Think, think, think.

Think. Think. Think. Think. Think.

It is as if Winnie the Pooh were in the room, thinking heavily for such a small bear. Thinking very hard indeed, trying to come up with the next solution to the ever present question: how to get more honey.

Think, think, think.

And usually it may be very cunning, considering the fluffiness of his stuffing. But even with all the thinking, and all the scheming, and all the new and different ways that he comes to hover under the honey hole, but then he falls, and fails, like always. At the end, Christopher Robin is there. And it is Christopher Robin who brings him the honey, so that Pooh can be satisfied.


How often are we like Winnie the Pooh, straining all of our brain cells, striving ever harder to get the unattainable goal. And we come up with the analog to dangling under a grey balloon, singing a song of disguise as a rain cloud. Too often, it is too easy for that balloon to pop.

And then we fall. And we nurse our wounds, and we, unlike Pooh, think that we need to try again. That only if we had planned more, thought harder, followed the plan closer, then we would have succeeded beyond human capabilities.

We’re wrong. We can’t just try harder, pressing against the concrete wall of whatever seems to be in our way, and expect anything different than a shoulder out of whack and bruised and bloody knuckles.

Perhaps we need to be more like Pooh, after he has fallen back to the ground, stung by those who produce his most valued treasure. See, Pooh may have fallen, and Pooh may have been stung, but when Christopher Robin shows up, Pooh is happy just to have him. Pooh is happy to be loved by Christopher Robin, and the honey that he brings is a treat, yes, but only a small part of the joy that he feels.

How much more do we need to be open to the love that comes? How much more do we need to accept that we cannot do it ourselves? How much more do we yearn for the acceptance from our Christopher Robin?

As Christmas comes closer, we hear much about Mary, the mother of Jesus, and how she “pondered the news in her heart.” She thought. Deeply. She kept having new things added to what she would continue to learn and new ways of seeing the different expressions of those who came to find and praise this baby that she had carried and then born into a messy world.

And as she pondered, as she thought, I wonder what she thought about. I wondered if she thought that she could protect her son. I wonder if she thought about the things that she had heard from readings of the scripture in the temple, and overhearing what the men around her said about the Messiah and the current Roman occupation. I wonder what kind of games she played as a little girl. I doubt that she played games that were able to prepare her for bearing the promise of the world.

And, I wonder. I ponder. I think about her, and about Pooh, and about the honey, and about the rain clouds. And I wonder about the love of Christopher Robin, who only wants the best for Pooh. They are fictional characters, they are players from a children’s story book.

How much more, does Christ want to share love with us?


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