Christmas Lessons 2: The Nativity

I sighed as I took the nativity out of the box. A gift from my mother-in-law, the olive wood figurines from Jerusalem stood beautifully in their simplicity. I wanted to do the scene justice–display it in a setting of prominence, center-stage in our family room–yet I wanted to enjoy this nativity for more than one Christmas.

For the same reason the breakable nativity from my mother sets atop the T.V. cabinet, this nativity quietly hangs out on our electric piano: I fear my children.

I fear the two-year-old who ate all the candy out of the kids’ advent calendars by December 10th.

I fear the four-year-old who lost her one new pair of school shoes (how does one lose the shoes that one was wearing?)

I fear the five-year-old who discovered the razor I use on my legs can also shave off hair from his sister’s head.

I don’t want baby Jesus to go missing. I don’t want the shepherd to lose his staff. I don’t want Mary to break her face. And I don’t want the sheep to become part of a wild animal safari in the playroom.

I want them to remain sacred objects of our faith, a reminder of the beautiful Christmas story.

“She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them”

The story of the king sent to reign over heaven and earth, the king who entered this world not on a golden chariot but instead through the blood, sweat, and tears of a young girl. The king for whom there was no room but instead a bed shared amidst foul-smelling animals and dust and hay.

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. ⁹ An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. ¹¹ Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord”

The story of the God who chose to reveal himself first to a group of shepherds, the young and the elderly, those not valued by society but who caused disdain with the stench of sheep they carried. These were the first to meet the Savior of the World.

¹³ ‘Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace on whom his favor rests’

The story of a baby who made the angels sing. This baby, the Son of the holy God who loves His children so much that He sent His Son to bring us peace.

As my children retell this story with shining eyes anticipating Christ’s birthday, I see the nativity, no longer mere objects on my piano destined to be broken or misplaced at their hands. These objects that they caress with their fingers, the star that they turn as they sing of that silent night, holy night are living as the story takes root in their hearts.

And that story can’t break.

Linking up with Mama Kat in response to her prompt to describe my nativity scene. Come back tomorrow for another Christmas lesson, this time inspired by some of the Santa stories left by you!

*For the complete Christmas story, read Luke 2.

A Message in a Shoebox

Shoe Box Distribution in Thailand 2006 — photo courtesy of 'Operation Christmas Child'

God shows His love and kindness in many ways. For me, He showed it in a shoebox’s destination….

Around four years ago, I sat on the back row at church and listened to the woman on the screen rattle off statistics that I have never been able to forget. At that time, our church was connected to the orphanage in the Ukraine that this woman represented. I remember hearing her describe girls lured into prostitution after leaving most orphanages, and the majority of boys of choosing a life of crime. The number that hit me the hardest, however, was the number of young men who chose to live no life at all.

I can’t remember if I was pregnant with my second child or if she had just been born, but I know that the thought of adopting a child had not yet entered my mind given my own circumstances. But those statistics, oh, how they changed me forever. I sat in church that day with tears in my eyes. How horrible were those orphanages that these children thought they were worthless? How horrible were their prospects that these young men thought they had no hope at all? The thought of so many children taking their own lives rather than live in the world was incomprehensible to me.

Around two years later, I sat in the stands of the Gwinnett Arena and listened to the testimony of Christian after Christian who said they believed the call in James to care for orphans and widows was not merely a suggestion. They believed that God really meant we should give homes to these orphans, and they shared their stories of how they adopted children into their families.

My husband and I had never discussed adoption before, and I wasn’t sure that he would be receptive to the idea, but God had stirred some embers in my heart. I thought of those young boys in the Ukraine, and I felt I knew God’s plan for us.

But time passed. Life with my own three kids was crazy enough. Managing our finances was challenging as it was–saving tens of thousands of dollars for adoption seemed unreasonable. And as time went on, even though I truly felt God had spoken to me two years prior in that arena, I began to doubt what I heard. I still had the desire to adopt, but I also knew now was not the time to bring another child into our home. In fact, sometimes I didn’t know if there’d ever be the time to bring another child into our home, and, at times, I was okay with that idea.

My mind didn’t do well with this ambiguity. I’m the girl with the five-year and ten-year plans, and I needed to know if adoption was part of those plans. I needed to know how to plan for those plans. The last few months, however, I had the sense that I needed to stop planning all-together. The details in my life didn’t match up with the details of adoption.

And I felt crushed. Because as life often works, during this time of my life, a time when bringing another child into our home makes no sense, my desire to have another child is burning within me.

I told God I trusted Him. Maybe I hadn’t heard correctly a couple years ago. Maybe God does want me to have a heart for orphans, but maybe my role isn’t to be a mother to orphans. I would trust Him, though, trust that He would reveal His will to me–perhaps not today but when I needed to know.

In November, my son and I packed a box for his school’s Operation Christmas Child shoebox drive, and I printed out a label with a barcode so we could track it’s destination. Two days ago, I received an e-mail from Samaritan’s Purse:

“Merry Christmas from Samaritan’s Purse! Thank you for participating in Operation Christmas Child and for choosing to Follow Your Box.

Your gift box(es) went to Ukraine. For photos, stories, and other information about Operation Christmas Child in this country, click here.”

I gasped when I saw the country. The Ukraine, the one place that is always in my heart, and there, a little boy would hold a shoebox full of toys and markers and toothpaste and know that he is loved.

And as I read that e-mail, I knew that I am loved. I know this post seems to be about adoption, but, actually, it’s about God’s love for me. When I read that e-mail, I knew God was speaking to me. I knew that He was telling me that He heard and hears the desires of my heart, and, as much as I care about those little boys in the Ukraine, He cares even more. He will make clear His Will to me, whether or not adoption is part of it.

All I could do was close my eyes and say I trust, Lord. How could I not trust the God of the universe who carried a simple shoebox to a place where He could speak to both the recipient and the sender?

Some might say that our shoebox landing in the Ukraine was a coincidence–it had to go somewhere–but I believe God cares enough about me to get involved in the details of life. Like a perfect Father, He knows the time to step back and let me learn and grow, but He also knows those times when I need to hear from Him.

He loves me enough to speak to me through an e-mail.

And He loves you that much, too.

Linking up with Michelle and Jen. When was a time that you knew God was speaking to you? How did He do it? And don’t forget to tune in this week to read more Christmas lessons. Thank you to those who have e-mailed/commented with suggestions!

Christmas Lessons: 1

Santa Claus — photo by Vanessa Pike-Russell

The Christmas holidays had just concluded, and my dad and I made a pit-stop at the gymnastics center where I would spend most of my childhood. He needed to work out some details for the upcoming meet, and I hung out in the lobby for those few minutes. Had I known that my world would change that quickly, I would’ve stayed in the car.

My gymnastics coach happened to see me and stopped by to say ‘hello’ before heading down to teach a class.

“How do you like your new beam?” she asked.

I immediately was taken aback. I did, in fact, get a beam for Christmas. It was blue and sat flat on the floor and was made out of some stiff foam-like material. The beam wasn’t very heavy and would move if I jumped on it. Honestly, it’s a wonder that I didn’t break my ankle, but, nevertheless, that beam was one of the best presents I ever received. From Santa.

“How did you know I got a beam?”

The wheels in my head began spinning, but clearly, her wheels were not keeping up with mine.

“I saw your dad pick it up,” she answered matter-of-factly.

The wheels were now grinding together, producing a thick fog of smoke in my brain.

My dad? How was that possible? Santa brought that gift.

And then, as any child who wants to believe would do, I began to concoct the recipe for how my coach would’ve seen my dad purchasing this gift when, in fact, it was from Santa. It was easy–Santa is magical, so he simply turned himself into the likeness of my dad and purchased the beam. He didn’t have one in his workshop because…well…it doesn’t matter. He knew I liked the one at my gym, and it was just easier to fly down from the North Pole, turn himself into my dad, and purchase it then try to have his elves recreate it in the workshop.

Yeah, that was it.

And even though I forced myself to believe for another year, that day marked the day when a little of the Christmas magic died in my heart.

Christmas Lesson 1: Let the child tell you what he or she received for Christmas, not the other way around. You have no idea what spiral of doubt and confusion you may otherwise create.

Was Santa ever spoiled for you? What happened?

I had a fun idea this morning–or fun to me–and wanted to pass it along. If you will send me a Christmas lesson in the comments or in an e-mail, I will try to recreate a short story around it. Or if you prefer, you can write a story and provide the link in the comment box of any of the Christmas Lessons I write! If I don’t get any responses, I’ll know you all think this idea stinks.

Christmas Definitions

Christmas Ornament — Photo by tmorkemo via Flickr 'Creative Commons'

Since I was small, I remember hearing the ‘Keep Christ in Christmas’ motto for the holidays. I would nod my head in assent whenever the challenge was brought to me, and I continued the crusade of saying ‘Merry Christmas’ instead of ‘Happy Holidays’ when I was shopping at a retail store.

Now that I’m older, I’ve noticed not much has changed. My Facebook newsfeed is filled with reminders to keep Christ in Christmas, but this year I had to ask what does that actually mean? Christmas changed for me when I had to explain the meaning to my children, and during the last year, especially, I struggled through my own definition of keeping Christ in a holiday that, at times, feels largely secular.

So today I want to hear from you. What does keeping Christ in Christmas actually mean?

Linking up with Jen today.

What Did You Just Say?!

My husband, Matt, and I have been blessed with kids who can communicate well. Well, blessed and cursed–smart kids who have an answer for everything can be very trying. Nonetheless, we’ve never had to mess with ‘baby talk,’ and we rarely witnessed the ‘terrible twos’ temper tantrums (how’s that for alliteration?) simply because our kids couldn’t communicate their frustrations. Oh, they know how to communicate their frustrations quite well!

As a result of our little blessings, I would venture to say that we tend to forget their ages when we are having a conversation. The other night, Matt was scolding our five-year-old son Caleb for dumping out the contents of his piggy bank, yet, again instead of getting ready for bed, but he may have been looking at Caleb as a member of his sales team instead of a little kid:

“Put [your piggy bank] away, or I am going to confiscate it.”

“I don’t know what that word means.”

“It means I am going to take it away.”

“WHY WOULD YOU USE THAT WORD?! You can just say I’m going to take it away!”

And as any supportive wife would do, I laughed downstairs for about five minutes. Then I thought about the verse in the Bible that says, “⁴ Fathers,^[b] do not exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord” (Ephesians 6:4). I’m not sure whether or not teaching Caleb to clean up the money all over his bed counts as training of the Lord, but I’m fairly certain he was exasperated.

I thought for a minute how I might exasperate my children–perhaps, sometimes my expectations are a little high or I get frustrated before really understanding why they tried to recreate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on the playroom wall–but then my mind traveled back to the current moment.

And, Matt, that exasperating was all on you, buddy.

Linking up with Mama Kat for her Writer’s Workshop. How do you exasperate your children (or spouse or mother, etc)?

I Had a Dream

I’m sure it started after my mom said, “I wish we lived closer.” In fact, we do live relatively close to one another. We’re only about a half an hour away, but with Atlanta traffic, that half an hour can stretch anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour. In any event, we don’t live close enough to just drop over for a chat any time the idea strikes our fancy.

Thus birthed the idea for our plot of land. At first, it started as a joke; we’d have a home for all the women to live in and a separate home for all the grumpy men. The women could get together every night after the kids went to bed and play the board games we so love while the men stayed home and scratched their rears and fell asleep on the couch.

Except my brother-in-law said he didn’t want to be stuck in a house with the grumpy men, either.

Then the idea morphed into something more realistic. Instead of two houses divided by gender, we’d have three homes divided by family units all sharing a large plot of land. There would be a communal garden. There would be Hilda the cow. There would be game night. Many nights.

Sometimes when I would get discouraged with the condition of my home or tired thinking about putting the kids to bed after a visit with my parents, I would envision my dream home on that large plot of land. I would see the tall trees surrounding us, hear the stream running through the woods. I could taste the tomatoes I’d pick from our garden, and I was never overwhelmed at its upkeep–the three families worked together.

Farmhouse — photo by vastateparksstaff via Flickr 'Creative Commons'

And there was Hilda. Oh, she was such a good cow. She ate her grass and gave us the finest milk. No longer did I have to debate whether or not (not, most often) to purchase organic milk for $5.99 a gallon–our organic milk was right in our yard.

But like most dreams, this one was squashed by those whom I love.

“Do you think I’m made out of money?!”

No, Dad, I think you’re made out of blood and muscles and bones.

“Dad, you’re just buying the land first since you’re ready to move now. You’re reserving our spot. Then, we’ll come and buy our section of the land from you and build our house. This plan made sense to me.

“What happens when Matt and you decide to move and sell your home? Now I have this piece of land that I have to share with someone I don’t know.”

“Well, we’re not going to move.”

And then a few days later my husband joined in:

“Do you know how much a cow costs? It would cost thousands of dollars. It would take years before you even reaped the benefits of having your own cow to milk.”

I don’t trust your math.

“Jennifer, you don’t live on Little House on the Prairie.”

You’re right; Caroline’s husband was warm and kind, and he played the fiddle.

“This move doesn’t make sense from a financial perspective. What happens if we want to move? We now have a house that’s connected to two other families.”

Are we planning to move? Did you and my dad have a talk that I don’t know about. Are you being transferred to Canada or something?!

After that moment, I told myself, “Forget it.” Forget the big plot of land. Forget the communal garden. Forget Hilda. And definitely forget game night many nights during the week.

At least I have ‘Word With Friends.’

Has your family ever squashed your dream before it had time to come to fruition? Have you ever wanted to own a cow? It’s the middle of the week, folks. Let’s take a minute to smile and get through it!

Pick and Choose

Over the last few weeks, we’ve been studying how the supernatural intersects our everyday lives via prayer. I have to admit that even typing the word ‘supernatural’ feels a little funny to me.

I don’t know why. I say I believe in God and the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ–to do so I’d have to believe in this idea of supernatural events–yet I’ve noticed that the way I pray and interpret Scripture indicates exactly what I believe.

I pick and choose.

On the one hand, I say I believe that God is the ultimate healer and can perform miracles, but I’m afraid to pray that way. Even when I do pray for God’s miraculous touch, it’s as if I’m praying with one eye open, bracing myself for the reality that that person for whom I’m praying probably won’t be healed.

There were times when I really believed, or, at least, really wanted to believe. My friend was very sick, and I woke up one morning feeling in my heart that I was supposed to pray for his healing. I did; I prayed earnestly and fervently, yet he was not healed.

A couple of weeks ago, our church set aside a special time to pray for healing in view of this series on the supernatural, and I went forward and asked for prayer for my uncle. Again, I felt a strong prompt that I was supposed to pray for his healing. My uncle is a quadriplegic due to what doctors think was a blot clot that formed after back surgery, and within the last few years his health has been on a steady decline.

A couple of days after praying, my mom told me that now my uncle is struggling to breathe.

In situations like those, I begin to doubt myself. Did God really prompt me to pray, or did I just want to see a miracle myself? Did I not pray with enough faith? Does God really heal?

I know that God really heals, but I’m afraid to ask. I temper my prayers with if it’s your will so that if someone is not healed or my prayer is not answered the way I’d like, I can say that it wasn’t God’s will.

Of course, I know I’ve stated the key–God’s will–not mine, yet I can readily admit my fear to really believe beyond ordinary.

Sometimes it’s easier to believe in the power of doctors and medicine than the power of the Doctor. And yet other times, times when I need the healing, I want to grab onto the power of God instead of the resources He’s given me.

Our pastor shared a familiar passage to me, but he opened my eyes to a fuller meaning:

¹³Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise. ¹⁴ Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. ¹⁵ And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven. ¹⁶ Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. (James 5:13-16, New International Version)

I have read and heard this passage many times in regard to praying for those who are sick. I’ve seen pastors anoint individuals with oil, and I always assumed the function was symbolic. However, our pastor shared that the actual Greek text suggests that this anointing served a specific purpose. Olive oil was known for its medicinal properties, and this passage instructs sick individuals to essentially seek prayer and medicine.

After my third child was born, my mental health was on a steady decline for two years. I chalked up my emotions to a confused, hormonal body after having three kids in three years and nursing each of them. However, my daughter rounded 18 months, and I wasn’t feeling better.

I thought, perhaps, that my spiritual life was out of whack. I started waking up at five every morning so that I could pray and read the Bible and process through my feelings on my blog. However, any relief I felt was temporary, and I didn’t understand why. Eventually, I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning, and I cried and yelled at my children almost every day.

During my annual physical, my doctor suggested I try medication. Two years was too long for me to deal with depression. I cried as we talked about the prospect, feeling that I was mentally weak or spiritually deficient. My wise, Christian doctor offered the most comforting words:

Scripture says that it will renew the mind. Your mind is an extension of the soul, but your brain is part of the physical body. There is no indication in Scripture that by reading the Word your body will be healed. Now, God can heal you, but He would have to heal you the same way He would have to heal someone of high blood pressure. Right now, the chemical levels in your brain are out of whack, and medication will just retrain them to produce those chemicals that you need.

Looking back to the passage in James, I see that my doctor’s words were essentially the same advice I read a couple of weeks ago in church. Pray and seek medicine. God may heal me; He is mighty and able to perform miracles, but he may want to heal me through the use of the resources I have available.

The bottom line, whether I’m dealing with depression or my uncle is struggling to hold onto his life, is that I’m supposed to pray the same way. I’m supposed to pray, not with one eye open, doubting what my God can do, but believing that at this very moment my uncle could get up and walk. At this very moment, I could wake up without the need for medicine again.

While I will never understand the will of God this side of heaven, I understand my role. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. And while I’m not righteous on my own, I have Christ pleading on my behalf. God hears my prayers, and they are effective, whether God answers them with a blazing flash of lightning or a tiny pink pill.

Do you pick and choose when it comes to your understanding of prayer? Linking up today with Michelle and Jen.

Thanksgiving Presents

When I was a child, no holiday could top Christmas. While I loved stuffing and mashed potatoes, I’d happily skip over Thanksgiving to get to the present-opening holiday faster. However, nothing could make that last month before Christmas go any quicker.

Now that I’m a little bit older than eight, I find that, much as my tastebuds changed as I became an adult, so did my taste for the different holidays. I still find Christmas a beautiful holiday to celebrate, yet I would never skip Thanksgiving. In fact, I would venture to say that Thanksgiving is my new favorite.

With a few exceptions, I don’t remember the presents I opened beneath the tree, those presents that I’m sure my parents budgeted for and fought their way through crazy mobs at the mall. I don’t remember what Santa snuck down the chimney.

But I do remember family. Little stories will sneak up and pinch me when I least expect it. These memories are the presents that have far outlasted those wrapped in shiny paper and topped with big bows.

My grandmother much preferred the company of children and seemed to relate better to them than adults. That characteristic worked out well for all of her grandchildren. Every time we had a family get-together, Grandma Ann would gather the grandkids to her while the adults talked in another room. While they laughed and scraped the last bit of food off their plates, the kids worked in another room on a retelling of Cinderella. We rushed around looking for Cinderella’s broom and a costume to do the magical fairy godmother justice, and when we were ready, Grandma would silence the adults and command their attention for the show we had prepared.

The parents would roll their eyes and silently endure the production. This tradition has lived on….

For my father’s birthday, I was in a silly mood and wanted to help control the chaos of four kids five and under while we waited for my husband to get home. I gathered all the children in the playroom, and everyone was assigned a role.

Caleb, you will dance first. Max, you’re next. You will come out after Aunt Jennie introduces you.

And so began my first attempt at organizing a show with all of the grandkids. A few weekends later, the kids requested we put on another performance for Uncle Mason’s birthday, and the other day, an ordinary-non-birthday-nothing-special day, my nephew requested we put on a show.

“Well, hello, Grandma,” my mom said to me.

She was right–I had had the realization before–Grandma’s present was still going strong long after she was gone. I’m currently drafting a Christmas performance.

So I look forward to tomorrow, a day without the stress of Christmas, a day when we enjoy the delicious food with which we have been so abundantly blessed and count the numerous ways God has provided. I look forward to receiving the presents that time with family always gives, and I look forward to remembering.

I’m thankful that we each live on long after we’re gone, in the fried okra recipe that’s used every holiday or the sound of snoring from the recliner in the den or the after-dinner performance that the adults are forced to endure.

These are the presents that I will celebrate. For these, I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours. For what presents are you thankful this year?

Paradox

Sometimes I hate parenting. Maybe parenting is too specific. Sometimes I hate this phase in my life as a stay-at-home mom.

I hate mopping the floor to have someone pee on it or spill milk five minutes later. I hate the mound of laundry that is alway taunting me, even if I just put away three loads. I hate the mess that I find upstairs right after I made the downstairs look perfect and vice versa.

It’s not that I hate mopping or doing laundry or straightening up or cleaning bathrooms (actually, I do hate cleaning bathrooms)–it’s the feeling that everything I’ve just done is for nothing.

Many days I look at the blue numbers on the stove as they near seven, and I just wish my husband worked a little closer, could come home a little earlier to help tame the three wild animals that come out when I’m making dinner. I wish there were someone here to help discipline when I feel mentally worn out by the end of the day. I hate feeling like I’m ineffective and out-witted by three little people whose combined years of education don’t even equal a third of mine.

And, yet, there are these moments….

The other day I stood in the laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer and getting together a new load for the wash, and I had this intense longing, yearning. With each shirt I folded, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our family wasn’t complete, and the desire for another child burned within me. The feeling grew stronger as I dwelled on my longing until I stopped myself: “What the–?” I thought. Here I was holding poopy underpants in my hand while desiring for another child in my heart.

I immediately recognized the irony but knew how it was possible. Even though I hate some of the feelings accompanied with this job, I love having three kids surround me on the couch as I read a story. I love watching my two-year-old shake her hips during our dance parties. And I love my kids on days when they are good and days when they are rotten simply because they are mine.

Parenting isn’t always logical. How I can love a job that I simultaneously hate doesn’t make sense, but that’s how a paradox works. And I find this one quite beautiful.

In what paradox do you find yourself? Linking up with Mama Kat for her Writers Workshop.

Traditions

As I ironed the sleeves of my shirt, the uncertainty I felt the days before gave way to excitement, and when I secured the buttons on my coat I looked with satisfaction at myself in the mirror. I missed wearing this uniform. But today I was allowed to remember those days I counted as some of my happiest and show my children for the first time how I used to dress for work every day.

Hannah Grace couldn’t stop rubbing my legs, as she was not used to seeing her mother wearing panty hose, and Caleb beamed when he saw my attire. I couldn’t find my flight cap in the attic the night before, so I wasn’t sure if I would be able to wear my uniform to the ceremony. However, Caleb knew that a fully dressed mommy meant all was well.

I dropped Caleb off in front of the flagpole and told him I would see him in a few minutes, and as he bounced off to his class wearing his book bag that took up half the size of his body, I looked for a parking space. I parked, and the girls and I walked through the cold toward the gym where the ceremony would take place.

All of my family was already there–my mom and dad, sister and nephew, and Matt’s mom and grandfather and his grandfather’s wife. We took our seats on the gym floor and listed as a retired Army major played the bagpipes.

Veterans Day--Mom and Granddaddy — Matt's Granddaddy, me, and my mom

The children came in and we all joined together in singing the National Anthem, and then they sang songs of tribute for all who had served. We stood as we heard the song representing our branch of service, and they all clapped. Our names were read out loud and the branch in which we served, and a fifth grader came with a rose and a handmade card expressing thanks.

I remember looking at my mom as she stood and sang the Army song, and she smiled a smile that I don’t see often–she was proud. I understood her emotion, and I was proud with her.

At the end of the ceremony, all the veterans formed a receiving line, and the students walked through and shook our hands. I was impressed at this group of little boys and girls, shaking hands and offering their thanks with a smile.

Before we left, the school asked for a picture with all the veterans–men who had served in Korea and Vietnam, some who completed their 2-year tour, others who made a career and retired after 20, brand new lieutenants and airmen, and seasoned sergeants and majors. But there were only three women–a woman who taught at the high school and my mom and me.

Veterans Day--Mom and Lisa — My sister Lisa joined us, representing her husband who served in the Army for six years

***************************************************************************

My dad’s birthday was a few weeks ago, and we celebrated in our family’s typical style of singing and cake. After the traditional ‘Happy Birthday,’ my mom gave her usual attempt at ‘May the good Lord bless you’ (sung to the ‘Happy Birthday’ tune), to which we all ignored her. I’m not sure why the antipathy for that song–perhaps it’s my mother’s insistence at singing it every birthday that causes us to refuse.

Two songs not being enough, my dad in jest tried to rouse us into singing, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow…,’ and feeling bad for him and the lack of participation, I sang along. And now I had to be the smart-aleck. “God Bless America” broke from my lips, and to my surprise, my mom and dad joined in during the middle line. I looked around as my sister added her voice to the chorus, and my brother-in-law, who, like my husband, normally looks bored and sleepy, was singing loudly while swinging his arm in a show of support. As we sang the words, ‘my home, sweet home,’ all the adults were belting out their best, while the kids tried to sing along to a song they didn’t know. We actually sounded good and laughed at this spontaneous show of support for this patriotic song at a birthday party.

We then rounded out the evening with a talent show for my dad featuring bizarre dance moves from the kids and Bette Midler and Mariah Carey songs sung horribly by my sister and me. I have a feeling that my dad left that night feeling a little confused.

November 11th, we celebrated Mason’s birthday. He had just started a new job, so he missed the school’s Veterans Day celebration, but his new co-workers showed him their appreciation when their work-day ended. And that night, we showed him ours, as well.

Once again, we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and followed with our new tradition that started as a joke but seemed somewhat appropriate that night. The kids should know the words to ‘God Bless America’ by Max’s birthday.

And I, no longer in my uniform, was able to clap and move to the music while I watched a stunning dance party, complete with superheroes and pirates and policemen.