Incandescent Christmas

Christmas night, I fell ill. We were at the apex of all the festivities...our children, grandchildren, my Mama and Ken's Daddy and sister's family were here...there was a groaning table of breakfast food and beverages, lots of joy and happiness. The tree was jammed with presents...it looked like a Santa dump truck had just unloaded there. We held off opening presents until the food was eaten (I mean, cheese grits can't wait). Delicious, fruity mimoses were passed around to the adults, chocolate milk to the kids. We were all ready when it came time to open gifts. This is our tradition: presents are passed out, but opening starts with the youngest and ends up with the eldest. That way, the Mamas can corral their children's gifts and we all get to see and enjoy everyone's prizes. In this family, that gives room for plenty of ribbing and laughter. I opened my gift and it was a lovely, framed picture of our grandchildren, plus a wooden box that had this burned into the top: "You are loved." Inside were personal notes from my folk, even down to the littlest grands. As I read them, the tears poured. It was the best gift imaginable. But my tears started sticking...the nose clogged, breathing became more labored, the joints began aching. It was if my tears spawned an illness. Thankfully, there was lots of help cleaning up -- I didn't even move from my comfy chair. Everyone parted to their own homes, but by midnight, I was one sick puppy. Throat sore, sinuses clogged and aching, I went into my cocoon and stayed there for two days. Ken is the best of nurses, so I had all my needs met, even the ones I didn't want. 

I am overdramatic about pretty much everything, but in the times that I have been very sick, I come to a cresting point when I think, "Maybe this is going to kill me." And I always wonder what it would feel like to just be normal again. Will that ever happen? Then I start promising God I'll do this-and-that differently if I get to live another day. I know He redeemed me with all my sins and warts, but I also know that I could do better. At 5:00 am this morning, I was hurting so bad I thought I might as well go stand in the cold and let the dog out. Then I could let myself die, because who knows when Ken might remember to walk the dog. I peeled myself off the bed, let her out (no shoes, only a nightgown on, heck, it was 30 degrees out, a heat wave compared to the last three days). She took her time sprinkling on three hibernating flowerbeds, did some serious business at the edge of the lawn, then decided to have herself a walkabout. Of  course she would do that when I'm not dressed and it's freezing outside, though that dog is usually attached to me like velcro. She even glanced around at me as she casually trotted across the neighbor's yard, as if to say, "Haha! You can't catch me now." Though the whole neighborhood seemed to be in deep winter lockdown, I can't imagine I didn't wake someone up with my hollering. I was able to retrieve her before my toes got frostbitten; all the while hoping the neighbors didn't wake to see the crazy lady running across their lawn. 

Now that I'm emerging from the cocoon, I feel the warm afterglow of Christmas. What blessings, what joy, what goodness I see all about me. There are also troubling things-- relationships that need mending, things to be anxious about, a church friend dying today (he seemed hale and hearty a week and a half ago as he thanked me for some decorating I did.  We never know when we will get the call, do we?) There's a time to say yes and a time to say no. I did a lot of "No" in the last few weeks, purposely slowing down from the most hectic fall in recent memory. Sometimes I resent the necessity of food. It doesn't seem to matter how much or how little I eat of it, I'm still fat. So much trouble. 

As a Christian, I have at my core the heart that God gave me at salvation, not of my own merit or my own goodness, because heavens to Murgatroyd, I ain't got none of that. Emmanuel, God with us, who created this amazing place and this body that is beautiful, despite my errant ways. Our cracked, fallen world cried out for redemption and He answered. He calls the high, the mighty, the lowly...but I believe He saves the scumbags, because they're the most impossible, after all. Look at the manger, the simple shepherds, the poor mother and father...the King arrives unexpectedly, in humility and common flesh. That's how we find Him, when we strip down to repentance and need. Glory, in the dirt.  

Twas the Night Before Christmas

My Daddy grew up without much Christmas. He also grew up without shoes and enough food. His parents had 8 children, but PawPaw was shiftless (PawPaw was a rolling stone...wherever he laid his hat was his home) and didn't provide anything monetarily to the family. He was apparently an amazing salesman. He would buy an old nag of a horse, fix her up and then sell her. One time he sold a mutt dog, because he cleaned it up and talked its virtues up to the buyer. They didn't have Goldendoodles back then, at least not on purpose. Selling a moth-eaten, lost dog to a stranger might indicate how persuasive he was. Only the Lord knows how He invented my Daddy, because he was nothing like his own father, praise be...

When he and my Mama married, they had very little in the way of money. Daddy worked hard at the Post Office, while Mama took her Domestic Engineer role very seriously. She wanted Christmas to be special for him, so she carefully bought ornaments and decor over the years. She told me that she wanted him to have the childhood he never had. Then Daddy would go over-the-top with gifts for her. The house was full of good smells, a fresh tree, decorations everywhere. It is a mystery, how our one Christmas album (Perry Como) survived decades of playing.  

We would always visit my Aunt Ellen, either Christmas Eve or Christmas day. My favorite cousin, Susan, was everything good about cousin love. She was (is) a whiz-brain, played card games like a card shark, and was an incredible athlete. She grew up with four mangey boy creatures and learned grit and sass very early. At Aunt Ellen and Uncle Fred's house there were always tangerines, bananas, yummy fudge. A cloud of aromatic cigar smoke drifted through the house. I thought it smelled somewhat like coffee and leather. I love that fragrance. We would play and eat all day, then head home. Daddy always drove by a church every year that had a life-sized nativity scene out front. Then as us kids were getting woozy, full of candy, fruit and mac-n-cheese...Daddy would say that he thought he saw Santa up above. We would snap to, desperately looking for signs of that sled or the reindeer. When we got home, they would put us to bed and tell us that Santa wouldn't come if we were still awake. Daddy was as excited as we were. He never lost his inner child and we loved him for it. 

The gifts were put under the tree while us kids tried to sleep. Our parents usually got us up, late Christmas Eve, to open them. There's nothing quite like that feeling...the anticipation, the joy of it. After all three of us married, our folks kept to the tradition of Christmas Eve. No matter the size of their house, the whollllllle family comes for Christmas Eve supper and to open gifts. That number is somewhere around 64/65 people now...started with three little souls and now we're filling and subduing the earth. This year it's gonna be chili and all the fixin's. We will crowd up in Mama's small house, jam up the road in front, eat, laugh and catch up. I see the importance of that cousin love...all our grandkids are now becoming great friends with each other. At every juncture, we get announcements of more weddings, more babies, job changes, moves, hopes, dreams. Our folks blazed a trail and they have a legacy that is following right behind them...a strong wake whose ripples just keep on going. 

Who could have imagined, all those years ago, those many Christmas Eves, the impact that two people would have on the world? Simple work, humble abode, steadfast and faithful ones who did their best, bowed their heads to pray, talked about (and to) Jesus when they rose up and when they went to bed. It wasn't fancy or complicated, just real faith in a real God, walked out. Some say that the Church is full of hypocrites. Truth is, we're all hypocrites, with our pride and self-promotion and posturing. If we could work up being as good as God, what would we need Jesus for? I'm naughty, even when I'm nice. But hope springs eternal, for the baby boy king came to redeem us from the pit and the pits. 

Let's see if I can find me some Perry Como on Pandora, where there are clouds of music and no grooves in the records...  

Emmanuel

It's never good for me to decorate other peoples' houses before I gussy up my own. All the juice gets used up. I require male help getting the decorations out of the barn right now as well (that's from all those years of muling it myself, producing hernias and such). God gives that decorating bug to people, not everyone, mind you. I was a young gal when my Mama let me take over the tree decorating. It's an inborn, inherent knack for placing the goods in just the right spot on the tree, but apparently it can also be taught. I don't trust anyone to do it, however. Anyone. My MawMaw would say that's just pride, and it probably is. Even though there are those in the world that do it better than me, they're not here to do it, so I suppose I will labor at it until my pine-tar-sticky hands fall off. 

But not this year. Here it is, December 6, with only less than three weeks 'til Christmas and my house is still frumpy and undecorated. Last year it looked like the Christmas Bomb went off, even before Thanksgiving, with the tour of homes stopping here. Past years have always involved some sort of early event that forced my decorating hand. I do that, lining up company, events, extravaganzas in all areas of my life (not just Christmas), to keep me from being lazy. People always tell me that I need to cut back, but the inevitable thing that happens is that if I don't book myself uber-tight and keep ten plates spinning, then nothing gets done. It's sad that I wasn't born with a high degree of self-discipline. I have to hem myself in like a hog so I'll actually do things. Then I end up stressed or sick and miss my people. It's a problem. 

I think I'm Grinchy this year. That is a terrible thing to have to admit. Where are you, Christmas? I know where He is. Maybe I need to take a timeout and set down with Him a spell. Remember the Magnum Mysterium, think about the vortex of time, where He flung the planets across the Milky Way, where He saw and knew it all, from the first pinprick of creation, through the fall of man, to His grand plan to redeem a people for Himself. To think upon a star, signs in the sky, a king brought in the humblest of ways. God as man, the great mystery. Let us ponder...   

London Bridge

 So many reasons to be thankful, but I didn't relish the idea of Thanksgiving this entirely-too-busy Fall. I didn't even have a turkey yet, come Tuesday morning, much less anything else that was needed. Everyone brings side dishes, so that's a blessing...but there's still so much to be done. The house was a wreck. Crunchy leaves seemed to be in every corner, as we have been dealing with new trees and also picking up a bumper crop of pecans from our yard. Laundry was piled up from the results of a dead washing machine.  I've had a lot of real estate business and musical events to deal with, along with the requisite worrying about all my people (and our daughter very late with her baby). I was just plumb tuckered out. Then the lady who was going to help me clean my house had an emergency with her Mama. I figured we'd live, even if the acorns started making babies in the house. Somehow, I mustered up the energy to run through Walmart, where I quickly picked up a monster turkey, some not-home-made pies, a big sack of potatoes and a gloriously tacky Christmas sweater. It said "Feliz Navidad" and had a big Llama on the front, along with chili peppers hanging from it. I couldn't imagine many more things that would give you that much fun for $24.95. My spirits were picking up... 

The family Thanksgiving was wonderful, with enough warmth and hilarity to make it worth it all. The party wound down, with lots of sticky hugs and kisses from cute little people. My daughter and her husband and toddler son lingered behind with us and our son's family who is living with us (while they build their house). We sat in the kitchen, laughing and talking. It was one of those occasions where the evening was crystallized into a sweet bubble, when you look around the room and just want to freeze time. We rush about in our lives, fussing and worrying, arranging, buying, selling, working...and sometimes fail to really stop and savor what we are doing it all for. As we walked Liz and Marcus and Ethan outside to their car, we laughingly told her that she better get home and get to bed, because that baby was coming in a few hours. Of course, the phone rang in the middle of the night with the frantic news that they were on the way to the hospital. That turkey and gravy was just the ticket. 

It was a short travail that involved many things: dancing and funky music, laughter, a very chatty Elizabeth (even without medication), next some calm and serene songs, then the transition period into that hell-like chasm between life and death that is often natural labor. When all strength seemed gone and hope was absent, there were cries and prayers for mercy. Papa Ken was in the next room on his knees, the best (and only) thing worth doing at the time. Marcus prayed too, wrestling with the difficult and helpless place of watching his beloved in such pain. As the despair crested, the lioness roared as she refused to give in. Baby London burst into the world, red and loud, her Mama punching the air and shouting, "I did it!" The whole room laughed and cheered as Liz reached to pull their baby to her heart. 

When calm came over the room and the many hospital staff began to drift away, I was able to get close to our granddaughter. She was laying in a bassinet, wailing and protesting the cruel, cold air she found herself in. I reached down and she grasped my finger and pulled it to her face. As I began speaking to her, she ceased her crying and stared into my eyes. We had a "moment." I've experienced these soul ties before, with other of my precious grandchildren upon their births. Sometimes the tie happens later, and it might take more time. Either way, these lives are not just biology. There is that soul...

Nothing on earth is like the miracle of birth. It's gut-wrenching pain that suddenly stops and delivers you a miracle in its place. I imagine crossing on over into heaven is similar to the believer. We've got pain, trials and that pesky law of gravity, but then we're delivered, death and life tumbled together like pearls in a bowl. Swing low, sweet chariot. 

Great Ten-Pound Expectations

We have been married fourty-plus years now and there's a strange phenomenon that I have observed about men and women, when it comes to preparing for events. I do not remember this being a problem when my Mama and Daddy readied for such things (but then again, I also don't remember them having scads of people show up for random and large soirees. If I'm gonna clean up for company, we might as well invite a hundred people...) The problem with marriage is that folks tend to have expectations. If the couple happen to be polar opposites in personality (and most are), these assumptions can vary wildly. As in, when I look at a room, I see the beauty and color (or lack thereof); Ken sees the giblets on the floor and the remote control out of place. We have had many a fight when it came time to whip our house into shape for company. My thoughts run to straightening the house, cleaning the bathrooms and getting the food ready. But especially vacuuming. The roof might as well be falling in, if we haven't vacuumed before the company arrives. 99% of my problem is that I wait until there's a deadline looming and there's precious little time left to get my tasks done. I work best under pressure, I tell myself. Truth is, I've seen what happens to pressure cookers when they explode. It's not pretty. Ken's priorities, however, run to the bizarre. I'm sure he'd say the same about me...

A prime example of the subject at hand: several years ago, we were preparing to have fifty or so people over for a church-sponsored meeting. We had four very young children, whom we were also homeschooling. I was mad-dashing about the house to get it (semi) sanitary. Ken resisted my to-do list and said he had his own, so I frantically buzzed and tried to stay in my lane (does anybody really stay in their lane?) The time was almost up, I was sweating like an old fishwife, ready to jump in the shower, when I noticed a smudge on the wall. On closer inspection, I saw that there were several such marks down the main hall. I hunted down my husband, to find him with a rusty old can of paint and a brush, "touching up" the walls. To my dismay, I found that he had done this all over our big house, in literally every room, without noticing that the rust was mixing right in with the touch-up paint. After falling on the ground in a fit of despair, I righted myself and got in the shower. Somehow, some way, no one was murdered that night, we had the event, and lived to see another day. The next few weeks were preoccupied with repainting much of the interior of the house. We figured out our lanes: I don't touch his yard. He doesn't touch my paint brushes. 

I've discussed this phenomenon with other wives...and they concur with me that men have strange priorities in these circumstances. When the one (you know who the one is) is cleaning and preparing the food, the other is cleaning out the garage (that no one will see) or maybe shoring up the foundation on the house, just for kicks. Or perhaps he'll take the cars to the carwash and detail them (because the company's going to be inspecting the interiors for sure). But it might be just the day to put the new brakes on the car. Yes, there's that. 

I saw this play out in front of my eyes this week. Our dear daughter is two weeks overdue with their second baby, miserable and great with (probably) a 10-pound baby girl, if the past is any indicator. She doesn't want drugs, epidurals or interventions, so she's waiting on the nature of things to take their course. Her precious husband, whom we love greatly, decided to put brakes on her car for the first time. We are very proud of him...he has been learning to do all manner of things since they married -- he's learned how to tile, lay flooring, build out a fancy closet, strip furniture, how to manipulate wood into lovely things, and lots of other skills in the course of a couple of years. All the while working a job in a new field and acing it, as well as being a good husband and father. Not to mention, he mostly does the cooking around there. I might have skipped that part of homeschooling my daughter, I fear. But the woman can change brakes. If she can do that, I guess she can figure out the rest of it. 

While she was travailing inside the house, he pulled the car apart and started on the brake job, which turned into one of those nights where the evil-universe-dominoes decided to fall. You know those times, where this thing breaks and the next thing is messed up and you didn't know that all the things were worse than originally noticed? Wailing and gnashing of teeth was heard around the neighborhood, as nighttime and frozen air descended and the car was still up on blocks. They gave up and came on over to our house, where I cooked sub-par spaghetti and we laughed on the sofas, Liz looking all the world like she had a giant beachball attached to her tummy. Ahhh, I well remember those days. 

So we're still waiting. I popped over to their house late last night on the way back from an appointment to check on them, and I saw that our son-in-love had the car fixed and put back together. We foolishly stayed up too late (I had no clue the hour), laughing and eating all manner of food. A frantic Ken called me at midnight, after arriving home from work with no wife in sight. All these expectations! Eventually, everyone got swaddled in at their appropriate homes and we all slept like kittens. Life is a mighty fine shindig. Jesus take the wheel...    

Tree Beard and His Buddies

I whined a few weeks ago about the loss of our beautiful Water Oak in the side yard. Each morning, I have missed that golden, dappled light as I do my morning coffee and Bible reading. I started thinking about what we could do to replace that old soul that was outside our window. Alas, there is no replacing, as the thing was at least 85 years old and bigger than the house (my sons counted the rings), but something had to be done. One afternoon, as I was watching baby Ethan at my daughter's house, we took a stroller walk around the neighborhood. I saw several mature trees that made me pause. The light was filtering through them like the magic in a wonderful movie...there was curling bark, leaves dripping like they had nothing to do but show off. After a little research, I found out that they were River Birch trees. I remembered an old friend who had two of these, massive ones, flanking the walkway to her fancy Buckhead house. I always loved them, with their unique bark and the way they affected the sunlight with their willow-like leaves. I also recalled that her evil gardener talked her into sawing them down. I bet he got tired of moving leaves around. 

I started searching for local shops who had River Birches in their inventory. I talked to Ken at length about it. We wandered in the yard, him with a measuring tape and strong opinions about how many trees we could put over there. He said "one." I said "two, at least." It's gonna take years before these things make a difference, so why not double your efforts? I found a store in Carrollton (Southern Homes and Ranch -- it's an Ace Hardware, with the helpful hardware man).They had two 7-footers. One random Thursday morning, Ken said, "Can you head over and get those two trees? I'll go ahead and agree to two, and if you hurry, I'll get them planted before I have to go to work this afternoon." I threw my purse over my shoulder and flew out the driveway. Ken is not known to be spontaneous, so I knew I had to seize the day. Excitedly, I drove out I-20 to the GA 113 exit, turned left and headed to Carrollton. As I was buzzing south on 113, I whipped right past a sign: Redland Nursery. It said something about trees, both Christmas and otherwise. I needed trees! I yanked off to the side of the road, googled the nursery and called; the owner picked up on the first ring and told me that yes, he had River Birch trees, and they weren't just seven feet tall. It was kismet. 

I ambled down a dirt road to his house, passing what seemed to be hundreds of acres of saplings. I followed him off the dirt road and four-wheeled it to a batch of giant trees. He said, "These are too big. It would cost you $1200 just to get someone to dig these out." That wasn't in my budget, so we meandered around to another field, where the "little" birches were located. There was a line of lovely ones, much taller than seven feet, but just right, in my mind. In my excitement, I told him "I want three of them!" as I wrote out a deposit check. I mean, you have to admit that the Trinity is foundational to God's nature. Everything that looks great comes in threes. A triangle is a super-stable thing and I simply couldn't see anything but three in the yard. One would give off a puny vibe, two would feel too symmetrical, but three was just right.  The man told me he'd have to get "his guys" out there to dig them up and ball them up in burlap in a few days so they could be transported. He covertly asked, "Do you have a big trailer?" I figured Ken could throw them in the back of his truck and we'd be good. After much ado and details I cringe to mention, I find three monsters from Fangorn Forest laying across the trailer in our yard. Surely these mammoths were not the trees I chose. My lumberjack men informed me that they could not move these by themselves (no small concession from those I consider to be modern-day Vikings). Apparently, large, earth-moving equipment and power tools were going to have to be involved, if we were to ever get these in the ground. 

For nigh three weeks, those trees slept in their burlap while we watered them and waited for a trusty man with an excavator to come. I was alone last Sunday when everything finally came to fruition. His machinery crept by, inches from our old windows.  He expertly dug massive holes in just the right spots we had marked. Before I knew it, there were three towers standing proudly, still tied up at the top. I figured Ken was now going to die, falling off a ladder to get those loose. But when he arrived home, he quickly nicked the ropes and pulled, freeing those beautiful branches. I drenched them with the hose and could almost feel them breathing a deep sigh of relief. Now they're all tucked in and we're praying for spring and God's favor. 

I kind-of figure that Ken might decide not to send Mama on random errands anytime soon. It often turns into much more than he bargained for, but I have to say that that man must love me, after all.  

Celestial City

Celeste. When I met her, she was a little girl, shy as they come, with long, curly, jet black hair. Chubby cheeks, smiling eyes, usually wearing Chuck Taylors. Her Dad is the most excellent house painter I have ever known (and I've known more than a few). He and I would occasionally work together on a job. Once, there was a 25-foot foyer that was calling for a faux-metal ceiling (it was begging for that)...and I had no inclination whatsoever to get up there. He nimbly climbed scaffolding and a scary ladder and followed my instructions to make it look like brushed gold metal. But that's the least of it. He's one of those people that you implicitly trust -- conscientious, God-fearing, honest. His parents brought him here, at 15 years of age, from Mexico, illegally. He grew up, married a kind, humble American girl and raised a family. Then he decided to jump through all the hoops to become an official American citizen, even though he didn't have to and most don't. It took lots of time, money and persistence, but he did it. He is highly respected by our church and by anyone who knows him, yet he never assumes such. So these are the people that Celeste comes from... 

Celeste. What a beautiful, old-fashioned name for a beautiful girl. It means "heavenly." She always stood in the background, never drawing attention to herself. There were other girls that people noticed, but Celeste was one who didn't seem to mind. She kept wearing her Chucks and being just who she was -- thoughtful, caring, steadfast. Even though I would see her at church and across my feed, I somehow didn't notice that she grew up. Her cherubic, innocent face belies the fact that she's a working adult now. One afternoon I was strolling through Facebook and happened to see that she had gotten engaged, to this adorable guy. How do these things just happen, kids growing up like that? I FB-stalked him and saw their winsome pictures. There was Celeste with a ring on it, sure enough, still in her Chuck Taylors. I was so happy, I texted her Mom and said hey, can I decorate her wedding? Because, you know, I don't have enough to do right now. I dream that, sometimes...

When I spruce up a wedding, I am afraid I become a bit of a diva. I worry, dream, draw pictures, wake up in the middle of the night fretting. I talk about it to everybody, ad nauseum. The tension builds and no one around me can rest until it's over. To my loved ones, I am truly sorry. Maybe I can change, but it's looking doubtful. Venues rarely give enough time to get the place ready...they'd like you to spend extra dollars for extra time to do it right, but this is do-it-yourself, not Designer Central. I'm under several guns right now -- besides my obligations to work, wind ensemble, the holidays, holiday decorating for other people, and life in general, the big Event is that our daughter is due for their second baby. Today. I have no illusions that she's coming today, as her last baby came almost three weeks late, but the advent season is here and in not just one way. Yesterday we found out baby London has turned transverse (sideways)...just like her Mama did when she was in my tummy. I'm not gonna miss her birth, so someone else will have to fill in for all the things if she arrives on time. Bless God for good friends who rescued me from myself and assisted getting everything done. Several helped, but dear Kathy gave me two whole days, one to organize and clean all the decor, another to decorate at the venue. Pure gold. A wedding is about love and commitment. So is a true friend.

So the day is almost here and I think on my own youth, where I blissfully sailed into our simple wedding, no stress, knowing he was the right one and just wanting to be married to him. Candles, flowers, details...none of that really mattered. There were so many that blessed us. Now I more understand all the implications of marriage, the good and the bad, the charge of the long game. The truth of love, which includes the aches, the sicknesses, the sagging of the flesh. And more, maybe, the give and take of two sinful people over time, where the fairy tale ideas grow dim and the reality of weariness can overwhelm the strongest. I will pray for Celeste and Dalton, as the Lord brings them to mind. That they will love each other, forgive each other, respect each other, and that time will be kind to them as they trust God to carry them through the darkest of days as well as the light-filled, happy ones.