Christmas traditions

A young mom friend asked the other day what Christmas traditions we have that help our family focus on Christ.  To be honest, for years I felt like we’d invited satan to dinner more than Christ, and I immediately wanted to text her back, you’ve got the wrong number, I’m not that mom, someone else needs to hand out Christmas advice. I’m simply not doing all those things you’re looking at on Pinterest, it’s not me you want to ask for stuff like this.

Rather, I’m the mom who sees all the good ideas online that all my holy friends are up to, all the treats and projects and service for families to make and do and be I see in magazines and in my feed, all the envelopes in the mail waiting for me to stuff them full of checks… and I kind of just want a cup of hot chocolate and Hallmark.

We’re not awesome at any of this to be honest. I can share a few things we’ve tried, but you’re not going to be impressed; it’s truly nothing to be writing about.  But you’re like my little sister, and you asked.

Christmas in my mind is essentially a time to think about Christ and how he loved, a springboard to get better at it.  It’s the easiest time of year to practice because the spirit of love is almost palpable and opportunities abound.  But it doesn’t mean it all has to be churchy.  His spirit permeates our homes and families and lives any time we show love and warmth.  We can practice serving and loving like him in a million small ways as individuals and families throughout the year.  Over the years I’ve made the paradigm shift from thinking we aren’t feeling the spirit of Christ unless we’re talking about him in Jerusalem to… we are celebrating and honoring Christ any time we think about him, act like him, love like him, or serve like him.  And no place is better to do that than in our families and among people close to us.

So in real terms, I keep trying to tell you, we’re still not all that great at this.  And Christmas guilt is real.  Even for a grown up mom and one who knows (and even preaches) better.  It’s just that my heart has so many desires and ideas that roll down the proverbial bowling alley, bouncing against the bumper pads, hitting maybe one pin off to the side, getting one point for every ten I would like to have hit.  I see so many other families who get strike after strike.  (I’m not ashamed to admit I try to scroll past them and their good ideas as fast as I can.)  I try, but I’ve never been that good at sports. Or note-worthy deeds.

But because you wanted to know, here’s what we’ve done over the years.

Every morning at breakfast before school we read scriptures.  But during December, when the kids were little, I used to show them pictures of Christ’s birth, we’d talk about the different parts like the shepherds and wise men, the annunciation, etc. and hang them up during the month to remember the events.  As they’ve gotten older, we just read scriptures pertaining to these events and Christ’s life rather than our regular scripture reading.

We gather most evenings during the year as a family again before bed for some kind of devotional (scripture, a quote, something someone learned in church or their reading, a short video, we talk about it… and of course family prayer), and so we just make it more Christmasy during December.  I have a beautiful book of stories from the olden days of farms and one-room schoolhouses that I read to them from.  And a binder full of Christmas stories I’ve collected.  Sometimes Todd will take a turn, but he cries a lot.  One of my favorite nights of the season started a few years back when I dreamed out loud to him.  I would love it if I made cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate and we gathered in our cozy, dimly lit living room by the tree and you read A Rifle for Christmas to us.  A long stretch for sure.  But he acquiesced.  And it’s stuck!  But he can only get through like half before he starts crying and then I have to take over.  Hands down one of my favorite traditions.

One friend got a bunch of picture books from the library and wrapped them and each night they’d unwrap one and read it as family.  We tried it, maybe our kids were too old? Maybe it was too late each night?  Didn’t work for us, but such a fun idea!

We had fun when they were younger buying a nativity set, breaking it into its components, decorating paper bags (not like that—they just colored on them with crayons), attaching a tag with a little scripture to go with the person or animal for the day and anonymously dropping it off to an unsuspecting family.  The last night we gave them the creche and revealed ourselves.  Took some effort each night, but I liked the spiritual component and carrying on the tradition that started when our friends did it for us.  Some families also do the 12 days of Christmas and take random gifts to families, even going as far as to number them like 12 candy canes, 11 cookies, etc.  So we may have done that, it’s obviously not something we usually do since I can’t remember though.  Good grief.

We go to the mountains and cut down a Christmas tree and an extra one for boughs.  This is where we excuse Christ and invite satan to join us.  Todd and I can’t agree on this one for anything in the world.  He wants symmetry, a little perfection; I’m the same way with trees as I am with everything else in my life, I’m completely at ease with less than stellar.  I’m just generally freezing.  And scared of getting our truck stuck since he insists in going back into the forest as far as we can in all sorts of ice and snow.  I loved the past two years when we went to Lowe’s and picked up a bundled tree and were just surprised when it thawed and fluffed up later at home.  No mountain trees smell nearly as good.  And they aren’t prickly.  But for the record, everyone else in the family loves our tradition of picking out trees in the mountains.  Maybe I’m satan.

But I make up for it.  I put out a Christmas puzzle this time of year.  It’s true, we always have a puzzle out on the special table just for this purpose.  But a Christmas puzzle just adds to the festivities.  Too bad no one but Todd and I care about it.  And an occasional guest with just as nerdy taste in hobbies.  But at least we’re not fighting about the tree.

One fun habit we’ve adopted over the years comes from Todd’s growing up years.  We all pick names from a hat around Thanksgiving time—anyone who will be with us on Christmas Eve including extended family and friends—and I write down who chose who.  Then on Christmas Eve we exchange these little gifts, a $5 limit.  Not a white elephant useless gift, but something like notecards for me, candy for nana, beef jerky for Todd.  Nothing big, but it allows our kids to think about someone else’s tastes and likes, people like grandparents and our friends who come over.  We spend a Monday night in December shopping for this night, trying to keep it secret from each other.  We’ve done this for as long as we can remember and it’s simple enough to keep working.  

I heard a great idea a few years ago and we’ve adopted it with great success.  Because it’s easy and doesn’t involve crafting or making things cute.  This woman gave each of her kids $200 (we cut that way, way down) around Thanksgiving time and they had to somehow give it away/spend it on other people before Christmas, then on Christmas Eve everyone shares what they did.  I LOVE this so much!!!  Because it gives the kids a chance to make decisions and to let their personalities shine.  So sometimes they’ll buy critters like bees or chickens for someone in another country.  Or food and clothes for the homeless teens.  Or leave a small bit of cash somewhere as a surprise for someone.  It is so fun to see what they come up with!  If I had started this with some foresight, I would have us all collect our change during the year and each of us use that.  But I’m typically a few years late with all my good ideas and so it is what it is.  (We do have a Christmas envelope that I tuck away $20 here and there throughout the year just for this.)

The past few years we’ve encouraged them to all put some real thought into at least one gift.  Ideally, make something for someone.  One son wrote me a letter that I cherish; I’ve read it so many times and cry every time.  (What boy writes his mom a letter??? I might never get another.)  Another son made me a neon green Adirondak chair.  Avery made her dad a pouch kit for his wood carving tools and a wood carrier with handles.  Todd’s made cutting boards for his siblings. I can’t remember all the gifts, but we encourage them to use their skills and personalities, to just be thoughtful.  We’re still gaining momentum here, but I love it.

We’re not into giving neighbor gifts.  There was a time… and my mom was and is still amazing at this, making platters of all sorts of treats for all her friends.  This is something I mindfully gave up years and years ago.  But a friend taught me a different slant.  She and her family each choose one person/family for their family night and they delivered that many plates of whatever she made.  So that’s what we’ve done.  We met some of our dearest friends this way years ago.  They were new to the school and area and we’d never even met the parents, so we hestitantly and shyly made our way up their stairs and introduced ourselves.  SO fun!! It’s made us think about who needs a little pick me up, maybe an old friend we’ve not been in contact with, a new person we want to meet, whatever.  I love that it’s just one evening, seven plates, and we all have a say, it’s a choice and not an obligation.  Because every year our circles widen, right?  It’s no fun to have to try to choose or to feel overwhelmed, to think that if we forget to give someone caramel corn they might think our friendship doesn’t mean anything.  Good grief, too much pressure!  So we just go with our gut and what we feel like.  Which is maybe bad.  We just hope that our actions, our invitations, our dinners and lunches and times together during the year show our love more than a plate of fudge could.  We do, however, send a family letter and pictures; if we do anything, that’s where we spend our money and time.

I’ve also been the WORST at teacher gifts.  THE WORST.  I always forget.  I may have.  I have no idea.  But I’m at peace.  Every lovely thought or act doesn’t have to be crammed into the first three weeks of December.  (Truth be told, I also forget Teacher Appreciation Week.  And End of Year Gifts.  Have I mentioned I’m not a gifts person?)

One family we know camps out under the Christmas tree the night before Christmas Eve; isn’t that so fun???  Todd would never go for that because it’s not comfortable.  I, on the other hand, love camping and sleeping on the tent floor, so this would be like having hamburgers from the grill in the middle of a snowstorm, a sliver of summer coming to visit for the holidays. We’ll see; don’t hold your breath.

We took the kids to Bellisimo, a bell-ringing concert, last year on a Sunday afternoon in a huge stained-glass church downtown.  Totally a mom thing, but I thought it’d be a good cultural event, and it was so festive, a sweet start to the season.

Years ago we started talking about Norweigan Christmas traditions with our kids and introducing some of their native foods for a family night.  Todd lived there for two years and we wanted to keep some of that alive, a tradition we look forward to every year now.

We’ve taken the kids to our favorite little mountain town for their Stroll the first weekend in December.  We go out to eat and stay at a hotel and walk up and down the Christmasy main street decorated in lights with fire pits in the roads, roasted nuts, hot chocolate and handmade treats, music, snow, and horse-drawn wagon rides… it’s one of our favorite traditions of all.

Christmas Eve may be just like everyone else.  We have our nice dinner, open new pajamas, and gather for a Christmas video depicting the nativity and Christmas story.  We usually read the story from the Bible (although our 16 year old informed me this week that she hates that part of Christmas…for the love). Years and years ago we used to trade homemade ornaments with all the cousins and we’d open them at this time, something I absolutely both loved and hated.  The stress of crafting was intense for me.  But I loved the tradition itself and how creative all the aunts and uncles were.  SUCH a delightful tradition.  But we dropped it a few years back.  We traded books for a couple of years, but now we just send whatever we feel like.  I miss it.  Even as I’m super relieved.  Anyway, after all that, we watch a family Christmas movie until we’re too tired to worry about Santa.

(ps I learned a few years back to get a Target bag for each kid and label it and put all their stocking stuffers in each bag as I got them so I could get a visual before Christmas Eve. Nothing worse than dumping everything you’ve bought into a big pile late Christmas Eve with your husband and realizing you miscalculated or forgot something… this has been a game-changer.)

By the way, we never do Santa anything.  We’ve always been extremely ambiguous.  Of course we read all the books and traditional stories, we watch all the claymation shows from the 70s and Elf and Polar Express, it’s not like we’ve ever talked them out of Santa; we’ve just never taught it.  So no, we don’t have Santa presents or tell them their stockings are from Santa.  We do however leave out cookies and milk, that’s weird now that I think about it.  So it’s not that we have strong feelings about not keeping a legend alive, it’s just that when they’ve asked questions we’ve always responded with a vague What do you think?  And then we typically respond with our standard, That would be interesting.  Could be.  Hmmm…

The Elf. This was a mom-guilt purchase.  Because I’m not fun.  And long to be.  In a way.  But not really.  Anyway, $30 and a book and red elf later, I realized how much work I’d just added to my season.  I decided right from the get-go ours would reflect the personality of our family.  So he never did amazing feats or needed a lot of help doing tricks.  He simply made snowmen or snow angels, hung out in the tree making snowflakes with tiny scissors, walked in snow shoes, flew around on our fan, read to the other stuffed animals, played in the toy house, ate sugar cookies, just stuff a mom can handle.  I’d make a list in my planner at the beginning of the season of ideas (who can be creative at ten at night?) and cross them off like some sort of weird grown up advent calendar count-down. As old as they were when he came to live with us, they still used hot pads to pick him up and move him.  Last year he just sat and watched.  Kind of like our old dog who sleeps most of the day.

Speaking of which, we have a lazy Christmas day.  Growing up, my mom cooked all day.  I hated it.  So we do a nice Christmas Eve dinner.  But we do a frozen or earlier-made lasagna and brownies and ice cream and leftovers on Christmas.  I make a breakfast casserole, Little Smokies, butterscotch rolls, cheese ball, snack foods.  The kids also get sugar cereal.  In my heart of hearts, I’d love to do traditional trifle (a nod to my Scottish heritage, tried it, no one likes it but me and my mom) or a meal like Christ may have had (I’m thinking about doing that for a family night in December this year, not Christmas day; don’t hold me to it)… but most important of all that happens on Christmas is that mom stays collected and doesn’t end up in her closet crying.  So frozen lasagna usually works.

By this point I know you’re wondering what the point of all this was.  She’s nothing special.  In fact, she’s got nothing.  I already knew all this.  We’ve got things handled way better. I should’ve written this blog for her.

I know.  That’s what I was trying to tell you.  The thing is, I got sick of feeling overwhelmed at Christmas.  It’s almost entirely up to the mom to remember everyone we’ve ever loved, to make things magical, to make everyone’s favorite food, and still be available for all-day shopping trips, long board games reserved for vacation days and late-night romantic Christmas movies with the girls. I guess I just decided long ago that it doesn’t all have to happen right now.  Isn’t it better to have a neighbor gathering in boring February?  Don’t we play board games every Sunday of our life?  Didn’t I shop all year just so I wouldn’t have to go out in December? Don’t food pantries need food even more desperately in the summer?  Don’t homeless teens need shorts and new underwear in July?  Can we bring cookies to old people in January?  And could we talk about Christ every day of our lives?  And could we try to keep that love alive by continuing to think of creative ways to show it?  At Christmas, I feel his love as we gather as a family each night.  As we’re mindful about people around us, especially those who come to the forefront of our thoughts as we ask for direction.  As we fit service into our lives in natural and personal ways.  As we share the season with others who don’t have the blessing of family nearby.  I just think Christ wants us to celebrate his life by following him, by giving, loving, and serving in small and simple ways like he did.  So, if you consider that the mark, I think you’ll be fine no matter what traditions you choose for your family.

Dating rules

I just went to check on my 16 year old the other evening, just to hug her and catch up, nothing unusual, just our little thing.  But then, maybe because she’d just come home from a fancy dance the night before, she asked me a question out of the blue. 

What are our family rules for dating?

I’m not usually this ill-prepared, but this time she caught me off-guard; I had to scroll through my entire parenting guide twice. Nothing. We’re not really a rule family.  I almost couldn’t think of a single rule we have.  Expectations yes, of course.  But hard, fast rules???

We’ve never really had bedtimes (eventually you’ll figure out what needs to happen if you’re tired during the day).  Or even curfews (around 10:30 or so, let us know what you’re doing and we’ll talk about it). I guess we have food rules like no pre-packaged foods except for lunches (too expensive).  No ice cream just for fun during the week unless it’s a special occasion.  But we don’t spell out how many spears of broccoli they need to eat before they can leave the table, and we don’t dictate birthday parties (i.e., one year friends, one year family), we just go with feels right.  We do have tv/computer rules now that I think about it. And of course they need to do chores and dishes and laundry, all that stuff.  But did we have any other real rules? I was befuddled.  Especially if we were talking about dating rules, something I’d never thought about.

I told her I’d always wished my parents had given me some guidance in this arena, but obviously they parented a lot like Todd and I do, even more so.  So yeah, no rules.

I had to think off the cuff.

1.  No opposite sex in bedrooms.  (This never, ever occurred to me until I was getting a tour of his house after Todd got home from his mission and we ended up looking at a fish tank in one of the brothers’ bedrooms. I had no idea this was a thing until his parents called us out on it.  Who knew?)

2.  No lying down in hammocks or beds or couches together.  (I’m also not fond of cuddling under blankets on a cozy couch in the dark watching movies.  Well, more accurately, I’m fond of it; I’m just not fond of any of my kids or their friends doing it.)

Whoa! This was starting to feel a little like those getting-ready charts we’d hung up when they were in preschool.  So not like us.  So let’s go back. Scratch all that.  Instead of listing a bunch of whats, I thought it was more important for us to talk about the whys about dating in general.

Basically, date with no regrets.  Respect him—whoever it is.  In all likelihood you’re probably not going to marry someone you date in high school; you might, but you most likely won’t.  Behave in a way so you won’t be embarrassed down the road when you meet up again at a PTA meeting or you have to serve in church assignments with each other or your kids start becoming friends with each other and he comes over to pick up his daughter.  Don’t do anything with him that you hope no one will ever find out about.  Treat him as you would like someone to treat your brother or sister. 

Dress in a way that allows you to talk.  That doesn’t distract him.  That shows him you respect both yourself and him.  This isn’t being sexist, this is being classy.  And a lady.  Dating should never be about sex.  Dating is to help you get to know each other.  So dress and act like the confident, secure, modest person you are.  True beauty shines on its own, any guy worth your time will notice and appreciate that.

Inspire him to be his best self.  You should elevate each other; your influence on each other should make you both want to be better in all sorts of ways.  Encourage each other in school, help him as he prepares for a mission.  Keep your goals and future in mind.

And yes, talk.  Talk, talk, talk.  About politics, religion, books, questions, goals, what you want out of life, what you worry about, what you love, where you want to go and be and do.  Really get to know each other, engage in worthwhile conversation and include others, discover a new point of view, hear another perspective, try to see where he’s coming from.

Stay in groups.  Go on all kinds of dates.  Try to incorporate service (such a mom quip, but any chance you get…) now and then.  Have fun together.  Don’t get serious.  I tell her all the time that I never had a boyfriend I stayed friends with.  From my own experience, getting serious changes it all and it’s never really the same again. Sad.  

And don’t ditch your girlfriends for a guy.  It’s so hard to feel pulled in two directions when you already have so many other things going on.  I remember having to choose between eating lunch with my friends and being loyal to a boyfriend. Right now, at the risk of sounding old fashioned and out of touch (like I care), it’s more important to be true to your girls.  These relationships can last forever and can ride the waves of boyfriends coming and going.  True friendships are worth nurturing and spending good energy on.

Yes, this is a crazy mix of feelings.  People gravitate toward each other, it’s natural, it feels good when someone you like likes you back, it’s new and exciting, of course we get that. We wouldn’t you to not have these experiences.

But dating right now is not supposed to look like you’re married. Dating at this stage is to help you figure out what you like and want in a future husband.  It’s a chance to interact with lots of different people and personalities.  To expose you to a variety of situations, some that will possibly even stretch you. Of course it’s meant to be fun.  But it’s more than just having fun. Just like life is more than a joy ride.

Try to remember we’ve also been 16.  And 17 and 20.  Looking back, I’d say take it easy.  Enjoy your friendships.  With guys and girls.  Date.  Have a great time.  It’s fine to like someone.  But to tie yourself to another 16 year old and pretend you’re more grown up than you are, that’s just a lot of pressure you’re not emotionally ready for at this age.

It’s a timing thing.  Down the road we will be encouraging you to get a bit more serious.  But these next few years are critical, there’s so much to learn and experience before you’re emotionally mature to handle a real partnership.

But that’s just mom talk.  We’ve always let you decide for yourself, we’re not going to tell you your business and tack up a chart of rules, you’re old enough to think for yourself.  But just remember we’ve been where you are, we were 16 once, we get it.  We’re just glad you asked.

Thinking of Thanksgiving

I was planning the upcoming menu the other day with the family, and Todd asked us what our dream Thanksgiving would look like.  I had to laugh, he’s lived his most of our life together by hunting in the morning and coming home to help with the rest of the dinner, games in the evening, just happy for a day off work.  The kids didn’t give us a lot to go on, just Little Smokies, traditional fare. Then Todd cornered me and I admitted I almost don’t even know what to dream about.

But since he asked, I thought about what a Thanksgiving Day would look like if I could honestly choose.  For the past decade or two I’ve dreamed of having the Macy’s parade on the tv as our morning  backdrop.  The kids would sleep,  I’d write out all my Christmas letters and sort the envelopes into international and U.S. and hand-deliver stacks. Dinner would be percolating in the kitchen nearby, sweet and savory smells would simultaneously enwrap me.  Pies would be cooling, rolls raising. Ideally at someone else’s house.  Kids would be playing out in the snow and later with board games.  The morning would stretch without stress, without a care in the world.  We’d dress in our business casual, gather our contributions and make our way to somewhere we’d been invited.  We’d have a spiritual moment where we’d go around the table and talk about our blessings.  No food would be cold; it would just wait for us.

The bubble pops easily.  We don’t get any tv channels.  Plus it’s in the basement and too big to be moving up and down the stairs to the kitchen, who would do that? I’ve tried watching re-runs from years past (like it matters how current a parade with balloons is), but I only seem to get clips and not the whole parade on my computer.  Todd has hunted for as many years as I can remember Thanksgiving morning (thankfully dressing the turkey before he leaves though), at least back when the kids were small; I think he’s stayed home for the past couple for whatever reason, I have no idea.  He’s been on-call before.  My letters aren’t usually done by Thanksgiving, so that’s not usually what’s happening.  Plus we’re almost always the one hosting, for as long as I can remember anyway, so there’s no time for hunkering down in front of the fire to write love letters. But, like I said, it’s Todd’s job to deal with the turkey, I’ve started on some things the day before, and I wake up staring at the work in front of me, the cooking schedule, our plan of attack.  I’ve had the kids tear bread for stuffing, par-baked the rolls, made the pumpkin, sometimes the berry, (and this year, since we were mentioning our dreams, Callum requested the chocolate) pies as well as the cranberry sauce and cheese ball yesterday.  But I still need to make the apple pie (I’m silly, but I like the crumb topping fresh so it’s crispy and not soggy from sitting out) and the stuffing.  Green bean casserole (which I tried making healthy last year, no go), etc. etc.  I do actually like setting the table, the one job that others seem to want to help with, which is actually weird.  We eat mid-afternoon.  And then there are the dishes (I’m not really a disposable kind of gal, I know).  The one good thing about no tv is no football.   Hallelujah.  (I totally forgot that to have no football is part of my dream.)  So that works out.  I love the desserts but I feel sinful.  And gluttonous.  I think I love the evening, but I have no recollection as to what we do.  Maybe friends linger.  I know we sometimes take a walk.  Play games.  Watch a show.  I think I’m just relieved I made it through another year of trying to make the expectations of all the guests and family members happen.

Did you like this holiday as a kid? I honestly can’t remember if I did or not, isn’t that curious? I suppose our experience may have been like most of yours.  Way back when we went to my dad’s parents’ sometime in the afternoon. What could be more traditional than traveling half an hour to grandma and grandpa’s house in the back of a station wagon to spend the afternoon with mostly adult relatives in nice clothes?

Where we, like a lot of you, were relegated to the kid table.  Boring grown up talk.  Dry pie crust.  (My kids hate pie for the same reason.)  I’ve never cared for turkey and especially eschewed the wet bread stuffed inside it all.  Cranberry sauce was bitter, I wasn’t into olives or the “relish tray,” and I skipped the sweet potatoes (if we even had them—honestly can’t remember).  Along with most kids, I liked potatoes and gravy and rolls and jam, but that’s about it.  And the ice cream that accompanied the pies. I of course loved seeing my aunts and uncles, but I was even more shy when ones from out of town came, they all talked about how big we’d grown and asked us all sorts of hard questions.  I did like the idea of no school, having my mom home all weekend, and its close proximity to Christmas.  So overall Thanksgiving has always been sort of beige in my mind, not quite my favorite holiday, but certainly not the worst.  And yet, overall I absolutely love the fall season and the holiday energy, I love Norman Rockwell and the idyllic Thanksgiving scenes… it’s definitely grown on me the past several years.

But funny thing, as I’ve written this, I’m beginning to remember that I do love Thanksgiving.  Just as I love Sundays.  Of course every day of the week has its merits, but Sunday really is different, a special day to devote ourselves and our thoughts to things of a higher nature, to ponder and appreciate the blessings of having Christ and his teachings in our lives.  And so it is that Thanksgiving is also becoming dear to my heart.  It’s almost a holy day in our minds (which is why it seems odd for people to be out shopping), distinct.  I love that I don’t have to buy presents with the possibility of getting it wrong, it’s just a day with food and family, a day to pare down and focus on what’s really important.  I’m beginning to remember all the parts of it I love.

I’m recalling the delightful, old-time verses and songs with handmade cut-out people and turkeys I’d entertain my littles with as a young mom.  So long ago that I’d nearly forgotten.  I’m remembering all the picture books I’d read to them from the library, the cozy feeling of both cuddling and educating—an absolutely intoxicating sensation.  I specifically remember buying (I know) a particular non-fiction paperback picture book for them so that we’d always have it, so they’d be sure to know the story.  I remember the library video I’d check out annually where children depicted what life in Plymouth would have been like.  I’m thinking of all the years we’ve had Todd’s parents or other family members join us.  And when we’ve visited extended family ourselves and been spoiled and pampered by relatives who’ve let us feel like kids again even when we’ve been completely grown up.

I’m thinking of how the decorations are up for Christmas at the craft stores and the mall.  And how festive it feels to be in the midst of the “holiday season.”  I love that we get a mix of snow days and blustery late-fall days where the leaves are still ours for the raking.  I’m remembering the holiday parade the day after Thanksgiving we’ve gone to. I’m thinking of the annual neighborhood football game that sometimes the boys have played in.  I’m excited that Todd gets to be with us for the whole day.  I love that we get to sleep in.  And that we get to have friends join us.  That we have enough to share.  That I’m healthy and strong and able to cook all day this year. That I have people to bake pies for.  That we have an entire day devoted to thankfulness.  I love the touching quotes written in pretty fonts all over the internet, admonitions to think outside ourselves for a season, to remember all we’ve been blessed with and to share that bounty with others.

And so I’m grateful.  As I know you are.  For this almost sacred time of year, a day—a season really—to share our abundance, a time to celebrate family and friends, a chance to look around and see who we might help, a time-out-from-being-careful-day to have all sorts of high carb foods—the very same ones we had at grandma’s decades ago.  I’m grateful for tradition and how it links generations.  For the pilgrims who started this whole thing, for their strength and vision and desire to worship freely.  I’m glad for the chance to gather the kids and to talk with them about our blessings.  And what it means when the scriptures say “for unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.”  And to remember from whom they all flow in the first place.

I still don’t like olives.  Or turkey.  No one really eats the cranberry sauce.  And it’s a load of work for the parents. For days.  But I wouldn’t bow out of it for anything.  To tell you the truth, I don’t need parades. Or a quiet day to myself.  I’ve had more than my share of both in my lifetime.  What I want—and I think the whole world needs—is more days like Thanksgiving.  More days where we invite loved ones and new friends to dinner. More days of tradition, of young and old coming together with no agenda.  More days lingering and talking.  More days playing games together. More days of counting our blessings.  More days to remember what truly matters.  And yes, more days living with thanksgiving in our hearts.

Grapes, Grapes of Wrath, and the Good

We were making chicken salad and fruit bags for an activity the other day, and a friend informed me that grapes have more sugar than Oreos.  Good grief.

I went to a class years back called The Spiritual Value of Reading Secular Literature.  One idea that has stuck with me was a question, are we more concerned about bumping into bad stuff than seeking for good?

I loved this idea and validation. Because it confirmed to me what I’d begun to suspect and learn in my own reading journey.  I have little patience for authors who litter their writing with profanity, sex scenes and anything crass, crude, or vulgar just because.  Good writers should be able to jump higher than that.  But I’m actually referring to novels.  I give way more latitude to my non-fiction.  Which sounds completely inconsistent.  But not really.  I understand that when an author’s keeping things real, when she’s quoting an ill-educated person living a life of desperation, his language may not be polished, it’s all he’s maybe known coming from an abusive past.  I get that.  And to some extent, I can live with it for the greater good that comes from reading time-tested and quality literature.  The Bible is perhaps the best example of this.

And so of course there are exceptions to novels.  Consider all the great works that we consider classics. They have their share of sticky situations, tangled love webs, less-than-exemplary lifestyles and vocabulary, but it’s not all in there for shock value or to sell; it’s necessary to explain the lifestyles, the quandaries, the difficulty of the lives and times of its characters.  In my mind, it’s generally purposeful.  And we acquiesce because the morals, the lessons, the character development and insights are so valuable and timeless.  The positives outweigh the negatives, tipping the scale nearly to the floor.

I’m completely aware of the trash that abounds.  And agree we need to be judicious and so careful with our selections in every sector of our lives.  But sometimes we go too far, sidestepping the bad but missing out on so much good as we do.

How many of us have avoided avocados because of their high fat content?  But they are sugar, sodium, and cholesterol free and loaded with nearly 20 vitamins and minerals as well as

heart-healthy monounsaturated fat.  We just hear fat and close the door.

And grapes?  Yes, naturally sweet, but they’re good for hydration and “especially dark-colored ones, are loaded with phytochemicals, antioxidants that may help protect against cancer and heart disease. Two of those phytochemicals, anthocyanin and proanthocyanidin, may be especially good for your immune system. Grapes also contain vitamin C and selenium” (webmd.com) as well as vitamin K.  To me they’re worth keeping around.

But that’s the thing I hear over and over these days, people avoiding foods because they’re “carbs” (which in Britain is labeled as “energy”), or have sugar or aren’t high enough in protein.  We’re missing out on so much if we simply choose to focus on the small negatives inherent in some foods instead of recognizing the abundant merits of a varied diet.

This principle is widely applicable.  

Think people, friends you have because you consider all their endearing qualities more important than the fact that she hates dogs or he lives sort of far away.

Think majors and careers.  Did you look at the list of classes and bow out of a major that you otherwise felt drawn to? Most of our friends had to endure organic chemistry and hours of lab work; Todd had to take public speaking. But do you forego your dream of working in the medical field because of a few rough classes?  Are there parts of every job that we'd like to outsource?

Let’s go back to dogs.  Yes, there’s a learning curve at the beginning as you teach when to go outside and when to sleep.  But does a pet's loyalty, unconditional love, and companionship, the good outweigh all that in the long run?

Would you go back to your childless days?  Have the amazing moments of joyous payback been worth the hardships?  And let’s be honest, there’s plenty that’s difficult.  Nights of throwing up, of staying up, times when you want to give up.  Money spent on diapers and formula and car insurance and college.  But would you change all the memories, the years, the good, so you wouldn't have the intermittent unpleasant times?

Did Mother Teresa avoid dirt? Oozing skin sores? Or did she overlook the poverty and smell and notice a person’s eyes and goodness?  Did she know the work, her vision, would be more far reaching than the opposition she endured?

Did Christ spend his days in the temple teaching only the righteous?  Or did he leave and seek out the sinner, the lame, the rebellious, the destitute?  You know he continues to look past our poor performances, our lame attempts, our imperfections, and our self-made-messes to lift us and to love us, just as he did when he walked the earth.

I guess I just think most natural foods, quite a few books, and all people have value.  I of course espouse high standards.  I freely and firmly agree with you, we need to be choosy to some degree.  But maybe we can open our minds a little.  And our hearts.  Let’s not avoid people because it would require us to stretch.  Let’s be ok with a little dirt.  Let’s increase what we allow on our plates.  Let’s use our discretion of course, but let’s not let our filter keep us from the abundance of good that’s within our reach.

Leaving

I can hear the moans in my head.  Why do we have to be the weird ones? Why do we always have to stay? I simply switch channels and tune them out.  As far back as we can remember, we’ve just stuck around as a family to help clean up after a church dinner or activity.  Telling the kids to put away chairs along with everyone else is as natural as bringing a potluck dish.  Sometimes one of them will get to vacuum, but other than that and maybe some tables, I’m honestly not sure how much we contribute to the overall clean-up.  I remember back on some evenings assessing the situation when they were really young and realizing that it would help the overall production most if I would simply gather my five littles and leave, in effect relieving a great deal of the chaos.  I laughed as we were finishing up the last activity’s clean up.  It came down the final tasks and we were all sort of slow dancing around the mostly cleaned up work, asking each other what else we should do. By this point we were less than useful, and so Todd called it an afternoon.

You’ve all lived long enough to have debunked the myth that you should never go to bed angry, that most of the time the best thing you can do for your spouse or kid or other loved one is to just go to bed with it unresolved.  We all know how cranky and irritable we get when we’re tired, so letting go of an issue long enough to get some sleep is such an easy and effective way to maintain a loving relationship.  I tell Todd all the time as it nears 10 that I just need to go to sleep. I’m not mad, I totally love you, I’m just feeling myself getting irritable and I know I need to go to bed and leave all this till the morning.  He calls it powering down.

As I thought about these two common situations, I wondered what warrants leaving.  Is there a tipping point when it becomes obvious, when you just know?

Most women I know would definitely hesitate  before leaving a hairdresser even if she can’t get it right no matter how many pictures we’ve shown her.  But what about an insurance company when the rates skyrocket after a freak hailstorm?  A house that’s closing in on you even though you love your neighborhood?  A job that’s not paying or challenging enough anymore?  A major, a religion, a country, a group of friends, a team.  We’re constantly assessing situations, weighing whether to stay or leave.  And when the timing will be right.

There are obviously times when it’s just smart to leave early: before the littles have a meltdown at a dinner party or Disneyland, before the lunch turns gossipy, before it snows when you have a long drive home.  Of course, be smart, leave while you still have your wits about you, while it’s still relatively easy to extricate yourself from the situation.  But so often we’ve pushed our luck and paid the price.  Staying out in the sun even when we feel the tingling and people start to talk about our pink shoulders.  Staying in our seats during an uncomfortable movie or comedy routine or even a new novel.  So many times we really should’ve walked away from the dessert buffet a few cupcakes back.  Or left TJ Maxx before we needed a cart.

But sometimes it’s not all that obvious.

Is it wise to leave a perfectly good situation (job, house, city) based on a feeling that you need to be somewhere else?

When do you leave your childbearing years behind for good?  Are you sure?  Once things get easier, do you revisit your decision?

When do you rescue your kids and when do you leave them to figure things out on their own? Is it different depending on the kid or the circumstance?

Do you continue to ask a friend to spend time with you after multiple declines?  But do your feelings change you find out she’s been sick all this time without letting on?

When do you leave a boyfriend? A wife? A friend? A relative? (Isn’t family the hardest of all to know about?)

I think we all know when we've stayed too long, but will we ever know the ramifications of having left too early?  Have we given up when we should've hung in there?

Sometimes we stay because we want to give it/her/him/the group another chance; most of us aren’t quitters and pride ourselves in our stick-to-itiveness.  I tried 4-H for a year with the kids.  Monday evening meetings at the little country church and archery in the next town over, the auction yard downtown, the fair.  I traveled back roads in the snowy, dark nights with all the kids, holing up in the little library with the remaining four while one shot his bow.  We took care of his pig all summer.  But after that obligatory year commitment, we left and never looked back.  It was one of the best leaving decisions I’ve ever made. 

But don’t we waffle? Don’t we sometimes mistakenly believe—or tell ourselves—there is still good ahead and just a little more time will prove it?  One more clearance rack, one more cake pop, one more soccer season, one more date, one more invite, one more chapter, one more chance.  I’m telling you, this is muddy pond water, how do you know for sure when it’s time to move on?

The thing is there’s no formula.  Because every person, situation, life, and set of circumstances is so different. Maybe we think it’s clear, it’s not working anymore, it's obviously time to call it. But that’s dangerous.  Even as it feels safe.

Because you just never know.  We can’t see the future, so this is the stuff that requires mindfulness.  Being in touch with your heart.  And with God.  I've drawn on these verses more times than I can count,

"Yea, behold, I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost, which shall come upon you and which shall dwell in your heart.

"Behold, you have not understood; you have supposed that I would give it unto you, when you took no thought save it was to ask me.  But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right.

"But if it be not right you shall have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought that shall cause you to forget the thing which is wrong." 

I’m not talking about the park or Costco time-to-go-home-decisions, but definitely when we’re considering leaving people.  Because God knows what’s going on behind the curtain and what’s hiding in her heart.  We may think our teenager is begging for freedom when really she’s crying out to know we care.  Maybe you think your efforts aren’t noticed at work or on the committee, you're ready to walk; but you likely have no idea the difference you’re making in someone’s life.  We’ve given them enough chances, it's been too long, they'll never change. But does God think so? Possibly.  But when it comes to people and relationships, I want to be sure.

I’m not making that decision for you.  And he won’t either.  But I can guarantee he will help you know when it’s time to leave.  And when it’s best to stay just a little longer.

The big orange house

Every now and then, Todd and I will just hold each other and wonder what we’ve done.  The projects stretch out before us, seemingly without end.  We’ll chat about it all, regroup and decide on tonight’s job.

But the other night we stayed a little longer and I asked what his major issue with the house and farm was.  I was super surprised to hear that to him its biggest challenge is how ugly the outside of it is.  He’s a no-nonsense kind of guy and certainly not into appearances. But I couldn’t argue with him; he’s absolutely right.  It’s a rusty burnt orange from 1984 with once-blackish (now warped-faded-to-gray) plastic shutters that look like they belong on a haunted house.  The windows are cracked and don’t all open, a screen in back still flaps in the breeze.  The oak front door is embellished in what I’m sure was all the rage back then, floral stained glass, and its handle flies off whenever someone closes it abruptly. The shrubbery is simultaneously overgrown and lacking. Of the six exterior doors, it’s hard to know the main entrance is in the back.  It has no style except weird diagonal-planked siding, I get where he’s coming from.

But when he lobbed the question back at me, I laughed and told him honestly the last thing in the world I care about is how it looks on the outside.  If he really wanted to know, what bothers me is the structural issues we keep running into.  The expensive but necessary fixes that don’t change its look one bit.

As I thought about our funny conversation, I obviously drew a parallel to our personal lives.  The older we get, the more structural issues we’ve been running into ourselves, frozen shoulder, sore elbows, acid reflux, wrist cyst, weak knees, tight chest muscles, plantar fasciitis… our 40s have been looking pretty rough.  However, like our house, we deal with urgent matters if we can and put the others on hold for another season.

But I see our outsides as I do our house.  I say we keep the walkway swept, we tidy up, we plant flowers and trees, we continue to take loads to the dump, we make do with what we have and move on.  Like I always tell the kids, do your best with what you’ve been given, clean up, get ready for the day and then don’t look back.  I don’t want them to ever obsess about their outsides or their clothes; that can all change in an instant.  What I really want them to focus on is others. Which, in turn, produces internal beauty.

I figure our friends aren’t coming over hoping to see a beautifully manicured lawn or pretty new siding.  Just as I hope our friends don’t care that our wrinkles are progressing, along with our bellies, and that our clothes and shoes are old-fashioned.  Neither one of us is in the market for a major plastic surgery overhaul, but I know Todd is always dreaming about a whole new look for the house.

I guess I just see the outside as merely holding up the insides.  What really matters to me is how it feels once you peek inside.  Not even necessarily how it looks on the inside, but the feeling, the ambience, the aura, the atmosphere. I feel the same about people as I do houses when it comes to their insides.  Everyone has a different style, personality, set of strengths and weaknesses.  I don’t really care how they decorate or position their couches, just as I couldn’t care less if they like to ski or garden.  I just love how being in their homes feels.  How cozy it feels to be invited into their hearts.

My greatest compliment regarding a house is not really about how it looks—on the outside or the inside.  I’m pretty normal and so in all honesty, it’s of course nice to hear that someone likes our style of decorating or the color of paint we chose. But the wind blows that kind of compliment away in a mili-second.  What sticks to me like a burr is that our house feels homey.  I want friends to feel like family.  I want them to hang around.  To curl their toes under them in front of the fire on the couch and talk with us all evening.  I want them to feel wrapped in warmth, like they’re home.  I want them to feel loved and cocooned for the time they’re with us, whether it’s an apartment, new construction or fixer-upper.

So that’s where I choose to spend my energy.  Yes, we’ll continue to paint.  And find water and mouse issues.  Yes, we’ll be ripping up the floors in the near future.  And Todd will continue to trim.  We’ll carry on with the yard and garden areas.  We’ll get new windows eventually.  We of course want to make it look as good as we can make it. But even if we never get to those projects and no matter what kind of dwelling we live in, we can all still have the spirit of love in our homes.  And that—like the soft warmth of a friend’s heart—is what I think makes it homey.  I hope our friends will feel to linger.  And come again.

Fulfilled

In typical Caren-fashion, I had my day laid out before me: people to visit, a million errands, the temple, just my regular stuff that I love.  But Bronwyn went to bed with a sore throat and is still not feeling well.  It’s a very rare thing to have a sickie around our house, and so I asked if she wanted to stay home.  I knew it was the real thing because she loves school.  She switched back into her pajamas and has been curled up on the couch ever since.

Am I disappointed?  Are you kidding? I love having my kids home with me.  I spend far too much time on my own, I absolutely love their company.  And I love playing mom to them.  With the five of them in college and high school and jr. high, they really don’t seem to need me much these days… and so it makes me so happy when I can dust off my mom hat and wear it for a day.

As I’ve been puttering this morning, I couldn’t help but think of an experience a friend shared with me earlier this week.  I teared up as she told me about it because it confirmed to me the importance of what we’re doing as moms.  She turned down a job that seemed perfect to her because she realized all of a sudden how fulfilled she was at home, something that had alluded her until she got serious about a job.

As the kids get older and especially once they’re in school, it gets a little weird admitting I’m a stay at home mom.  To no one.  Or at least not until after school.  I smile.  I shrug.  I know how it looks.  Like I’ve retired at 45.  Do I wonder what else I should be doing?  Obviously.  Of course.  But for now, for this season, for just a little longer, I’m content.  Not because it means I have days free to put together puzzles and quilt and read my stack of books (those are all on my dream list btw).  But because it means I’m free to do all the things I’ve been able to do this week and especially today with my little 12 year old home with me.

It’s snowy out.  A beautiful wintry day with snow balancing precariously on the fence posts.  The perfect kind to be wrapped up on a couch with Christmas music in the background.  And a dog curled up beside you.  I made her favorite broccoli potato soup (because we don’t have any canned soup, my bad).  The washer and dryer are humming along.  I’m working on a lesson for Sunday, some stuff for school, some other stuff for church.  I paid the bills and sent a letter to our missionary son.  I’ve been in touch with friends and my sisters.  I checked on the chickens and cleaned up after the dogs.  I’ll iron.  Make treats for the teenagers who will be over tonight.  And scoot my errands to tomorrow’s list.

I’m in my happy place.  I love being home.  It’s my favorite place in the whole world.  I love making it comfortable for my family.  I love being able to cook for them.  I love when they ask for cookies.  I love that I know where their important papers are filed and that we have rubber cement.  I love creating an atmosphere that is warm and homey and safe and peaceful.  I love being here when they yell Mom? through the house.

Yes, to many it looks like I’m a housewife from the 50s, not using my college education or abilities for anything real.  That I’m sacrificing myself so other members of my family can get ahead and shine.  That’s not at all how I see it.  I don’t want awards or promotions or even money.  I don’t care a lick what a professional accolade would feel like.  Do we really need an extra car? Or more clothes or to vacation in Italy?  I’ve never been happier or more satisfied than I am in my home doing exactly what I’m doing.  Out of all the successes I could have in the world, I would be blind if I thought any one of them compared to the joy a happy family brings me as a mom.  I’m just blessed beyond measure to be able to be home; I know so many who would love it but simply don’t have that privilege.  And so I’m grateful—so intensely grateful—that I don’t have to juggle it all, that I’m able to fill my week with home and family and a little else on the side.  It’s a wonderful life.  Especially on a sick day.

The good

Three years ago.  I can’t believe it’s been that long.  I hardly even think about it anymore. But at the same time I think about it every day.  I feel the residual pull every time I move in my sleep and whenever I twist or turn.  I can’t feel my chest any more, but I can feel my back and the tight muscles that never really warmed up to their new home.  Funny I don’t really connect it all to cancer.  It’s just how my body is now, its adjusted normal.

In fact I mentioned it in a talk a few weeks ago and my kids shocked me later at home by saying they’d forgotten I even had cancer.  One of those kids is 16!  Good grief.

But it’s come to the forefront again because I’ve been talking with a friend about her diagnosis. She’s having surgery just days after the anniversary of my own mastectomy, it’s sort of surreal to be reliving it all vicariously.  I am completely surprised that I can relate.  I never consider myself a cancer survivor.  And yet I can truly empathize.  I knew exactly what she’s feeling.

A million questions.  Strong days.  And cry-y ones.  Ups and downs.  So many appointments and decisions.  All the wondering.

Is this the same kind you had?  To be honest, I have no idea what kind I had, I always have to ask Todd.  Her-2? I don’t remember what that means.  Did you have chemo? Radiation? And that’s when I feel dumb.  Who am I kidding? I didn’t have real cancer.  Talk to my sister. She had it all: lumpectomy, mastectomy, radiation, chemo, tamoxifen, the whole thing, she’s the one you need to chat with.

But during one of our very first texting conversations I mentioned that actually a lot of good came from my experience.  I think that caught her off guard because she immediately had to know what I was talking about specifically.  But I was adamant. There was way more good in those few weeks than bad.  By about a million to one.

I just rambled off some of the first things that came to mind.  It was amazing.  People I had no idea even knew came out of the woodwork to shower me with love and meals and flowers and notes and soft things.  All the medical people were sensitive and professional and kind and patient.  People from all different parts of my life came to visit.  They cried. We felt closer as a family.  All the unimportant things dropped out of our lives and it was clear what really mattered.  We didn’t take each other or our normal life for granted.  I felt like I was given a second chance, an opportunity to refresh and refocus.  I softened and felt a new and better love for people.  My umbrella over it all was and still is immense gratitude.

Her reply surprised me.  It had made her cry.

And if I had to choose, I think that’s one of the best things that came from cancer.  I can cry without a care in the world now.  I feel liberated.  Unrestrained as I express my feelings.  It started way back early in October as we first got word.  Tears came easily as we had to tell our friends.  And especially as we told our sons.  I’m not worried about crying with a friend now. Or sharing our deepest heartaches.  And blessings.  I say I love you to my girlfriends. I never end a phone call with my family without saying it.  I just need them to know for sure.  I’m not afraid of expressing my heart anymore.  Cancer—even the tiny cancer I had—taught me that I can open my heart.  Wide.