Blog Archives - trish hermanson

Where in the World is Orientar?

12/20/2021

   Early morning, I’m in my jammies with Oak, my grandson, and we’re discussing where in the world is Orientar, the country the wise men came from to visit Jesus. He didn’t know, just as I didn’t when I was a child. Only when I could read did I understand the song said, “We three kings from Orient are bearing gifts….”
     Christmas songs can be confusing as a child. I wondered whether round young virgin meant she was fat. No, it’s “round yon virgin” - around the virgin over there. The definition of a virgin? No one explained that to me for years.
     Other kids have wondered why shepherds washed their socks at night, rather than “shepherds watched their flocks at night.”    And during this season, why do some sing about walking in our winter underwear? It’s actually “walking in a winter wonderland.”
     This year another grandchild of mine sang “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, don’t look at me, I’m changing.” It’s actually “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, thy leaves are so unchanging.
     I understand the words of these great songs now, but I don’t think I’ll ever completely understand the mystery of God coming to Earth as a baby to bridge the gap between him and us. It’s a breath-taking story, captured well through questions in this a cappella version of “Mary, Did You Know? Enjoy it to reflect on the wonder of the season.

How Simple Words Changed a Life

12/11/2021

I recognized the stooped old man shuffling toward the building entry as someone whose words once impacted the world when he documented our times as a reporter for a prestigious international publication. Years earlier I’d heard Paul enthrall a crowd with tales of interviews with personalities like the shah, the pre-revolutionary political leader of Iran, when no other westerner had access. He knew how to open doors back then.
     Now no longer a player on life’s stage, Paul was faced with struggling to open the door in front of him. I rushed ahead and pulled it open, and he gave a polite thank you. I replied, “It’s a privilege to hold a door for a great writer.” His head spun toward me, and his voice quivered as much as his hands. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he shuffled inside, and I never saw him again.
     I opened more than a building entry for Paul. I opened a door to his soul with simple words that gave him a gift - recognition of his contribution in life, which others had forgotten. That’s something we all need. His startled response made me wish I could affirm someone in this way every day.
  Maybe I can.