A Christmas Story With Heart

A story about giving.  For Christmas.  For always.

From Sunday's Sermon

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it." -- Helen Keller

A Strong Finish

Everywhere I look lately, someone is racing. There are 5Ks, 10Ks--Special Ks, even! There are bike races, pennant races, and most the most obvious rat race.

It's almost more than my tired brain can handle trying to keep pace and not break stride.

A long, long, LONG time ago, when I used to run (not to catch a toddler-on-the-loose or to catch the barista before the coffee shop closes) I remember an annoying habit our team's coach had. It seemed that he thought it appropriate, at the end of a leg numbing run, to shout out in the final stretch, "FINISH STRONG!"

It would have been inappropriate at that moment to stop running only to head over and give him a piece of my mind--what little I might have had left by then. Fueled only by adolescent fury, I did exactly what my frustrated teenage mind tricked my exhausted teenage body into doing---I finished strong.

I didn't know then where I found the strength.

I am quite certain that during the last 100 meters my legs would have been better served by a tall, handsome masseur (hey, I was in high school!) than a chain-smoking, psychotic ex-runner screaming through a bull horn.

As my body was pushed to the brink, muscles were being built in my legs. And somewhere deep inside, far beneath any calf or quad development I could see, a lesson was being learned and a virtue was being developed.

With each season of life, there seem to be more and more races to be run. And there are no shortage of annoying distractions on the sidelines.

But with each race we grow stronger.

And with each race, if we permit the voices of the crowds cheer us along, we come closer and closer to crossing the finish line.

"I know that the education of this child will be the distinguishing event of my life, if I have the brains and perseverance to accomplish it."

-- Annie Sullivan "The Miracle Worker", teacher to Helen Keller

Tony Snow's Testimony

Much has been written in the past week about the great faith of Catholic Christian Tony Snow, who served as press secretary for the current Bush Administration. If you've had the good fortune to not stare down a demon such as cancer, reading his story can be awe-inspiring, and perhaps a bit frightening even. But if you've lived long enough to have your life turned on its end by some unexpected trial, you will find yourself gently nodding your head in understanding as you read his story:

I don't know why I have cancer, and I don't much care. It is what it is, a plain and indisputable fact. Yet even while staring into a mirror darkly, great and stunning truths begin to take shape. Our maladies define a central feature of our existence: We are fallen. We are imperfect. Our bodies give out.
But despite this--or because of it--God offers the possibility of salvation and grace. We don't know how the narrative of our lives will end, but we get to choose how to use the interval between now and the moment we meet our Creator face-to-face.

Read the rest at Christianity Today here.

May God grant unto thee eternal rest, and may Our Blessed Mother comfort this family, who continues to fight the good fight to which we are all called.

H/T Amy

Don't Take My Word For It

Listen to what she has to say in the debate to add the joys and struggles of (more) children to your family:

Parenthood is Worth the Risks--September 2, 1980

There's at least one in every crowd, the woman who doesn't want to bring a child into "this lousy, mixed-up world."
I met one the other night who said children were just ego trips for parents who like to see their own image staring back at them over the breakfast table. She added, "I can't come up with one reason for having them."
What a pity. According to my children, there were a lot of reasons I had them.
I needed a personal slave: someone to answer the phone, get my sweater, find my glasses, get my keys out of the door, unload the groceries, go to the store, let the dog out and move the hose.
I needed someone arouind the house to eat the leftovers the dog wouldn't touch.
I needed someone to shove out of the car to throw his body over the last picnic table while we found a place to park.
I needed a live-in who would assist in raising a younger brother and sister by taking them to the bathroom every five minutes and sitting with them for free on New Year's Eve.
I needed an excuse for my saddlebag hips and flabby upper arms.
I needed material for the Christmas newsletter and a three-times-a-week column.
I needed someone to mail letters for me when it rained.
I needed someone to practice medicine on. ("Turn down that record or you'll go deaf!")
I needed someone to spy on and make me feel important.

That's their story. Mine is even more biased.

I brought children into this lousy, mixed-up world because when you love someone and they love you back, the world doesn't look that lousy or seem that mixed-up.
I gave them life because they have the same right I was given to make up their own minds as to what makes a good or a bad world.
More than an image over the breakfast table, they are special to this universe now and will be long after I am gone.
Some people must take the risk of being a parent. If we don't, who will be left to listen to the young people who lament, "I don't want to bring children into this lousy, mixed-up world"?

This is the second post in a series on our choice to parent a large family.

Who's that knocking?

Tap, tap, tap...

In the middle of an overcrowded school gymnasium, with five of my six children nearly indistinguishable from the throngs of like-minded, donut propelled mini-shoppers; a tiny-but powerful-voice beckoned me, "Mommmmm!!!" "Just a minute!" I called over my shoulder, without looking up.

Then, nearly a whole TEN seconds later--

Tap, tap, tap...

"I said, 'Just a minute!'" I called out over the din of the junior high marketplace, which was now in full swing. The room was swimming with crazed children, clutching lengths of tickets as long as themselves, hopeful that there would be one last Popsicle-stick wishing well before inventory ran out. Trying to hear myself think, I took a deep breath, and was aiming to formulate a battle plan when, much to my chagrin, I again felt--

Tap, Tap, Tappity-tap!!!

With eyes blazing and completely devoid of grace, I spun around and barked, "WHAT?" at the face attached to the hand behind me. The face, I suddenly realized, that was not one of my children (who had all scattered like rats at that point), but another mother from the school, who looked at me wide-eyed and said, "Hi. Umm. We met before and I, well, I just wanted to say hi."

Embarrassed beyond all belief, I apologized for my behavior and explained that I don't normally greet people so rudely--even those I don't know. Fortunately for me, she had done that mile in my moccasins before and graciously accepted my apology. As we parted, I scanned the room for my kids. Olive branch in hand, I located them and we kissed and made-up, literally.

Out of my embarrassment, however, came a valuable lesson in humility. Would I have been so quick to ask forgiveness of my children had I not spoken so callously to another adult? The answer is not one I'd like to share, but I bet you can guess. The path to humility, as I am painfully learning, is paved with awkward situations such as these; but, through them, God seeks to awaken my humble spirit asleep inside.

If we were humble, nothing would change us-neither praise nor discouragement.

If someone were to criticize us, we would not feel discouraged.

If someone were to praise us, we would not feel proud.

-Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

Remembering the "lasts" and a giveaway!

I promised a giveaway was coming, so before this weekend is history, here it goes...

First of all, I've had this particular item in mind as a giveaway for a while now. But with the rash of stories about tiny bundles full of new life and promise giving way to the wonderment and mommy-love of toddlerhood, followed close on the heels of the magical preschool years, which suddenly morph into an out of control snowball effect of elementary-then junior-then senior high school until-with barely a moment's notice--the once tiny, helpless person, who now stands a head taller than you, waves as his car heads off to college or beyond; well, it was obvious the time for this giveaway was now.

For it was yesterday, literally, that the Boy's 7th grade basketball season ended (with first place trophies in both the championship game and the regular season, if I might brag on him for a moment.) We drove home, as we have each Saturday morning since early November, with every seat in the vehicle occupied by a game-wearied child; some coming down off snack bar sugar rushes, while others regrouped from their roles of cheerleaders-at-large, and one, in particular, who had, in both sweat and smiles, played to his heart's content. My husband turned to me with a sudden realization and noted sadly, "Next year, when basketball season ends, it really will end...And football season...And track season." Next year, if we aren't careful we'll miss celebrating these "lasts" with the Boy before our foray into the world of high-school sports begins. Dear God, I hope we don't miss it.

And I'm hoping we won't, thanks to a lovely book, called Let Me Hold You Longer, given to me by another dear mommy-friend, trying desperately not to miss any "lasts" herself. I've given copies to other mothers before and, this week, I'll give away a copy to another mom, who between furiously taking mental notes and pictures of her children's youth, might enjoy the message this tender story sends.

The book is by highly-accomplished author, Karen Kingsbury, who in addition to her writing accolades is also mom to six children, three of whom are adopted from Haiti. From the book jacket:

Karen Kingsbury has created a touching reminder that the years of childhood fly too quickly by us. Most of us faithfully remember and capture our children's "firsts." Karen encourages readers to try to recognize and savor the often fleeting "lasts"--those milestones that so easily go unnoticed.

The giveaway is open to everyone. Simply leave a comment and tell me about the "last" you remember best. It can be one of your children's lasts or one from your own childhood. I'll choose a winner at random on Thursday, January 23rd at noon CST.

Grandfather's Solitude
A Christmas Reflection

I have always directed my Christmas column toward families who are caught up in a tinsel marathon of tree trimming, stocking stuffing, music making, dog barking and children squealing.

They're so busy that sometimes I get only a glance before the garbage is wrapped in me. Occasionally, someone puts me on the back porch to catch the slush from boots. If I'm lucky I escape the licking flames when I get thrown in the fireplace with discarded wrappings and warranties.

So I've decided to write to all of you today who have the time to read me: those who have just moved to an area and haven't made new friends...those who are alone because they can't afford the trip home...those families who have been splintered by distance or disinterest. And you are alone.

Let me tell you about my grandfather. He lived by himself in a little trailer in southwest Ohio until he died a few years ago. I always felt sorry for him when I visited at Christmas because he only had about five cards on top of the TV set, two or three packages at the most to open, and a pitiful artificial tree with a single strand of lights that bubbled like they were going to boil over.

You would have thought those pathetic trappings were straight out of the Sistine Chapel.

He'd pick up each card, trace the scene with his fingers and marvel, "This is pretty enough to be put in a frame." Then he'd recite the message inside, which he had memorized.

The boxes were another delight. He'd shake them and make a guess as to what they held and place them gently under the tree. Then he'd prime you for that big moment when he said, "I'm going to light the tree for you!" My sewing machine had a bigger light.

The year before he died, when he spent Christmas in the hospital, he raved the entire visiting period over a favor on his dinner tray: a Styrofoam Santa Claus with a red gumdrop hat held on by a toothpick.

Every Christmas since then, I have had to ask myself: Can I quote a single line from the stack of cards I receive? Can I visit without keeping an eye on my watch? Can I become childlike with excitement over a box that obviously holds a handkerchief? Can I live with my solitude without self-pity?

God help me. I think my grandfather felt sorry for me.

by Erma Bombeck
December 25, 1979

Be careful what you wish for

Last night at our women's bible study, one of the discussion topics (out of Danielle Bean's book Mom to Mom, Day to Day) was on trying to survive while swimming in a sea of housework. It reminded me of an article of Erma Bombeck's that I read while logging all our driving miles last week. I promised the women in the group I'd share it with them. So here it is ladies, this one's for you-

by Erma Bombeck

No More Oatmeal Kisses--January 29, 1969
A young mother writes: "I know you've written before about the empty-nest syndrome, that lonely period after the children are grown and gone. Right now I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry and muddy boots. The baby is teething; the boys are fighting. My husband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell off my diet. Lay it on me again, will you?"

OK. One of these days, you'll shout, "Why don't you kids grow up and act your age!" And they will.

Or, "You guys get outside and find yourselves something to do . . . and don't slam the door!" And they won't.

You'll straighten up the boys' bedroom neat and tidy: bumper stickers discarded, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed on the shelves. Hangers in the closet. Animals caged. And you'll say out loud, "Now I want it to stay this way." And it will.

You'll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn't been picked to death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing, and you'll say, "Now, there's a meal for company." And you'll eat it alone.You'll say, "I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancing around. No demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?" And you'll have it.

No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti. No more bedspreads to protect the sofa from damp bottoms. No more gates to stumble over at the top of the basement steps. No more clothespins under the sofa. No more playpens to arrange a room around.No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent. No more sand on the sheets or Popeye movies in the bathroom. No more iron-on patches, rubber bands for ponytails, tight boots or wet knotted shoestrings.

Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby-sitter for New Year's Eve. Washing only once a week. Seeing a steak that isn't ground. Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.No PTA meetings. No car pools. No blaring radios. No one washing her hair at 11 o'clock at night. Having your own roll of Scotch tape.

Think about it. No more Christmas presents out of toothpicks and library paste. No more sloppy oatmeal kisses. No more tooth fairy. No giggles in the dark. No knees to heal, no responsibility.

Only a voice crying, "Why don't you grow up?" and the silence echoing, "I did."