Mhaolain's Child, a Renaissance Thinker in a Post-Modern Culture

Nature's Advent Calendar

When my mother died in December of 2009, one of her friends sent a gorgeous white-flowered Christmas cactus as a memorial to our family. I failed to inherit my mother's green thumb -- that gene went to my brother, who died in 1994. Nevertheless, I determined to protect the plants given to us in her memory as best I could. Imagine my surprise when in November of 2010 white buds appeared on the Christmas cactus. It flourished throughout the Advent season with its first flowers unfolding precisely on November 15, and its last flower falling almost exactly on January 18, which is the day of Epiphany, or the 12th Day of Christmas, according to the Eastern calendar.

Again this past season of 2011, the first white buds appeared on my cactus about November 1, the first flowers precisely on November 15, the first day of Advent. But something happened differently this year. The plant that was in full flower during our American Thanksgiving holiday began to drop its unopened buds. It was as though Christmas never quite unfolded for my cactus in the 2011 season. And so, I brushed the last dead blossoms from its branches and put it back into its usual growing space, out of the limelight, simply resting in the gentle evening sunlight that fills my bedroom. Perhaps my cactus sensed its caregiver's emotions because that's much the way I felt this year. The Advent season, filled with parties and Church activities, rushed along and I with it. But my heart somehow never completely opened to its usual Christmas fullness. Me, the point guard for Christmas in our family. The one who puts up the tree mid-November and hangs Valentines on it in February.

As the 12 days of Christmas came and went on the Western calendar and then came and went on the Eastern calendar, I began to take down and store away my holiday decorations. Naturally, my tree still beams its dark-night banishing light, but I struggled to generate that vibrant room-filling enthusiasm I usually exude during the holiday season. As if in solidarity with me, my barren Christmas cactus gently put forth a single white bud this week. I'm waiting for it to unfurl its flower to brighten my mid-winter days. It reminds me that there are seasons of life when it's fine not to flower, fine simply to sit quietly and grow into the next season.

“And why do you worry ....? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin." -- Matthew 6:28

(Ig)Noble Rot

Recently, my work took me to the beautiful Napa Valley for a few days. One of my favorite places to visit there is Ma(i)sonry, an art gallery and tasting room blended together like a perfect meritage in a historic building in Yountville. During my previous visit in November, I had the opportunity to taste a beautiful dessert wine from the R.A. Harrison winery. While I'm not usually a fan of sweet wines, this wine, appropriately named Nobility, captured my taste buds, and I bought several bottles. So, imagine my delight when, last week, I'm walking through the garden at Ma(i)sonry and, almost literally, run into Roger Harrison, the maker of this delicious nectar. I felt a little like my niece the first time she met Carrie Underwood!

As Roger and I talked about his work, he taught me a little of the process of making dessert wine. In contrast to the majority of winemakers, Roger actually looks for grapes, in his case Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon grapes, that have been blighted by mold. While his fellow winemakers do everything they can to keep mold away from their grapes, Roger actively searches for those grapes that other winemakers discard. He watches over these molded shriveling fruits and carefully encourages them to reach their fullest potential for sweetness. He nurtures these rotting fruits on their vines weeks after other winemakers have harvested their grapes. Then, when the sugar levels in the grapes reach their target, Roger carefully harvests them. He gently scrapes the mold from the juices time after time after time until only the pure sweet nectar of sweet wine remains. The result is pure bliss.

As Roger shared this tedious process with me, I couldn't help but think how winemaking once again teaches me so much about the love of God. God looks beyond the mold and stink that often covers humanity to see our potential for sweetness. Maybe, just as He distills the essence of nectar from my life, He can use me to nurture others who are molded and rotting, those who have been discarded by the majority of fellow men. May I be like Him who sees the sweetness that lies within even when covered by mold.