Tonight I’m breaking stride, writing the blog from a miniature table in a tiny Starbucks, warmed by a tall cup of herbal tea. Floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows look out on a Christmas scene: well-decorated store windows, traffic lights “blinking a bright red and green” and a brick sidewalk on which a steady parade of shoppers pass.

Just outside the windows is a long line of trees laden with tiny white lights, making the street look every bit like a page from a fairy tale. Christmas carols are playing on the Starbucks speakers, and as if on cue, snow has begun to fall.

The counter top nearby is lined with cheery red bags of “Christmas Blend” coffee, and the menu posters overhead are coordinated with the same red, along with pictures of alluring cups of whipped-creamed-topped hot drinks. This scene couldn’t be more perfect. It’s a combination of “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” and “Let it snow.”

All of us envision a similar perfection when we look toward the holidays. But even though I’ve not exaggerated my description of the scene, I’ve left out some of the details.

A mother and two elementary school boys just left the Starbucks with three cups of hot chocolate, but before they did, the mom had to grab each of them, point out my computer and yell a reminder that liquids and laptops don’t mix.

At the next table a husband and wife argued about where they’d eat dinner, one wanting hot dogs, the other a gourmet meal. When six middle school girls came in, the catty gossip flying between them nearly colored the air blue, and because of their dilly-dallying, the woman behind them eventually stormed off saying, “I don’t have all day to get one cup of coffee!”

A boyfriend and girlfriend became stressed when he decided nothing on the Starbucks menu interested him. Outside  people hoped to stay warm by hunching forward as they walked through the bitter cold.

Scenarios of holiday strain dotted the Christmas-y atmosphere, destroying the fairy tale ambiance and reminding me life isn’t, nor ever will be, what it seems.

Lately I’ve noticed couples seated together in restaurant windows (including Starbucks), and feel a sense of self-pity. I’m not part of a couple anymore, and as I look through the windows, especially now with Christmas lights and music adding to the attraction, I long to be part of that picture. But I ought to remind myself things aren’t always as they seem. What looks idyllic may not be, and being jealous of a fairy tale picture is silly.

This principle holds true in the spiritual realm, too. The promises of this life are just like a seemingly beautiful scene. “Through the window” they look satisfying and delectable, and we project ourselves into those pictures. But if we go there, we learn it’s often just “smoke and mirrors.”

Most things aren’t as they seem, and spending time wishing or hoping when in truth we might not want them anyway, is foolishness indeed.

“You need to become a fool to be truly wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness to God.” (1 Corinthians 3:18-19)

Recently I drove to Chicago to visit an infusion center, a place where cancer patients receive IV chemotherapy and other drugs. As I walked past the word “oncology” on the door, my heart melted with gratitude that I didn’t have cancer.

Following the nurse through a maze of hallways, I was ushered to a comfortable lazy-boy next to a clean floor-to-ceiling window. Immediately outside the glass was a wooden park bench, a fountain shut down for the winter and a circular brick walkway. All of it was covered with 6” of snow.

On my other side was a row of recliners, each with an occupant. Behind us was a second row, their backs facing our backs, and each person had their own TV on a swing-arm from the wall in front of them. I had one, too.

While I was waiting for my nurse to “be right back,” I studied the room. There were twenty-plus medical people, each flitting back and forth from their patients to a massive circular desk like children in a game of hide and seek, racing back to home base. Among these doctors, nurses and techs, there were multiple conversations going on, most dominated by a computer screen.

And then there was the reason for the whole set-up, the people occupying the lazy-boys. My area could have been a wig shop for the variety of hair on people’s heads. Some were elegant, others not so pretty, but all made sense in this situation. I thought of Nate with his full head of blond hair and his decision not to accept the chemo his doctors had offered. Both of us knew maximum-strength chemotherapy would have doubled the misery of his last weeks.

As my nurse returned with her IV kit and a pile of pamphlets, I glanced at my next-door-neighbor, a woman looking to be in her eighties. Maybe she wasn’t that old, because cancer does terrible things to the appearance, but she’d left her teeth at home and had dressed in several layers of sweaters. My heart went out to her. What was her story? She clutched a box of tissues, mopping her mouth but keeping her eyes squeezed closed as if in pain. Did she have people loving her, looking out for her best interests? What was her prognosis?

My young nurse bubbled with conversation, a sweet smile on her face continually. She was a pro at starting my IV, and I was thankful for the drug that would prevent bone loss and osteoporosis. The clear liquid was done infusing before I’d finished reading the literature.

What does my future hold? Maybe I’ll be in a chemo chair before life finishes. This morning I learned of a friend’s death from cancer. She’d refused treatment for one reason: she was ready to meet Jesus. Whether a person chooses chemo or not is a complicated decision. But whether or not a person is at peace when death is near, is usually based on only one thing: knowing Jesus personally.

Without that assurance, contentment changes into uncertainty and fear.

“The day of death [is] better than the day of birth.” (Ecclesiastes 7:1b)

I am sorry I’m unable to post tonight. As the snow continues to rage outside, Hans, Katy and I have all come down with a raging case of flu, affecting our entire digestive tracks, and we’re exceedingly thankful for a second bathroom, even if it’s only a half-bath. Coming up against a closed door with someone saying, “I’ll be out in a minute,” from the other side can be an emergency with messy consequences.

Nicholas, nearly two years old, was the first casualty two days ago. Nelson, Klaus and the seven month old twins are still holding out. We’re thankful God is allowing us to take turns rather than all go down at once.

I hope to be back posting soon….