In far-away Turkey, in a certain village, two different images of a gift-giver had a kind of cage-match, and one of them won mightily. 

In Demre, near the ancient city of Myra, a bronze statue was donated and set up in the town square. It was a likeness of an ancient bishop, a man of compassion and wisdom. The bishop was St. Nicholas, because Myra was his see in the fourth century, when he is thought to have lived. He stood on top of the world, this lover of the poor, his feet mounted on a globe. Recently, he was taken from this prominent place and put in a back courtyard. Atop a pedestal, in his place, was put a jolly red Santa statue. Apparently the change was made because Santa is more popular and better-known than St Nicholas, his forerunner.

Labour Day came early this year, along with those September-school-starting feelings. Even for those of us who’ve been out of school many years, they can be startling. If you’re a parent of school-age children, perhaps you’ve been “getting them ready,” assisted as always by advertisers who prod weeks early. If you’re not, you may remember the years when you prepared for term-time, possibly with competing feelings. 

It was Sunday morning, and I was leaving the hospital. A woman was sitting in the foyer; she smiled pleasantly, but a bit anxiously, her white hair framing a friendly face. She’d finished her appointment early and wondered when the bus would come to take her to the mall. My car being nearby, I offered her a ride over.

At the words of his wife, Jim shrivels inside himself and speaks thereafter in infrequent monosyllables. She thinks he is sullen.

Shawna becomes belligerent when her supervisor criticizes her and stalks out.

In a downtown housing complex, I met Anne. Her parents raised her in this place, and since their deaths she’s lived here alone.  She’s well-known in the neighbourhood; it’s her home.  As a child, she was picked-on, teased and called a “freak” because of a disability.  She has a meagre education, partly because she was so unaccepted in school that it was difficult for her to finish, partly because her disability reduced her mental capacities.

Have you ever said no to God? Consciously, that is, and deliberately. Very likely, most of us have a constant “no” running through our bloodstream, even when we think we’re saying yes. But occasionally we may be aware of ourselves saying no.

My friend Eleanor and I went to the garden show, exploring things of the Earth, how they grow and flourish. Eleanor, who’s battling illness, said she’s been wondering about the resurrection of the body.

We were sitting watching his daughter’s hockey tournament (her team was winning). My friend and I had both been thinking that day about Robert Latimer, whose request for parole was not granted. Mr. Latimer’s story asks uncomfortable questions.