God Bless Us, Every One...

I am a sucker for a good Christmas story. I admit it. I can watch, It’s a Wonderful Life, over and over and every time, see that my simple existence has meaning after watching George Bailey discover how Bedford Falls would be different without him. I’ve never been able to watch, A Christmas Carol, without crying at the possibility of Tiny Tim’s death; just knowing that the fictional world of 19th century London would be a more positive place if only he could live longer. And while I know George and Tim are just characters in imaginative stories, I always believe there is hope for a better real world if we all just try a bit harder.

I know my optimism can be a little annoying to my more cynical friends and family members. But, I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m unaware of the horrible economy, high unemployment, crime, political unrest, and other devastating events occurring around the world. I am aware. My soul is troubled when I read or hear about people being hurt by these social maladies. So, it isn’t that I bury my head in the sand and pretend that everything is great. I know things aren’t great. But I always, always believe things can be better.

The holiday season inevitably brings out songs and movies and stories about keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts. Although that can be viewed as a trite and sentimental notion, it is worthy of serious consideration. Of course it can be platitudinous to speak of peace on earth and goodwill toward others at Christmastime, but it also really can be a way of life. We really can choose the way of kindness. We really can choose to alter our thoughts, actions, and words toward others and take a gracious and loving path throughout the entire year.

Early in December I saw this photo of my great-niece, Adalynn, on Facebook. I have to be honest and admit that my first response was shock at the realization that I am a great-aunt. Not that I didn’t know I am. I just hadn’t thought a lot about it. In my mind ‘great-aunt’ conjures up images of a much older woman than I consider myself to be. But, once I was able to get out of my own way and stop obsessing about that, I looked at the photo and analyzed what I saw in it. Several people commented that my great-niece is adorable…which she is. And that was my response as well. The image captures, perfectly, the childhood innocence of believing in Santa Claus. As I looked more deeply at the photo, however, it spoke of things much larger than a beautiful, happy, little girl awaiting Santa’s visit.

It spoke of hope.

What I see written on Adalynn’s precious face is joy, and promise, and anticipation. A belief in good things to come. I am aware that at 2½ she hasn’t yet faced any of life’s disappointments and pain. She doesn’t have any reason to be jaded and discouraged. But my wish for her is that even after she has experienced those things she will still view life with a hopeful expectation of something better. And that she will choose to live accordingly.

It is so easy to be discouraged and negative and cynical. We don’t have to look very hard for reasons. And yet, if we allow ourselves the complacency of negativity, we simply can’t make the world a better place. We have to look harder to find reasons for joy and hope…but they are there. And it doesn’t just have to be during the holiday season that we do our part.

Recently I came across this quote by Gladys Taber. I’m pretty sure if she and I had met we’d have been friends. As it is, she died in 1980, but it still feels as though I've met a kindred spirit. Gladys wrote: “In this season it is well to reassert that the hope of mankind rests in faith. As a man thinketh, so he is. Nothing much happens unless you believe in it, and believing there is hope for the world is a way to move toward it.”

I believe.

Shower the People You Love With Love....

It was a lovely Sunday morning in December. It was early and the house was quiet. I was enjoying the solitude, coffee, and a book when I got a text message from my friend, Debbie. That was odd. Debbie doesn’t text unless there is a good reason. And there usually isn’t a good reason on a Sunday morning. I checked the message and read that Debbie’s friend, Dianne, had died unexpectedly. She gave a few details, asked for prayer for Dianne’s family, and ended the message by saying that the last thing Dianne had said to her on the previous Friday was, I love you.

The news of Dianne’s death was shocking. I didn’t know her well, I’d met her a couple of times but hadn’t had the opportunity to really become friends with her yet. She was ten days older than I and Debbie said when she saw her on Friday, Dianne was vibrant, healthy, and happy. What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t that she was my age. Or that she had been seemingly healthy only moments before her death. What stayed with me most was that the last words Debbie heard her say were, I love you.

Later, Debbie told me that she and Dianne had said goodbye, Dianne had turned around, walked a few steps, and then stopped, turned back around and told Debbie she loved her. Her intentionality was clear.

I learned the value of hearing the words, I love you, spoken intentionally, early in life. Not because I heard it a lot. I didn’t. But, in spite of the circumstances of my father’s death, the last words he said to me were, I love you. At the time I thought he was just being weird. Later, I understood that he knew those were the last words I would hear him say and while there were a lot of hurdles to making any sense of his suicide, at my core, I'd know he loved me. As an adult, I adopted the practice of saying, I love you, to my family whenever I was leaving them, in case those were the last words they would hear me say.

Debbie used to joke that if she were picking me up to go somewhere we’d have to plan an extra five-minutes for me to hug everyone and say, I love you. But later she told me she adopted the same practice for the same reason.

In spite of my commitment to using the words, I love you, with my family, I taught my kids to be sparing with their use when it came to romantic relationships. As sweet and special as it can be to hear, I love you, I was always concerned that 14-year olds who started ‘going out’ and broke up three days later really didn’t understand romantic love all that well. Throwing the words around seemed to cheapen them. I taught them to say it only when they knew they meant it.

And I’ve had trouble understanding the recent trend toward saying, “I love you more!” When I first heard it, I thought it had a certain sweetness to it but then it started to trouble me. As if love were now a competition to see who could love the most. I’ve opted to stay out of the love competition and simply love to the best of my ability. Maybe I love some people more than others. Maybe some people love me more than I love them back. Since I’m not sure you can quantify love, I’ve decided not to over think it.

Love just is.

It seems no matter how many times we hear the message to love others and to value our days because we don’t know how many we will have, we can never hear the message too many times. Life with all its consuming aspects has a way of pushing that message to the margins and then, just as I was on that quiet Sunday morning, we are reminded of how fragile life is. And how important the words, I love you, are.

While I tell my family I love them frequently, Dianne’s deliberate action on the Friday before her death has reminded me of how important it is to tell my friends I love them also. What would my life be without so many of my dear friends? Void of such richness and diversity. Void of so much laughter and joy. My friends challenge me to be better, stronger, and deeper. I’d be lost without them. My life would lack texture without the friends I love so dearly.

I'm reminded to ensure that they know how much I love them by simply saying those words.

I love you.

Thank you, Dianne.

Merry and Really, Really Bright....

Indeed, the holiday season is upon us. For reasons I’m not completely sure of, this autumn did not fly by at a frantic pace as it seems to have in recent years. Although I try to live intentionally every year, taking in the days and weeks and seasons with gratitude, autumn seemed especially lovely and peaceful this year. It didn’t hurt that it was a spectacular season with warm weather and glorious colors. Whatever the reason, the months passed at a reasonable pace and I found myself savoring all of their homey wonderfulness. And then, December arrived and, as if on cue, with it came snow. The holiday season is upon us.

I know the holidays aren’t cheery for everyone, which makes me a little sad, but for many people the Christmas season truly is the best time of the year. I’m married to one of those people. Steve loves the holiday season. Every year. He loves the lights and the music and the shopping and while he doesn’t bake…he gleefully enjoys what I bake. If you ask which season is my favorite I am much more inclined to say whichever one we are currently immersed in. But I’m a little fickle. Steve on the other hand, is very clear. He loves the Christmas season.

In particular, Steve enjoys tradition and our family is very tradition driven. Some of that may have to do with being holiday homebodies. We’ve always spent the holidays away from extended family and developed our own family traditions when it was just the five of us. Maintaining those traditions carries a certain amount of nostalgia. Sometimes family members can get a little militant about remembering traditions and have to be reminded that things change. Sometimes old traditions need to be replaced with new ones. It is a growing process.

Nevertheless, Steve is quite the keeper of tradition and enjoys being Santa’s little helper throughout the season. Putting up the Christmas tree is the seminal event each year and Steve does it with great celebration. I personally find the process somewhat tedious but Steve always turns it into an extravaganza involving cookies and eggnog and cheesy Christmas music and fond remembrances from each ornament. It can take days.

This year, after discovering that the twinkle lights, packed away last January, no longer twinkle, Steve decided to put LED lights on the tree. As he was carefully placing them, I mentioned that they were rather…bright. And I was being gentle. They were blinding. I’ve never seen such dazzling little lights.

Ignoring my comments, he continued to add string after string. Anna grimaced and Charles came into the room and exclaimed, “Wow…those are BRIGHT!” Steve insisted they were pretty. So, okay…it is his thing…we just decided to go with it.

Alright. Not entirely. I did wear sunglasses to place ornaments on the tree. I might have been trying in my not-so-subtle way to communicate that I didn’t exactly love the LED glare of light. Regardless, the ornaments went on the tree and the project was finished and the lights illuminated the living room. No other lighting was really necessary when the tree lights were lit. Steve commented that the tree looked beautiful. Outside. From the street. Which is fine, I guess, if we were all planning to camp out in the front yard to look at our resplendent Christmas tree. But inside the house the tree was anything but relaxing. It felt a little frenetic.

One evening a day or two after the tree went up, a young woman stopped by on a fundraising drive for RAPP, a rape education and prevention program. The temperature had dropped well below zero that evening and in spite of the fact that she was heavily bundled, I invited her in, gave her a donation, chatted with her about the program, and insisted that she sit in the living room while I made her some hot chocolate in a ‘to-go’ cup. She seemed appreciative but did say, somewhat casually, “My, your tree lights sure are….bright.” She then quickly added, “They look so pretty from the street.” Yes. We know. From the street. Inside the house however, we were fearful of corneal flash burns.

I had resigned myself to having a particularly merry and BRIGHT holiday season. Well sort of. I might have mentioned my aversion to the lights once or twice more. Okay, fine. I admit that one morning as Steve sat in the living room with his effulgent tree, I couldn’t resist coming downstairs into the living room singing Manfred Mann’s, Blinded by the Light. But no matter what anyone said (or sang) Steve held steadfastly to his admiration for the LED light bonanza.

Or so I thought.

One subzero morning earlier this week, I drove Anna to school. When I returned home Steve was sitting in the living room next to his beloved blazing tree. His face, along with the rest of the house, was aglow. But, he looked grumpy. Really grumpy. Downright Grinchy. I asked what was wrong and in a monotone he said, “I hate these lights. I hate this tree. In fact, I’m starting to hate Christmas.” I could almost see his heart shrinking two sizes too small. I started laughing and asked if he had just noticed how bright they were. He said, no, he had thought they’d grow on him. Clearly, they hadn’t.

I assumed that since the lights were already strung and the ornaments had been hung we’d just learn to be content with shielding our eyes whenever we wanted to gaze lovingly upon the beautiful, radiant tree. But no. Not Steve. He wasn’t going to be content until every last LED light was removed and new strings of softer, gentler, twinkle lights were gracing our Christmas tree. He insisted that Christmas trees are supposed to be warm and inviting not stark and glaring. That night, after attending Anna’s choir concert, he disappeared. He didn’t say where he was going, but I knew. He was out buying twinkle lights.

So now calm and joy have returned to our abode. We are no longer blasted by the sight of our Christmas tree. We no longer have to avert our eyes when we enter the living room. And Mr. Griggs's heart has once again grown three sizes.

Peace on earth.

And in our living room.