Yesterday, the weather was amazing. The temperature topped out at about 70 degrees, and the sky was bright blue most of the day. We could play outside without getting too hot, and I didn’t have to yell at the kids to keep their jackets on–we left them at home.
I love the location of my home, right next to the neighborhood pool and playground. I swear if we had to pack up and load into the minivan to drive to the front of the neighborhood, we’d never get there. Luckily, my little monkeys just need me to open our gate and walk next door.
Yesterday evening, that’s just what we did. We began our journey a little later than planned, missing the most warmth from the sun. Punky Brewster was far too enticing for the kids, and this mama was far too tired to put up a fight. We made it to the playground around five, however, and the kids released their abundance of energy.
I had wished we arrived earlier, though, when I saw the teenaged boy playing basketball. Caleb immediately took off toward him.
“Caleb, leave him alone. He wants to practice.”
But the young man just smiled and encouraged Caleb to come and play. I watched as my five-year-old and this high school-aged boy took turns dribbling and shooting hoops.
I felt a little uneasy, not of this young man, but of my son interfering.
“He’s not going to leave you alone now,” I warned him, but he just smiled and assured me he was okay with Caleb playing.
A few minutes later, another teenaged boy parked his car and joined his friend on the asphalt court. The boys–closer to men than boys, really–showed Caleb how to shoot baskets, teaching him to bend his knees and the proper way to hold the ball.
Frankly, I was impressed, especially when they gave Hannah Grace a try, too.
I’m sure these guys had planned to get together to have a game of one-on-one, and here they were giving lessons to the little boy making granny shots. They wanted to run free on the court, not avoid the little girl dancing to the music in her head and periodically shouting, “I see my shadow! Six more weeks of winter!” Their plans were interrupted–they were inconvenienced–so they simply changed their plans.
They were kind, and they were patient. While I watched them run to Caleb’s aid when the ball rebounded off his head for the second time, I prayed, “God, how I hope Caleb is like them when he’s a teenager!”
And then I thought to myself, “God, make me more like them now.”
On what exceptional young adult would you like to brag? What have they taught you? Have a great weekend!
*photo courtesy of Ben Unleashed via Flickr Creative Commons
I should not be allowed an iPhone. This weekend, I set a willful child on the toilet in an effort to get her to pee when my phone dropped out of my pocket and went for a swim. Typically, I keep my hands out of toilet water, but I amazed myself at how quickly I stuck my hand in that bowl. I’d like to think that my reflexes would be that sharp if I ever had to rescue anything of true value–I scooped that phone out of the watery abyss in .2 seconds flat.
Despite my laser-sharp reflexes, a turn with the hair dryer, and a bag of rice, the screen on my phone went black (but that stupid phone taunted me all day, ringing and dinging to notify me of e-mails that had come in but I would never see), and my iPhone was useless. It was a terrible day to not have my phone.
Saturday, Matt volunteers at church for most of the day, so I was on my own to take Caleb to a roller skating birthday party and occupy the two girls. My attempt to find a ride for Caleb didn’t work, but I was adamant that I was not going to teach three children to skate that day–I would drop Caleb at the party and then take the girls to the toy store to spend some of their allowance, assuming, of course, that the party location was near the toy store.
Caleb would have to leave the party early to ensure we got to church early as I was also volunteering that day. If I had my handy, dandy iPhone, I could’ve figured out my route quickly. Except I didn’t. My iPhone continued to taunt me.
photo by Ian Munroe
I printed off some directions from one of the map websites and rounded up the children into the van, a little later than we planned to leave, of course. Ten minutes later, I neared our destination. But after driving past 1700 Buford Drive four times (twice from each direction), I decided that the directions I was following was not to the location where we were trying to go.
I would’ve called the grandmother hosting the party, but, oh yeah–I couldn’t. At this point, I had a decision to make. We were already 30 minutes late for the party, and I still didn’t know where to go to get to this party. I could go home and make a second attempt at printing off the right directions, or I could tell Caleb that we would take his friend and him roller skating another day. When the latter offer produced tears from the back seat, I decided the former. We would get to that stupid party no matter what. And we kept on going.
I drove home, ran into the house, printed off new directions, printed off directions from the party to church, and got back in the van (did I mention that we don’t have a land line, so I couldn’t call the grandmother from my house, either?). Looking at the directions to this farther away place, I realized that Caleb would only have about 40 minutes at the party. I explained this fact to him, emphasizing that he most likely will have missed the skating part of the party or the cake, depending on the order they chose. Caleb nodded that he understood and blinked back his tears.
As we sat in traffic due to road construction, I felt my blood pressure rise and created new profanities in my mind. We were going to get to that party even if Caleb only got to shake his friend’s hand and give her her present before he turned around to leave! So we kept on going.
At 4:00 p.m. we arrived at the party that was supposed to end at 4:30. Caleb had missed the cake, but the kids were skating again. Caleb had 30 minutes to learn how to skate. I would’ve loved to teach him, but I had a four-year-old holding one hand and a two-year-old holding the other–two girls who would have to wait another day to go to the toy store.
Luckily, a compassionate woman at the party saw my full hands and took Caleb out on the floor. I watched and held my breath as Caleb flailed his arms and legs around in an attempt to catch his balance. I cringed as his legs flew completely out from under him. And with each wild slam to the floor, I fought between the instinct that wanted to laugh at how crazy my son looked and the fear that I would find a limb dangling in an odd direction as he climbed back to his feet. But despite each painful-looking fall, Caleb kept on going.
While he could’ve spent more time learning how to skate on the carpeted floor, Caleb’s competitive drive kept him on the slick rink. In one moment he looked like a kid at a concert body surfing–on-lookers sitting on the edge of the rink took turns holding him up as he threatened to land on them or crash to the floor–yet in the next moment, this little boy was balancing on two skates making his way around the curve by himself.
I couldn’t have been more proud (or terrified).
The time came to turn in the skates, thank the host, and jump back in the van with my printed directions. Unfortunately, the people who make these things think I know the difference between ‘northeast’ and ‘southwest’. Seriously, ‘left’ or ‘right’ works just fine for me. Now, we were going to be late for church, but we kept on going. Watching my son take fall after fall without a grimace made me realize that I could, too.
photo by Ian Munroe
I kept on going because that’s what moms do. We keep going when the logical choice would be to turn back, save gas, and miss the party; we value the smile on our kids’ faces more. We keep going when we’re tired and want to go to bed because we’d rather our family wear clean clothes, instead. We keep going when that little voice in our heads tells us our efforts are not worth it, reminding us of all the wasted time we spent doing tasks that already needed to be redone, reminding us of the life we could have if we lived for ourselves.
We keep going because, the reality is, no matter how tired we are or frustrated we feel, we’re doing exactly what we want to do. We pick ourselves up off our bruised bottoms and dry our hands of toilet water and kiss goodbye to our gas money because, as contradictory as it sounds some day, the bruises and the stress and the loss of money contribute to a beautiful mosaic of stories and the character we need to keep on going the next day.
We keep on going. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do today and the next, with or without my iPhone.
As we drove back from the hair salon, my neighbor Joann thanked me again for driving her.
“You’re very calm, and I like that. Some people aren’t when they drive.”
I smiled a little because ‘calm’ and ‘patient’ are words that many have used to describe me, but, in the last three years, they are words that to me seem the furthest away. I’ve wanted to reclaim them so that my kids would see what others have seen. I’ve gotten a little help along the way, but I’ve also learned a new trick.
I study them, and I savor their uniqueness. Last night, I watched as Chloe ate her ice cream cone. She took a napkin and delicately wrapped it around the cone to keep the melted mess from running down her hands. And I watched her little tongue. She stuck out that little tongue just over the top of the napkin that came up a little too high, and she found the soft cream below. Oh, how she enjoyed that ice cream!
Watching that sweet face, my heart couldn’t help but turn tender. So I watch my children now, and I send up a note of thanks for every ‘Punky Brewster’ style outfit, every nonchalant attitude toward another 100% on a spelling test, and every silly expression that comes out of her mouth. And this heart turns to mush every time I do.
Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her Five Minute Friday where we write what comes to our minds whether or not it’s exactly right. We spend five minutes getting down those thoughts and don’t change once they’re here. Click below to play along. What makes your heart tender?
For the majority of my childhood, the gym was my home. Every day after school, I put on a leotard and my hair up into a ponytail and went to practice. At one point, I worked out six days a week for four to five hours a day. Spending that many hours away from home, it’s not surprising that many of the lessons I learned about life took place on that square floor mat.
Amidst chalk-filled air and between turns on the vault runway, our group of adolescent gymnasts had conversations about sex that would make Hugh Hefner blush. The hormones among us were out-of-control, and, given the fact that we didn’t have time to date, we verbalized our curiosities as soon as they came to mind, and we had no shame as far as whom we would ask. I’ve heard that teenaged boys are disgusting and that locker room talk is foul, but I can’t imagine anything more crude than what came out of the mouths of us four foot seven girls with pink leotards and matching hair scrunchies.
While we discussed topics that were most unholy, a group of religious coaches formed a protective circle around us. The owner and head coach of the gym was a devout Christian–a Pentecostal– who prayed before every practice with us, and while he did not require that his staff follow his faith, many did.
During my time at the gym, I remember having coaches who were Methodist, Catholic, and Mormon. And while we would ask them questions about sex and when they had their first experience (I know; we had no shame), we also would ask them questions about their faith.
I don’t remember what started the conversation (maybe sex), but I remember sitting on the floor mat with Jerry and telling him my confusion:
“I know that Jesus died for my sins, but I don’t understand why he died for my sins.”
I had grown up Catholic and believed with my whole heart that Jesus died for me–I had that message pounded into my head since I was little–but I had no idea how Jesus ended up on the cross and what his death meant for me.
And there on that dusty mat, Jerry filled in the missing pieces. He explained that in the Old Testament, God had set up a system for the Israelites to follow. God could not allow sin, and we should die as a result of sin, but God would allow the sacrifice of a perfect lamb in place of us. In addition to this sacrifice, the shedding of blood for sin, God also commanded the priest to lay his hands on a goat and pray, symbolically transferring the sin of the people onto this animal. This scapegoat was then sent into the wilderness away from the camp, taking the sin of the people on its head.
God fulfilled the law by sending Jesus. No longer did we need to sacrifice a perfect lamb in place of us; Jesus acted as that sacrifice for all who believed. And like the scapegoat, He took our sins on his head and bore our shame. With his death and resurrection, Jesus died in our place and conquered death so that we can share eternal life with Him in heaven after our imperfect lives here on earth.
When I look back on my time at the gym, sometimes I wonder how I didn’t end up with a carload of kids before I was 20. In reality, I know that we were a good group of girls, and I’m glad for the time we spent talking that didn’t leave much time for doing. And I’m glad for that group of coaches–I don’t know what prayers they sent up for us on their own, but I do know their words didn’t fall on deaf ears.
These ears listened and believed.
Did a sport or coach help to shape you as a person? Did an area outside of the church or your family have a profound effect on your faith? Sharing my thoughts today with Jen.
Some stories in the Bible leave me with a funny feeling. I hate to admit it, but I’d like to skip over the story of God commanding Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. As a child, I didn’t understand the story. As a mother, the story makes me feel a little sick.
However, the other day I read a beautiful retelling of the story and it came from, believe it or not, Chloe’s Bible. As with our other two children, we wanted to buy Chloe her own children’s Bible for Christmas, and after reading some reviews, we decided on The Jesus Storybook Bibleby Sally Lloyd-Jones (if you’ve never seen this Bible, I encourage you to click on the link and look at the sample pages). Every story in this Bible points to the coming of Jesus, and the story of Abraham and Isaac is no different.
Lloyd-Jones explains that God never wants anyone to die, and, just as Abraham gathered wood for the altar on which to sacrifice Isaac, God would send His own Son to carry the wood on which He would be sacrificed so we would not have to die an eternal death. But here is the part of the story that stuck with me–God tells Abraham that He doesn’t want Isaac to die; He wants Abraham to trust Him, which he did.
Trust.
photo by Rusaila Bazlamit
As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that having a relationship with God isn’t just about faith, believing that God exists and always will exist. No, this relationship requires trust, trust that this God really does love me and really does have the pieces of my life fitting into a bigger puzzle that I might not see on this side of heaven.
There are some skeptics who might say that religion is a crutch, but I couldn’t disagree more. To truly trust that there is a god above watching over me in the midst of turmoil is much harder (albeit more comforting) than believing my life is subject to the whims of chance.
Because in life, there are some events that happen that leave me with a funny feeling. As a child, there were many things I didn’t understand, and, now, as a mother, there are many events that leave me feeling sick. Yet, no matter the event, I am learning that I have to trust.
Many of you already know the story of my friends Wendy and Emmett. This past June, Emmett died after a 17-month battle with stage four esophageal cancer. He was 31 and left behind his wife of almost nine years and a son, not quite four.
Their story tore me up on the inside, and I questioned God more than I should. But after questioning and telling God why He should heal Emmett, I came back to the word trust. I came back to the idea that I read in a Bible meant for little kids–God doesn’t want us to die, and He has worked out a perfect plan to rescue us from the sadness and despair that comes with living on this earth.
While Emmett was struggling with cancer, Wendy and he learned that of all the cancer funding available, only .5% goes to esophageal cancer, a cancer that leads to a death sentence for almost all who have it. This statistic made them mad, the kind of mad that caused them to want to do something to change that fact. After Emmett’s death, Team Emmett, a 501(c)(3) non-profit was born.
I don’t presume to understand God’s plan, but as I look through the pages at teamemmett.com, I find that I can trust. I trust that Emmett’s death wasn’t in vain, for God is holding his piece as part of the bigger puzzle. And I trust that through the anger and frustration that bore Team Emmett, someone else might find hope.
I hope you will take a minute and click on the Team Emmett link above. While I know we cannot all be passionate about every cause out there, I also know that most of us have had a loved one affected by cancer. If nothing else, look at their pages and pray–pray for Wendy and Quinn and the tens of thousands of others who will die from this disease this year. And if you are able, give. Without more research, a cure will not be discovered.
One week into January, and I had already thrown my resolution out the window. In fairness to myself, I actually set three goals for the new year, and I was still on track with two. The third resolution I made in the minivan as church was starting, and we were still two minutes away. Clearly, I didn’t give this vow enough thought. Nonetheless, I resolved to never arrive late to church again.
The next Saturday evening, I walked into church five minutes after the service started. Now at this point, I know some of you are already tense at the thought of my lateness. What is wrong with some people? Why can’t they just get ready earlier and not be late? I’ve asked myself the same questions many times.
In fact, we started attending the Saturday evening service because there was a better chance of us getting to church without my having to plead with God for forgiveness for all the yelling and screaming that happened as I tried to get my kids ready. After all, the kiddos would already be up, dressed, and not needing to be fed before I prodded them out the door.
But I was wrong. The longer small children are awake, the more time they have to get into trouble.
Today, I’m writing over at the Dacula Patch, our local on-line newspaper. I’d love if you’d join me over there. And if you like what you’ve read, please let me know by recommending this story on Facebook or sharing on Twitter!
As I was heading into the new year, I began to think about all the blogs I love and what the people writing them have taught me. I thought I’d share some of these less well-known blogs in the hopes that they will inspire you, too! Here they are, in no particular order:
Wendy’s blog started out of tragedy. When her husband Emmett was diagnosed with stage four esophageal cancer, together they started a blog to keep family and friends informed. As Emmett got worse, Wendy did most of the writing, and we all saw what a gift she has. Not only is Wendy an amazing writer, but her faith in God, even (and especially) in the midst of tragedy is inspiring. Before Emmett died, he set up Wendy’s own space to record her thoughts. I thank Emmett for this gift that he gave, not only to her, but to us.
Wendy and I have been friends since we were overly-dramatic 15-year-old girls. Our senior year in high school, our favorite English teacher, in attempt to assuage the fear of leaving our best friends as we ventured to different colleges, pointed out that she and her best girl friends still were best friends and got together once every five years or so since they all lived in different states. After hearing her story, we all began to cry. However, now I see the wisdom of Mrs. Beals, and I am honored to do life with Wendy, even if we only see each other a couple times a year.
Elaine was the other friend present in the hallway with Mrs. Beals. She recently started her own blog, and I am so excited to see her writing! In high school, Elaine was always writing, and I remember her first play that she wrote and directed. Now she’s using her writing skills to find God’s hand in her everyday life. Perhaps if she gets lots of visitors to her blog, she’ll start writing even more!
I have never met Gaby, but I feel like we have been friends for years. Her blog is honest and full of wisdom and faith. Much of Gaby’s blog focuses on adoption, as her two children were adopted domestically, and her husband and she are in the process of adopting a third child internationally. However, Gaby’s blog will capture the interest of women everywhere (like me), regardless of if they ever went through the adoption process.
Michelle and I met at a conference and have continued to stay in touch through our own blogs and e-mails. She is transparent and has a heart for finding and following God’s will, especially when it comes to viewing her life in contrast to the lives of those in impoverished situations. You may already know all about Michelle–she has gathered quite the following–as she is a fantastic writer, photographer, and soon-to-be published author! Michelle recently landed an agent, and I am very excited to help spread the word about her and increase her platform. If you haven’t already visited her blog, I encourage you to do so and become one of her newest followers.
Mama Neena is a friend from the days of the ever-trying student-teaching. We learned to teach literature to high school students so that we could become stay-at-home moms after a few years. 🙂 However, Neena’s story is much more inspiring than mine; in addition, to all the duties of a mama at home, she is working on her PhD! Her blog chronicles the life of a stay-at-home-mom-drive-to-college-student with humor and honesty.
Diana is in a completely different stage of life than I, yet I love to grab onto her wisdom. As she writes about retirement, children getting married, and caring for her own mother, I feel like I’m right there with her, experiencing every moment by her side. And Diana is a great blogging friend to have–she is generous in imparting her own wisdom and encouragement in others’ blogs, as well. At this point in my writing, the script has gone gray, and I have no idea why. Maybe that’s a sign that you should go check out Diana’s blog.
Krista’s blog is full of both beautiful prose and beautiful children. As a working mom of a sweet girl and boy–ages two and under–Krista has her hands full, and she’s not afraid to open up about the struggles that many moms work through. I love Krista’s honesty and the fact that she can make fun of herself. It’s always comforting to know that there is another mom out there who might not win any awards with the public but, instead, with the hearts of her children.
Floyd is my token male for this list. Floyd has a way of drawing the reader to God and, possibly, a point of conviction without ever preaching. In one moment, he has the reader laughing at the story he has painted of his crazy teenager antics, and in the next moment, the reader is reflecting on the lesson Floyd found all these years later. Storytelling is a gift, and Floyd has it.
Lisa and I met after we realized we had developed a friendship online and thought we should develop one in person. Lisa is fun and full of life, and so is her blog. What I love most about Lisa’s blog is her heart for God. She wants to honor Him in all she does, and right now, that is through parenting two beautiful children and supporting her husband. I will never forget one post she wrote about teaching her children Scripture; it convicted me and inspired me, and that post changed the way I taught my children about God.
A list of top blogs wouldn’t be complete without another member of my family! Jessica is my cousin, and I am so grateful for social networking to keep in touch with her. This Georgia gal can keep in touch with her Jersey girl via Facebook and our blogs. Jessica’s blog is completely different than the others I have mentioned–Jessica devotes her blog to recipes, fashion, and decor for the home. Her latest blog post is a review of a candle that has a ring inside of it–who knew? (Maybe everyone, but I didn’t, so I’m thankful for her being in-the-know) What makes Jessica’s blog great is her wit–she’s a Martha Stewart with a Jersey girl attitude!
What blogs would you recommend we read? Write their address in the comment section below!
As the end of 2011 came near, I had a sudden realization that blew my mind: I am a good mother. Perhaps my depression got in the way or my constant tendency to compare myself to others, but finally seeing myself as good for my children gave me a joy that I hadn’t yet experienced.
Previously, instead of focusing on what I did right, I would only see my faults. I began creating a pile of deficiencies, even lumping areas that were simply not my talents with all the areas that I could realistically improve.
I thought I was doing well as a mom to make a home-cooked meal from scratch most nights. That was, of course, until I knew there were moms out there who grind their own wheat and bake fresh bread for their family every morning. I don’t have a cow in the backyard to milk, so I can’t churn my own butter, and I don’t make candles with the beeswax from the insects that visit our home in the spring.
Your home-cooked meals are nothing with your store-bought flour and pasteurized milk! And you rarely even light a Yankee Candle. Failure!
I love reading to my children and thought I was giving them the gift of imagination and communication and enhanced vocabulary and all the wonderful skills that follow a love of literature. That was, of course, until I knew there were moms out there that read Cinderella and then made a castle with their girls from materials they gathered at their local recycling center. After visiting the recycling plant and creating their masterpiece, they decided to whip up some dresses for the ball with scraps from old clothes and their handy-dandy sewing machines. Crafty and green!
Your reading is nothing without a craft to follow! You can’t even cut in a straight line, your kids only like to cut their own hair, and you don’t even own a sewing machine. Failure!
And so I added to the pile that contained a short temper and anxious personality a lack of arts and crafts ability and ability to homestead. Every day I would throw more ‘deficiencies’ up onto the pile until I couldn’t see on the other side.
Until one day….
One day I simply walked up to that pile and pushed it over. Down fell ‘arts and crafts’ and ‘homesteading’ and ‘homeschooling’ and a bunch of other compound words that start with ‘home.’ I picked up ‘short temper’ and ‘anxiety’ and put them in their proper file folders–they were weaknesses, but they didn’t define me. I took a deep breath and thought to myself, My kids are lucky to have me for their mom.
As I write, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only mother who makes piles. We’re hard on ourselves, and, thanks to social media, we’re constantly reminded of a billion areas where we’re not as good as the next lady. We wonder how that mom has time to have a successful blog and raise four beautiful children and start her own company out of the home when we haven’t figured out how to write more than once a week and simply catch up on laundry with our two kids.
We find a thousand a different areas where we’re deficient, when the reality is that we’re not deficient–we’re just different.
And I have one more sneaking suspicion: You’re a good mom, too.
Maybe you make the best home-cooked meals and grind your own wheat, and one day your children will look back and think, “Wow. My mom loved me so much and cared so much about my health that she spent time going that extra mile just for me.”
Maybe you order pizza more nights than you’d like to admit, but you get down on the floor and roll around with your children like a big kid yourself. I, promise, your children will remember a mom who loved them so much that she took time to play.
Maybe you can’t cook to save your life, but you are that mom who can create things from what others would throw away. You come up with the most beautiful crafts, and your children will remember a mom who displayed for them creativity. They will forever be in awe of your industriousness and look back fondly on the time you spent with them creating and seeing treasure in others’ trash.
And maybe you are that mom who works full-time. You don’t have time for arts and crafts–getting dinner on the table is a challenge. However, you don’t let a day go by without sitting down with your children and really listening to them. You rub their heads at night and read them a bedtime story when you’d rather be sleeping yourself. Your children will remember. They will remember a mom who taught them the value of hard work, and they will remember a mom who showed them their value.
There is no perfect mother. We all have our flaws, but we all have our strengths, too. Maybe that strength is simply having the patience to let your two little girls dress you up for your wedding day to the prince with beads and hair accessories that you wouldn’t dare leave the house in for a minute–but you’d spend hours wearing them in your home for them.
This year I think that’s something worth celebrating.
Linking up with Mama Kat to share one of my New Year’s Resolutions. I want to hear from you–it’s time to brag. I give you permission! What about you is worth celebrating?
One Friday night about 15 years ago, my friend subjected me to the torture of watching old family videos. Christmas was near, and the spirit caught her mom who gathered us all to the den where colored lights from the tree illuminated the pizza she set before us. She was in a very chipper mood and promised us all cookies for dessert if we watched a family video with her.
“I thought it would be fun to look back on Christmas past before Christmas future becomes our Christmas present.”
I stared at her and gave a weak smile. When she spoke, I had no trouble understanding why my friend Kristen was in the drama club.
Kristen’s dad sighed as he sat in his armchair and did his best to remove the slightly aggravated look from his face. He had no desire to watch an old home video, but the promise of pizza and cookies was too much for this large, Italian man to refuse.
Kristen rolled her eyes when he sat down. As is the case many times between teenaged daughters and their fathers, the two of them annoyed each other. Kristen’s sour attitude annoyed her father, and anything her father did annoyed Kristen.
I was beginning to wish I had said ‘no’ when Kristen asked me to spend the night.
Mrs. Carlucci pulled out a blue tub of VHS tapes, all adorned with perfect, white labels.
“Christmas 1988. That should be fun!”
“What would that make you, Kristen–about nine?” her dad asked.
“I guess” was Kristen’s elaborate reply.
“Michelle, I thought you’d like to see what your friend looked and acted like as a little girl. She was so cute with her brown curls!”
Yes, Mrs. Carlucci. How did you know this was EXACTLY how I wanted to spend my Friday night!
For the next 15 minutes, we all watched with our eyes glued to the television. Clearly, Mrs. Carlucci did not remember what was on this video before she put it in the VCR. For the next 15 minutes, we watched as Mrs. Carlucci frantically picked up every piece of wrapping paper that hit the floor. We watched ‘chipper’ Mrs. Carlucci make her way through Christmas with a scowl on her face.
“Mom, what was your deal? Kristen asked as her mom on the video waved her away with a Get out of the way, Kristen.
Mrs. Carlucci looked away with embarrassment. “I, I don’t know. I guess I was just having a bad day.”
“On Christmas?!”
But before Kristen could cause her mother any more grief, our eyes were once again drawn to the TV screen.
Come here sweetie, we heard the normally gruff man say to his daughter as he pulled her close. Merry Christmas!
I love you, Daddy! the little voice said back to the gruff man.
I scrunched up my face as I watched a scene that looked like it was from Little House on the Prairie. This father and daughter oozed so much love and sweetness I thought I might be sick.
Aww, come here Bailey! the man called to the family dog. He scratched her ears and laughed as she licked his face.
Kristen and I looked at each other in disbelief–all this love coming from the man who normally complained that he had a Cocker Spaniel instead of a German Shepherd.
“Who’s the bad guy now, huh?!” Mr. Carlucci shouted out with a laugh. “Here’s the proof! Here’s the proof!”
Kristen and I tried to roll our eyes, but we couldn’t help but laugh. We did have proof–her father was full of love while her mother was a psycho!
We watched more minutes of opening presents and hugs between father and daughter while Mrs. Carlucci would occasionally look up from stuffing crumpled wrapping paper in the tall, black trash bag. Her weak smiles were not convincing, a far contrast from the chipper woman baking cookies in the kitchen 20 minutes before.
“Well, Michelle didn’t come over today to watch old videos.” Mrs. Carlucci began to stand up and make her way to the TV.
“No, no, leave it on! I want to see more,” the gruff man called from the chair. “Heh, you see that, Kristen! Your mean, old dad–ha! Look at that!”
“Oh, please, John,” Mrs. Carlucci said as she turned off the TV.
“What? I thought it was nice–a father and daughter showing so much love on Christmas…and now we have the proof!” he laughed again as he got up to hug his wife.
She pushed him away and went to the kitchen.
“John, sometimes you are so annoying.”
Kristen and I laughed as Mr. Carlucci made his way to Kristen with a sly smile.
“We have proof!” he yelled as he pulled her in roughly to his chest.
Now at this point in the story you may think that you know the lesson–we create our own realities; or people are complex, dynamic creatures, not defined by the labels we give; or never show a family video that you haven’t first pre-screened. However, there is more….
Watching that video 15 years ago, I thought Mrs. Carlucci was psycho, but then I got married and had my own children. I experienced Christmas from the perspective of a mother, and, somehow, it didn’t have all the magic of Christmas as a child. Perhaps that’s because the mother creates most of the magic.
Perhaps Mrs. Carlucci was simply exhausted after preparing meals for three different family Christmas get-togethers back-to-back. Perhaps after each get-together, she came home late at night to a sink full of dishes and laundry that needed to be moved from the washer to the dryer. She just wanted to go to bed each night, but she needed to get ready for the next day. She needed to set out her casserole dishes and grate cheese and organize the presents for each respective family Christmas.
Perhaps Mrs. Carlucci was tired from baking cookies. In an attempt to spread the love of Christmas, she spread herself thin for an entire week baking cookies with her daughter–cookies for teachers, cookies for neighbors, cookies for the mailman, and, of course, cookies for Santa. Maybe, on that Christmas morning, she was just sick of cookies!
And let’s not forget the cleaning. Perhaps, Mrs. Carlucci, after that final family get-together, came home late but was not able to go to the bed that called her name. No, now she had to worry about her own family Christmas.
Perhaps she cleaned the dishes in the sink so that she could prepare the ingredients for her own family breakfast in the morning. Perhaps Mrs. Carlucci saw the mess on the den floor and didn’t want Santa to break his neck when he came down the chimney. Perhaps, like the ‘psycho’ she is, Mrs. Carlucci vacuumed at two in the morning so that the family would be sitting on a clean floor when they opened presents by the tree. Perhaps, when Mrs. Carlucci finally went to bed at three a.m., after cooking and vacuuming and positioning presents under the tree and setting out cookies for Santa, she was satisfied with how she had prepared this day for her family…satisfied and dead-tired.
Mrs. Carlucci may have felt like a zombie that morning, and, perhaps, she was a little annoyed when she saw crumpled piece after crumpled piece of wrapping paper hit the floor that she had just vacuumed four hours ago. Perhaps, Mrs. Carlucci saw the crumbs Santa left after he ate his cookies, and she decided that next year she was going to serve the slob cookies laced with arsenic.
Mrs. Carlucci didn’t need to see the presents Kristen opened–she knew what they were–she’s the one who bought the darned things. She loved her daughter–maybe she told her to get out of the way because her own head was spinning from sleep deprivation and didn’t need three Kristen heads confusing her even more. And, perhaps, when Mrs. Carlucci saw Mr. Carlucci sitting on that floor that she vacuumed, eating the cookies that she baked, laughing with his daughter over the presents she bought, and scratching the ears of the dog she consistently fed and bathed–perhaps she just wanted to slap him.
It’s okay, Mrs. Carlucci. I get it now.
I hope you all had a Merry Christmas! Thank you, Dad, for your ‘Christmas Lessons’ idea. I had some great ideas from others for more ‘Christmas Lessons’ about Santa, but due to the rush of Christmas and the inability to get out of bed after Christmas, not much has happened with my blog as of late! I look forward to getting back in a regular schedule…maybe next week.
The year I turned 15, Christmas took on a different meaning for me. I remember looking in the mirror and imagining myself pregnant. I rubbed my belly as I thought of how I would tell my family the news. I envisioned the walk downstairs to the kitchen and the kitchen table where I would ask my parents to sit, and I pictured the look on my dad’s face as I shared what I learned from the angel Gabriel:
Dad, Mom, I’m pregnant–but please don’t be mad. I’m still a virgin–I’m carrying God’s baby.
But of course they would be mad…and confused…and scared, much the same as I imagine Mary and her family were. Sometimes as I read the Bible, I forget that these people in the stories weren’t some special breed of holiness, able to accept anything God threw their way. They were real people, and when I was 15, I got that for a moment.
Mary had to be scared even though she trusted God completely. Her parents had to be confused, worried about public shame, and unsure as to how to treat their daughter. And Mary’s community–I’m sure they were abuzz with their own interpretation of how that baby bump got there.
When I was 26 at Christmastime, I imagined I was Mary again. I looked in the mirror and rubbed my belly, except this time my belly was round from the life that grew inside it. I was pregnant with my first child, a son, and I was full of joy and anticipation for his arrival that March.
I was also nervous. Would I instinctively know how to care for this child? Would I be a good mother? I thought about Mary, brimming with joy as she felt her baby kick inside her womb, brimming with questions and pressure as she realized her responsibility–she was the mother to God’s son. How does one prepare for that job?
Now I’m 32. I look in the mirror and find a couple laugh lines that I hadn’t previously noticed. I rub my belly that has never quite gone back to the way it was before three kids. Over the last six years, God has shown me glimpses of His goodness, His holiness, His provision, His plan; and I’ve grown as a result of struggles He has brought me through while holding my hand.
And I think of Mary, riding on a donkey as her stomach tightens and the pangs of labor prick her abdomen, while God is holding her hand. I wonder what runs through her mind as she realizes her baby is coming and she is still far off from a bed. I wonder what she thinks as each door Joseph knocks on is opened to the news No room. I wonder if she feels His hand, this young girl who had not yet experienced the pain of sex for the first time, as she experiences the pain of childbirth on a bed of hay with cows and sheep as her audience instead of a midwife.
Because I know what I would think. If I were Mary on that donkey, I would worry. If I were Mary watching door upon door close with bad news, I would question. If I were Mary lying on that bed of hay, I would doubt. God, where are you? Why didn’t you plan for the birth of your Son?
Looking back over the last six years, I’ve seen how I react. I get confused when God’s plan takes me through hardship. I question what He is doing. And when doors close, I despise the words of those who reply,”Well, that must not be God’s will.”
But they are wrong as I have been wrong. For something to be God’s will doesn’t mean that all doors fly open. For something to be God’s will doesn’t mean that the end result is neat and clean. Sometimes God’s will is exactly what He told us it would be–He just used different means to that end than we would’ve chosen.
He held Mary’s hand as He closed the doors to those inns, yet she had heard Him correctly. She was in the center of His will. He hadn’t forgotten that she was giving birth to His Son–He chose that blanket of hay for his baby’s bed. He chose the most humiliating way for a woman to deliver a baby to deliver the most beautiful love story this world has ever heard.
I wonder if Mary felt God’s hand, if she were able to push aside the doubt that I would’ve allowed to creep in and fester in my mind. I wonder if Mary were able to trust in the midst of agonizing pain and closed doors.
If I were Mary, I’m not sure that I would’ve. It is only now, at 32, that I’m beginning to grasp that the truths in these crazy Bible stories are also true for my crazy life. When I thought I heard God clearly only to have door upon door close, I may have been right.
I just hadn’t realized that God is preparing my own bed of hay.
Merry Christmas to you and your family. May you feel God’s hand as He leads you this coming year.
Jennifer Vignola Davis 