear witness to this over
(31:21):
the intervening years, as well as to the inherent holiness
brimming beneath the material substance of life. Nothing was beyond
his use or his reach, even a collapsed gingerbread house.
These days, my preparations for Christmas are no less enthusiastic.
I would even say idealistic than they were when, as
(31:44):
a young wife, I sought to embody my joy at
Christ's coming with every means at my disposal. But I
have learned, by the grace of God, to work from
a place of rest, fueled by my acceptance in the beloved,
to undertake only that which contributes to my peace. And
to that of my household. I don't have to do
(32:07):
it all. What's more, I don't want to like my
mother before me. I want to cultivate a playful unconcern
over the things which lie beyond the pale of my priorities,
bringing my best to the things that actually matter. I
want the freedom to take traditions up as well as
(32:28):
to let them go. I want, above all, to have
a heart that's made room for love himself. It takes
work to maintain a home, care for relationships, and yes,
prepare for Christmas. Even a simple one. But we have
a resting place, my friends, within which quandaries are quieted,
(32:50):
messes are redeemed, and all the cares of life fall
away before the consuming fire of a perfect love. Preparing
heart and home. As late as the 13th century, nearly
all the sacred music associated with Advent and Christmas was
(33:14):
still being written in ecclesiastical Latin, intended for choirs but
unintelligible to ordinary men and women. It wasn't until the
Franciscan poet and friar Jacopone da Todi began to pen
his lauds in the vernacular, that the songs of the
church started to seep into the practical experience of the congregation.
(33:35):
History may remember him as the writer of the Stabat Mater,
one of the most famous hymns of all time, but
we also have him to thank for one of our
earliest Christmas carols, written for the first time in the
language of the people. Give now your thought and care. Prepare, prepare. Sweep,
(33:56):
hearth and floor. Be all your vessels store shining and clean.
Then bring the little guest and give him of your
best of meat and drink. Yet more ye owe than meat.
One gift at your king's feet. Lay now I mean
a heart full to the brim of love. And all
(34:16):
for him. And from all envy clean. I love the
way this Carol brings the reality of the incarnation down
into the tangible matters of our lives, seamlessly merging personal
devotion with practical love. We are to prepare, Friar Jacopone urges,
not only our hearts, but our homes, offering clean rooms
(34:40):
and a stocked larder alongside a newly swept conscience and
gleaming motives. This is no time to compare our best
with someone else's or to start making frantic lists. This
is the time to pause and reflect upon how we
might actually welcome Jesus into our lives and our celebrations,
(35:02):
and how we can welcome others in his name. What
activities or rhythms will best serve the members of our
household or our immediate circle? Which traditions are worth fighting
for and which ones might need to be laid gently
to rest? What can we actually afford in terms of time, money,
(35:24):
and effort? Above all, how are we going to protect
that better part? Luke chapter ten, verse 42 of an attentive,
listening heart in the midst of our planning and preparations,
seeing as morning prayer is central to a Christ centered holiday.
For me, mid-November is the time I like to start
(35:47):
thinking about which advent devotional I'd like to use that year.
It is also when I begin to make space in
my calendar for a few simple household tasks, which will
facilitate easy hospitality in the weeks to come, like cleaning
out the back hall, coat closet and taking stock of
my candle supply. I always organize and scrub the larder
(36:10):
shelves before Thanksgiving in advance of all the extra ingredients,
and once a year treats with which they will soon
be crowded. And I regard the deep freeze in the
basement with a ruthless eye tossing old ham bones and
frost burnt vegetables to clear the way for cookies and cakes, casseroles,
bags of pecans and pans of cinnamon rolls. I also
(36:33):
make sure I have batteries for my candle lamps, stamps
for my invitations, and plenty of 22 gauge paddle wire
for garlands and greenery. One of my favorite pre-holiday tasks
is polishing the silver punch bowl and coffee service that
my parents gave us as wedding gifts, and the silver
(36:54):
candelabras which belonged to my grandmother. Silver has rather slipped
out of fashion these days. Particularly pieces as big as these.
But I cherish the sparkle it lends to a room
or a festive table. I use my silver because I
think it is beautiful, and because it lends an effortless
(37:15):
touch of contrast between the everyday and the exceptional. I've
been known to lug that coffee service into the middle
of a field for more than one picnic over the years.
But I also use it because I don't believe in
having things that are never pressed into active duty in
the name of love. Each year I polish up this
(37:38):
little vessels store not to impress or to distract, but
to serve. Another thing I tried to do ahead of
time is to stock the freezer with cookie dough. I
love having lots of homemade cookies on hand throughout the
holiday season to give as gifts or to share with guests.
But I enjoy it so much more when my freezer
(38:00):
is already well supplied with dough just waiting to be
rolled out, decorated and baked at my whimsy or leisure.
Making up the dough in November grants me a little
more margin in December, when kitchen time is at a premium,
and when one less mess to clean up feels like
nothing short of a heavenly blessing. I usually set aside
(38:25):
an afternoon around the middle of the month and make
a real spree of it. Sugar cookie dough, gingerbread dough jam,
thumbprints and snowball cookies, tea cakes and the makings of
mince tartlets. At the end of the day, I have
flour on my nose and likely in my hair, a
sink piled with every mixing accoutrement I own and a
(38:47):
molasses and milk spattered countertop. but I also have an
array of tidy packets. Ranged in the freezer downstairs, wrapped
and labeled each one a little gift of time to
myself that will become a gift of love to someone else.
None of this matters in the least. However, if my
(39:08):
heart is cluttered with misplaced priorities or anxious care, these
must be cleaned out as well. And my soul given
a thorough airing before I can begin to approach this
holiday season with any sort of holy intent. Historically, advent
has been a time of self-examination and penitence, an opportunity
(39:32):
to trim the wicks of our lamps, as it were,
and to invite the Holy Spirit to point out areas
in our lives that need his light. No amount of
advance preparation can produce in me the kind of heart
I want to pour out in love for God and others.
Only Jesus himself can do that, but it is a
(39:53):
process I can and must cooperate with, inviting him into
the details of my days and offering my frailty and
my hope. And this story is rife with both as
evidence of my need for him. Tip. My friend Jenny
Joy showed me a way to remove tarnish that involves
(40:15):
more magic than elbow grease. Simply line the bottom of
your sink with heavy duty aluminum foil. Sprinkle it liberally
with baking soda and heat a large kettle or pot
to the boil. Place your silver in the sink, making
contact with the foil, and pour in the boiling water
until the silver is completely submerged. Then stand back and
(40:40):
marvel as the chemical reaction safely dissolves the oxidation. Waiting days.
It was a labor of love, she said. She smiled
and handed me a tissue wrapped package at the front
door on a late November day, as I slipped it
(41:01):
from its folds and turned the package over in my hands.
There was no doubt of either the labor or the love.
A host of paper leaves, hand tinted and varying hues,
encircled a month's worth of tiny paper doors, each one
numbered in fine black ink. Rachel had invested countless hours
(41:23):
of careful work, and the joy Philip and I had
in it that December was measureless. We took turns each
day folding back the stiff flaps to reveal a quarter
inch scrap of enchantment within dancing couples and sledding children,
glitter dusted angels and cross-shaped stars. It was the first
(41:46):
advent calendar I'd had since I was a child. But
even decades later, I still remembered the tingle of excitement
when it was my day to turn back a well
creased paper door or window and peek in at the
angel or shepherd or star within. The waiting for those
small moments of revelation seemed endless back then. The long
(42:11):
December days stretched out into impossibility, and Christmas Eve was
a miracle itself. Emerging radiant and triumphant from a month
of anticipation, Christmas comes around more quickly than I'd like
to admit now, but the sweet expectation lingers is sweeter
than ever, perhaps, for I now know what it really
(42:34):
means to wait. The expectancy of advent throws a reflected
light over the waiting days of our lives. All my
desire is before thee. We whisper and ranged in the
shadows of time that surround us on all sides. A
multitude without number sends up an echo that has not
(42:56):
been silenced since God's promise first taught man to hope
in his coming, his coming to the human race, and
his coming to each of us in the intimacy of
our need. Centuries of yearning behind the fulfillment of our
Lord's appearance have myriad small incarnations in the hearts of
his people. We're all waiting on something, waiting for God
(43:20):
to fix a problem, waiting for him to give us
the desire of our hearts, waiting to see him face
to face. It's tempting to let the season underscore what
we still don't have, even though another year has rolled around.
But how much richer it is? I am learning to
embrace the stark solemnity of the Great universal waiting for
(43:44):
the Messiah, and to find a parable of it in
my own desires. God doesn't give us the big picture
all at once. He opens one window at a time,
giving us glimpses of the glories undergirding the everyday.
S1 (44:01):
God in Golden Hours is published by Rabbit Room Press.
The audiobook is published by Oasis Audio. Copyright by linear 2024,
music by Chris Baedeker. To find the complete text, plus
over 70 recipes and crafts not included in this podcast series,
(44:22):
you can purchase a copy of Glad and Golden Hours
wherever books are sold, or get a copy of our
just released Glad and Golden Hours Kitchen Companion, a recipe
only spiral bound cookbook exclusively available at store. Com.
Popular Podcasts
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
Are You A Charlotte?
In 1997, actress Kristin Davis’ life was forever changed when she took on the role of Charlotte York in Sex and the City. As we watched Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte navigate relationships in NYC, the show helped push once unacceptable conversation topics out of the shadows and altered the narrative around women and sex. We all saw ourselves in them as they searched for fulfillment in life, sex and friendships. Now, Kristin Davis wants to connect with you, the fans, and share untold stories and all the behind the scenes. Together, with Kristin and special guests, what will begin with Sex and the City will evolve into talks about themes that are still so relevant today. "Are you a Charlotte?" is much more than just rewatching this beloved show, it brings the past and the present together as we talk with heart, humor and of course some optimism.
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.