Each month, I have the honor of speaking to our church’s AWANA kids. I try to coordinate my talk with the theme of the night, but that is not always possible. Last night’s theme was “dress like a mess”. While I have spoken at women’s groups on “making your mess your message”, I didn’t feel kindergarteners through sixth graders had enough life experience to really make a go of that talk. So I did what I always do when preparing a speech (for any audience), I waited for God to spark my heart and thoughts.
About four days before AWANA, I felt that old nudge as to what my talk should be based upon. It took some coordinating, but after digging through countless Rubbermaid totes in my storage room, I found the object I needed . . . although I kept her hidden until mid-way through my allotted time last night.
Next week, the kiddos will be celebrating Jesus’ birthday; so, I opened with telling them about when I was a little girl. In some ways, I feel sorry for them because a beloved part of my Christmases growing up is completely foreign to their world. The face of every adult in the room travelled back in time when I told the kids about how my brother and I would wait and wait and WAIT some more for the Christmas catalogs to arrive. We would spend hours perusing through the wish books picking out just the gifts we hoped to receive. I heard a few chuckles when I said the Montgomery Ward catalog was always my favorite.
I told the AWANA clubbers about a Christmas when my whole view on toys changed. So unlike the world these kids live in, back in the day, brunette baby dolls were virtually non-existent. One year, my beloved MW catalog had a tiny baby doll with (Yep! You guessed it) brunette molded hair. Oh! I wanted that baby! How I wanted that baby! I wished and wished and could not wait to wake up on Christmas morning, assured she would be there waiting.
Only that is not what happened. There under the tree was another blonde-headed baby doll. I was heartbroken, and though I tried my best to love the little blonde baby, she was never going to be in the league of the Bye Lo Baby.
My precious Bye-Lo Baby surrounded by an almost 70 year old quilt made by my Mama.
The baby of my dreams made another catalog appearance the following Christmas and eventually made her way into my loving arms.
I have been busy helping to direct this year’s children’s Christmas pageant at our church, and each week we have a lesson, detailing the different gifts of advent, that corresponds to a portion of our script. One week I asked my sweet kiddos to name five gifts they received last year. After a period of time, I had them list all the gifts they would like this year. Even though I could have predicted the outcome, the actual results of my experiment were startling.
Reassuring them all, I confessed that a gift I had been dreaming of for many years which still sits in the box in came in. The lust and lure of gifts are not only appealing to children with visions of sugarplums in their heads.
Unlike the baby doll I never wanted (but who grew into a nice member of my childhood pretend family), there is a baby who once came into the world who will never and who has never disappointed me. Though, I cannot say the same about myself to that baby. I have done plenty of things that have made him sad throughout my life, but his steady presence in all I do has been the best present I have ever received.
I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t pining for more this Christmas. I truly do want more: more of the peace that comes from spending time with that baby, more of the joy that comes from being content, more time to be a blessing to others, and more love to share. I realize that to get more there will need to be less: less hurried, less focus on things that don’t truly matter, and less wishing for things of this world that don’t truly satisfy.
If I can (with God’s help) do that, then I will have MORE than enough Christmas.
Author’s note: On the lighter side, I love to laugh. I can always use MORE of that in my day. I knew the subject of today’s blog a few days ago, and I always wonder how much of what I teach or speak on actually sticks with an audience. This morning, God gave the answer to that question as well as a joyful bowl of laughter. Our little Sally Gal recently was given a hamster. He is a delightful little creature whom she adores, and it appears the feeling is mutual. He rests in her hand as soon as she takes him out to play. Of course, every day she serenades him multiple times. Her little angelic voice can be heard singing all sorts of tunes and melodies. The rest of us really like “Lord Business” (named after a favorite character from the Lego movie), but he does really put an impact on our sleeping. Erin says she believes he is training for a marathon as he runs on his wheel ALL NIGHT LONG. Alternate names of “Squeaky McGoo” and “Lord Busyness” have been floated around by the big people in our house. On our trip to the college tour, we stopped by a huge pet store and invested in a whisper quiet wheel. Let’s just say we have a sad hamster today because I think the wheel is too small for him. Downtrodden and heartbroken for her buddy, Cloie told me at breakfast, “Mom, I think that new hamster wheel is his blonde-headed baby doll!” She was listening all along!
I have a group of young girls in my life who are having a rough go of things. From the outside looking in, their collective suffering is in one aspect of their daily world. The emotions of joy and despair are never far from the surface. So much weight on such young shoulders! For now – only for now – their hard work has not proven meritorious. This is what the world sees.
But I know about what has gone on where very few eyes have watched.
Underneath proudly worn jerseys live some of the kindest hearts you will ever find.
Upon hearing the news of a family hurting, they hatched a plan to give back. They plotted, they schemed, and they executed one of the nicest things I have ever seen a group of teen girls do.
In a season when it is so easy at their ages to listen to the roar of the crowd of “I want”, “I wish” or “I’ve just gotta have it”, they listened to the quiet still voices inside of themselves. Those voices said give generously because love conquers most everything.
That alone is something to be proud of.
But there is a little more to the story. Their actions reflected the true spirit of the little baby who was humbly born in a manger because for most of these girls the family was strangers. They gave anyways, knowing that for that little baby family includes anyone you chose to love. Bringing good tidings of great joy was for more important than any other measure anyone could ever use.
To me, they are winning in all the ways that matter.
Photo found at http://www.npr.org
Today we went with the Boy Wonder on a college tour as he is narrowing down his choices for next year. Door decorations on one door stopped me in my tracks. In bold black and gold lettering, the suite door read, “MY AIRMEN IS CURRENTLY DEPLOYED!” Below the lettering was a small chalkboard with “148 days left” written in beautiful penmanship. The village (which is the name for the building) was absolutely stunning, but those holiday decorations made my eyes fill with tears.
During my blog’s long hiatus, I was filling in as a long-term substitute teacher at a school I hold dear for a teacher whose family had recently gone through a trial eerily similar to the one my family has walked. My heart was to help in any way I knew how – even if it meant I had to stretch. And stretch I did as I was teaching Social Studies (which I love but which is not my area of expertise). Science and mathematics – like riding a bike, I tell you.
In my first hour of the day, the last unit we studied was World War I. On a few of my final days, we reenacted the Christmas Truce of 1914 when German and British soldiers not only held a cease-fire for 24 hours, but also celebrated Christmas together by entering No Man’s Land. They exchanged rations as presents and sang carols in native tongues as well as collaboratively in Latin. So far from home, yet a piece of home was present in their hearts in the humanity and generosity of the moment.
From The Illustrated London News of January 9, 1915: “British and German Soldiers Arm-in-Arm Exchanging Headgear: A Christmas Truce between Opposing Trenches”
A year ago, my family was “support staff” to our dear friends while their Captain was mobilized far from home. We prayed, encouraged, called, texted, e-mailed, visited, and prayed some more while our soldier was away from his family. I don’t know if it was his recent and safe return home that made my eyes a little more weepy when I saw this door or if it was the reminder of so many families who too were paying an often forgotten sacrifice to keep my family free and safe. The families on the home front pick up the pieces left by the absence of a dear one while serving on active duty while all the time hoping that their loved ones are safe. Life doesn’t stop back at home.
Families soldier on.
It is not easy. It is not fun. It is dang hard work. It is emotionally exhausting. It is physically, mentally, and sometimes spiritually draining.
There is no other choice except to keep living.
The families of our military service men and women do IT every day – without recognition, without fanfare, and without hoopla.
This Christmas, I am asking each of you to do something kind – boldly, bravely and courageously, for a military family. If you don’t know of one personally, I am including the link for Holiday Mail for Heroes (which is now completely organized by the Red Cross). If you think that a card doesn’t matter, I personally invite you to my house for a glass a sweet tea and a trip down memory lane with my husband, who for over twenty years has saved every (I mean EVERY) card, letter, or drawing he received when he was on active duty during Desert Storm.
Be Brave! I know me and my peeps will be!
Before the darkest day of my life, I thought the title of today’s blog was just a schmaltzy holiday tune. After experiencing profound and tragic loss, it became more of a realistic sentiment. A rural church in my area annually hosts a Blue Christmas service where grieving families can come to remember lost loved ones. I have never attended, but I do think the ceremony could bring comfort to many.
I have written before about my struggle with hanging stockings because I should have seven children’s stockings to hang instead of three. I DREAD that day each year. On my part it involves a lot of stall tactics and general avoidance.
I am so thankful however that my friends do not utilize those same tactics. Employing aptly timed visits, phone calls, or texts, they seem to sense a gentle nudging from our Father above that I am feeling down. The blessing of their friendship works EVERY single time.
Every day, I exchange daily prayer requests with a dear one in my life. Today, she told me about a small act that she did over the weekend. Feeling worn and weary from her own life’s struggles, she just needed to do something to bless someone else as a way to pick up her own holiday mood. As she was telling me the story, my mind was racing around the thought that I SO get it when you feel you have used up all your goodness and mercy. When everything seems to be going wrong, the only thing that makes sense is to find a way to reach out and brighten someone else’s day.
She went to the store and bought a small bag of treats and delivered the gift to a grieving mom. Her retelling the story made me choke up, because I understand how one small act, at a time when everyone else is anticipating Christmas day with great joy, can be transformational. A small kindness reminds me and every other grieving person that our loved one hasn’t been forgotten. A simple token whispers directly to the soul saying a name we long for no one to forget.
My friend’s story reminded me of all the acts (big and small) that friends (near and far) have done for me and my family. Each kindness changing the hue of a blue Christmas by pointing us to the true author of hope – a tiny baby wrapped in swaddling clothes!
Please excuse a short momentary break from all things Christmas.
Two things hold constantly true for me. I am always a keeper of stories, especially those passed down by family members. I am also a burden bearer. My heart hurts when others hurt, even historical hurts. It isn’t exactly rare when those two constants collide, but when they do, I hold what unfolds tenderly and dearly in my spirit. Such was the case when I had a phone call with my Mama the other day.
I call my ninety-year-old grandmother fairly often because I know someday I won’t have that opportunity, and I do not wish to miss any chances to savor time with her, even if she lives twelve hundred miles away. Over the years, we have talked about everything under the sun. Most stories in her collection, I have heard more than once before. This held true until that phone conversation when she told a story I had NEVER heard before.
She commented about seeing her namesake on the annual family calendar I give as a gift for grandparents and great-grandparents. She reminded me that the little Cloie had an upcoming birthday. Teasingly, I said my family had another birthday, our dog’s, to celebrate first. Her retort was, “Well, how could I forget it? You put it on the calendar!”
The mood shifted a bit when I said it was always easy to remember our Huckleberry’s birthday because it coincided with the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The moment those last two words left my mouth, the old memories came spilling out. It was as precious a moment to me as it reconnected me with my Mama’s family.
She said everyone should remember that date and hold it sacred. She remembered the day as if it were yesterday. In east central Alabama, the Cunningham’s (my Mama’s birth family) were getting ready for church. In a sharecropping family with twelve children, that was no small feat. The radio was playing gospel music in the background before the normal programming was abruptly interrupted. The choked up announcer relayed the information as best he knew it at that time.
The United States at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii had been attacked by Japanese forces. The toll in terms of lives taken and property destroyed was indescribable, but the vulnerability felt for the first time by entire generations of Americans was even greater. Just the retelling of the story, one that had a significant impact on her life, left my Mama choked up.
“It was the first time I had ever seen my Daddy cry.”
As soon as he heard the newscaster’s words, he sat down at the kitchen table and wept. Mama Cloie described it as sobbed. There they stood as young children and teens, surrounding their loving Daddy, not fully understanding what they were witnessing. He had lived through the Great War, World War I, something his generation never wanted to relive. As the patriarch of his family, he knew, without a shadow of a doubt he knew, what would happen to his young sons and his brothers-in-law as America regrouped and dealt with one of her darkest hours.
His knowledge of past hurts proved to be prophetic, my great uncle Preacher (his nickname) and my great-great uncles Arly and Hef were all sent away to fight for America on foreign soil. Their lives changed forever.
Tonight as we drove by a city building on our way to a banquet, we saw the flag being flown at half-staff. I wanted to call my Mama and tell her, “We remember. But more importantly, we shall never forget.”
Photo found on http://www.nbcnews.com
There are days. You know the kind of days when nothing goes right. It seems like on those days my kids ability to get on each other’s last nerve is in perfect form. They have simply used up all their goodness and mercy. I will also tell you that on those days I cry a little. All three of my kids have lost a sibling, and all three have regrets of something they wish they could have said or done differently. On those days when everything is going wrong, I just want to scream, “It’s like you’ve all forgotten what it is like to lose a brother!”
Friday night’s basketball didn’t end the way we wanted in more than one way. The scoreboard truly didn’t reflect what our beloved Lakers are capable of doing, and in the last five minutes of the game, our #32 went down with a buckled knee. Scared and hurt – we watched seven months of hard work recovering from an injury seem to go down the drain. We didn’t know if this was a career ender or just a minor set-back. It currently seems to be the latter.
Early Saturday morning, found our Erin doing exactly the homework the coach had given them in the locker room. She was icing and elevating her knee while watching Huddle and taking notes on the game. Meanwhile upstairs our little Sally Gal was getting dressed to go to her own basketball practice. I didn’t realize that they had received their jerseys already, and I was shocked when she came out ready for team pictures.
Sheepishly, I asked her to turn around because I wanted to see what jersey number she got. The one she requested is not guaranteed. When I saw what number was printed, my throat contained a heart sized lump. I whispered to Clo to go show her sister because she was feeling pretty low, and this might be the thing to turn her morning around.
I could overhear their conversation. “Aww, Cloie did you get to pick your own number?” Her affirmation made another throat in our house suddenly feel a little lumpy. So even if it only lasted for a moment, there was peace on earth at our house.
Both of my #32’s!
Yesterday I had the very wonderful opportunity of attending my annual birthday “party” given to me by my children’s adopted grandmother. It is always such a blessing of a time! She is an amazing cook, but an even more wonderful hostess. Our tradition of making kringla and enjoying lunch with birthday cake is a refreshing blessing to me.
This year’s celebration was simply a little more special as we remembered a precious Christmas. Grandma and Grandpa only shared one advent season with Reed before he passed away. Their “adoption” into our family occurred in the spring. But we celebrated one annual Christmas sleepover together with all of us.
Best carrot cake ever!
While enjoying bites of the most divine carrot cake ever made, our conversation settled upon quilts, like the ones I am making for gifts. Grandma asked if I had ever seen the beautiful quilt made for them by the local church. I had indeed. Then we both remembered my sweetie and I have used it at our family Christmas gathering. As my mind raced through the thoughts of that first Noel shared together, I remembered how under that quilt we were supposed to have a soft and cuddly fleece blanket. Grandma raced around the house looking for it to no avail. Eventually, we discovered a young redhead had snuck off to bed and was wrapped snuggly inside it. We survived, but were a little jealous of Reed’s snuggly blanket.
As we were cleaning up the table, I lovingly touched the cake stand. At my first birthday party Grandma did not own one, but wished she did. Her smile told the whole story when she unwrapped one that first Christmas. We all still laugh (and sometimes say in unison) Reed’s clarification of the significance of this gift. Upon opening, he blurted out, “That’s not just any cake stand! It’s a Martha Stewart!” For our little family, that little line is recited as precious way to breathe Reed’s memory into our presence.
Yet, the most special memory to me was the one Grandma had forgotten. One the drive home after our first year, Reed quietly said, “You know guys, I think Grandpa P is the real Santa Claus.” After a little bit of questioning about this observation, he explained, “Didn’t you see how his eyes twinkle?”
That’s my boy! Keeping the magic of Christmas alive for us all – especially his younger siblings – while always loving Jesus more than most knew possible for twelve years old.
A scene from Grandparent’s day – notice Grandpa with the twinkling eyes! Magic or mischief . . . we’ll never tell. photo courtesy of Karen Berg
May you all have a moment as wonderful and special this Christmas!
One of the lesser publicized facts of a white Christmas in Minnesota (and just about anywhere in the Midwest) is dry air in homes and businesses. For a family riddled with allergies and sinus issues, there are definitely aspects that are not as appealing as idyllic Christmas cards of still, snowy nights. A few days ago, I purchased a humidifier for our upstairs to help with the onset of my seasonal plague of nose bleeds. Don’t get me wrong I am happy that I live in a warm (and draft-free) house on the prairie; yet, I am fully prepared to take counter measures. I do, however, have to be very careful about which humidifier I choose because one daughter is off-the-charts allergic to mold. So there’s the rub – to find a humidifier that helps moisten the air but doesn’t moisten the air too much!
Perusing through the selections available, I purchased the one that seemed to fit best with the needs that we had. Here were the highlights of the one that made the cut:
- Provides cool air (I am at an age where hot air is not on my wish list, unless of course, I’m going up in a balloon.)
- Can provide moistened air to up to three rooms (exactly what I need)
- 96% mold and bacteria free (due to UV light attachment. Well why not!!!)
- Lasts for 36 hours (less filling and refilling!)
- Quiet operation, fan will not interrupt sleep (Bonus!)
While I was gone for the evening, my sweetie unpacked, assembled, filled the water reservoir, and plugged ‘er in. When I got home, he was watching TV in our bedroom by the glow of the UV light sanitizer, which really had the effect of a fish aquarium for ambience. When we shut down the news, I knew we were in for a long night. I will be honest and say the light was mildly annoying (as I like it pitch black to sleep), but “quiet operation” must be industry code language for not as loud as a rock concert but definitely as loud as a jet engine.
Did. Not. Sleep. A. Wink.
As I lay awake, I started thinking about all the other purchases I had been duped by in my life. Nail art kit for kids was disastrous at best. Buns of Steel video in the 80’s could have been better labelled as a torture device. And my personal favorite was the first grill we ever purchased.
One Friday our best friends invited us over because they had bought a new grill and said if you help us put it together, we can all have a cook-out. Whipped it out the box, put the grill on the stand, and fastened two nuts and bolts, and we were cooking with gas. Literally. It was such a great evening we decided we too needed a grill. Off to the store, we found one similar to our friends with the same “Easy to Assemble” sticker on the box. Pork chops purchased, we raced home to assemble our new grill. Thank the good Lord we did not reciprocate the previous day’s plan with our friends. We opened our box to find 273 pieces and a 20 page manual of instructions. It took three days to complete. “Easy to Assemble” – my left toe!
When I returned the humidifier to the store this morning, the customer service lady asked me if it was defective. I explained it worked according to theory, but not according to needs. She could hardly contain her laughter when I blurted I probably would have gotten more sleep if howler monkeys resided in my bedroom. She read the box, gave me a understanding nod, and smacked a “Defective” label on the whole thing.
As I stood there waiting for the money to be returned, I realized how much like the misguided purchases in my past I had allowed my previous Christmas joy to be snatched away by flashy labelling, smoke and mirrors marketing, and shoulda’s (You should do this. Or you should buy that for your kids. You should have this.) I think you get the picture.
It was a pretty convicting moment.
When I pause and truly reflect, my favorite holiday memories are always about the simple things, and yet, I have been fooled more than once into believing I needed more of this or that to create a happy Christmas.
In reality, I don’t need anything more to be happy, and my kids don’t either. Why do I (or anyone else) allow the noise of the world to disrupt my heart’s contentment like crashing cymbals? I think my pledge to be present (even if it is the little moments this advent) is really rubbing off. So even though I have been functioning on no sleep, I have spent most of the day thankful for the realization of all the blessings I have, including the opportunities I have to spend with people I love.
And I am MORE than okay with that knowledge bringing peace to my mind and good will to my soul, especially if it brings me closer to sweet sounds of a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.
I apologize that you will get two countdown blogs today. My travels took me away from home and brought me back safe and secure, although tired and exhausted. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to travel with a dear friend to hear her daughter’s collegiate Christmas concert. My sneaky friend billed it as girlfriend’s day with shopping, music, and fun. What she failed to mention was she would be belatedly treating me for my birthday.
We had a delightful time, but it was the concert itself that stirred my heart. The sweet college freshman happens to be the most current recipient of the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship; so, of course, I had a vested interest in more than one way to be present. While I thought that I was going to admiringly listen, for a second time I was completely surprised. This was not simply a concert. Truly, it was an experience!
A conversation with another friend reminded me this week so few people actually understand the crescendo of anticipation the season of advent has for believers. The event we had the blessing to attend yesterday would epitomize that effect. My soul was stirred with joyful hope with every note. There were instrumental arrangements, small choirs, large concert choirs, stringed instrument bands, piping organ accompaniment, and hand bells. We, the audience, were asked to sing in worship at many varied points throughout the worship service. Yes! Worship, not a concert at all! We worshipped as we actively participated, both singing and listening, reciting and praying together, a communion of souls in peaceful harmony while remembering our Savior’s arrival.
Even my friend was taken aback. We were of one accord, envisioning the same thing. Well, this was the big leagues, and we were blown away by the talent and the professional production our senses delighted in. After the opening of various concert band pieces, the whole choir walked in and surrounded the chapel. They sang a few liturgical lines in Latin, and then the whole congregation was asked to join in another song.
My friend whispered in my ear, “I had no idea! No idea this was going to be this amazing!” With tears in my eyes, I replied, “I know. I keep closing my eyes and thinking this is what it will sound like in heaven!” So while we rejoiced with other earthly souls, my thoughts were on the choirs that my sweet children hear every day in heaven.
This advent, remember to rejoice in the little ways . . . because they truly matter!
Note: I wanted to see if there were any video clips that I could link to this blog. What I found instead was information regarding livestreaming of the concert. The final performance will be this upcoming Sunday, December 7. If you follow the link provided below, you find the information needed to watch from the comfort of your home. You will be blessed if you do choose to participate online and you will get to see “our” Rachel and other talented students from “out here”. The concert begins at 4 pm CST each day, but the instrumental preludes started about 45 minutes earlier. Be blessed and rejoice! https://blc.tixato.com/buy/christmas-at-bethany
Every year, the women of my church gather for one weekend for rest and relaxation. Many, but not all of us, also use those three days to begin projects or to put the finishing touches on Christmas gifts. Every little nook or cranny is filled with tables of various crafts and of course, conversation. We have smaller retreats throughout the year held at our church, but for this annual gathering we travel about a half hour from home to a Danish folk school. Built in 1917, the tranquil and peaceful building has served for camps, schools, and worship services.
I don’t have one Danish bone in my body, but the moment I walk through the strong wooden doors of that charming brick building, I feel at peace. The rhythm of a group of women joining together in fellowship fills my heart. First hand, I have seen friendships form, broken spirits healed, God-sized dreams begin, and in some cases, grandparent “adoptions” solidified. There are plenty of late night giggles, opportunities to sleep in, chances to sing with other beautiful souls, delicious meals (that we didn’t have to cook), and without question, chocolate. (Although for the record, I am a girl who would pick cheese over chocolate any day!)
Every year, I fill my craft bags to overflowing, but my suitcase with the bare minimum. A wistful dreamer at heart, I believe that I am going to take on superhero stamina and finish all those Christmas gifts. It Never Happens! Typically, a fourth of the projects I brought go home completed because once a friend opens her heart and the conversation flows, I forget about all the things that my to-do list mandated.
I am almost ashamed to admit this, but I resisted going to this retreat for years. My job or my family might need me was an easy excuse. Well, that and I used to attend a regional Moms gathering a few weekends before. When they finally broke through my pathetic excuses encouraged me to come, I went away with trepidation. Two weekends of being away from my family! Would we survive??
Not only did we survive, but I came home refreshed, not caring about an agenda. I arrived home knowing that I had bonded with a group of women who love each other, and despite our humanness and faults are loved by an amazing God, who designed us to desire fellowship with others. Quiet time spent in reflection, prayer or worship ALWAYS nourishes my soul and reminds me how deep His love truly is. This affirmation comes in the hand pat of a ninety-year old grandmother, the telling of a never told before story of something Reed had done, the encouraging word when my project isn’t going just the way I had planned, or the shared tears of joy and sadness. God breathes through these women each year his constant love song for each one of us.
I cannot bottle up the wonder of the weekend; so, instead I have chosen to bring back a little piece (or should I say “peace”) of that soul restoration to my advent. Rather than stressing out about all the little details, I am choosing to fellowship with the present. Be that a person, time with God’s creation, or simply doing something I enjoy. In my own small way, I am allowing the moment to linger.
Somehow, I think God is smiling at that idea.
One of the quiet corners were I have spent with God and other women. That rocker is like hallowed ground to me.
kandynolesstevens 