Every once in a while, I climb out of Momville and take a bigger look at the world than the 3,000 square feet I normally occupy. To do so can be overwhelming. When you spend your days brokering peace talks between a preschooler and a kindergartner, it’s hard to have leftover capacity to think about Hezbollah and Hamas. The editing project I’ve been working on this month has caused me to do this, though, and I’ve learned more about world events in the past four weeks than I did in four years of college.
Whether we’re aware of it or not, the critical issue of our day is the polarization and misperceptions between the Western world and the Muslim world. This was evidenced by the defining event of our day, 9/11. As much as I don’t want to think about it, I need to think about it. I need to understand how we got to this place and be engaged in the discussion over what can be done about it. I don’t have any power or influence in the world, but I have an open line to the One with all power and influence, and I should be praying about this stuff every day. To pray effectively, I need to understand it. And as complicated as it seems, it’s actually pretty fascinating.
I've been reading Jimmy Carter's 2006 book, Peace: Not Apartheid. I’ve been told it’s one of the most concise, easy-to-understand discussions of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It’s not the light-hearted read I normally enjoy, but I do find myself looking forward to opening it up at the end of the day when the house gets quiet. It feels good to learn and to understand. It feels like this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
On February 15, NavPress will release a book called The Crescent Through the Eyes of the Cross by Nabeel Jabbour. Nabeel is a Navigator staff who has become my friend and my teacher about all things Muslim. He was born in Syria and grew up in Lebanon as an Arab Christian. (Talk about being a minority.) He lived as a missionary in Egypt for many years and, while there, earned a doctorate in Islamic fundamentalism. Yeah, he knows some stuff. This is the second book I’ve worked on with him, and I believe it’s a book every Christian in America should read. It’s an opportunity to hear from a Muslim—in the form of a fictional character created by Nabeel—what he believes about us, those called to be messengers of the Good News of Christ, and our message. It’s not hostile or combative; it’s eye-opening.
If you read the book and want to know more, Nabeel will send you an addendum by e-mail that details the history of the Muslim-Christian tension (remember the Crusades we heard about in Western Civ?) and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Words like intifada and Zionism and names like Begin and Arafat will fall into place and start to make more sense.
Day-to-day challenges like making the mortgage payment, finding the lost library books, and plotting the Saturday birthday-party/wrestling-tournament schedule are plenty for me. But I’m getting the idea that God wants me to see the world with bigger eyes—not to scare me or overwhelm me, but to teach me and to show me once again how big He is. When I hear my little ones humming, “He’s got the whole world in His hands,” I have new-found perspective and thankfulness.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
My New Office
After only a few weeks of trying to do my freelance work from home, I knew it wasn’t working. I envisioned my heating bill, grocery bill (“snack” bill would be more accurate), and my weight ballooning while my productivity deflated by the hour. I’ve tried working at Starbucks and Panera before, but since I don’t drink coffee and I’m too nosy to avoid eavesdropping, I knew that was not a good option. Instead, I headed to the library, unaware of the bliss that awaited me there.
OK, bliss is probably too strong a word, but it’s quickly becoming my favorite place to work. I’m getting my routine down: I put on my work attire (sweatpants and a ponytail holder), load up my computer and water bottle (snacks, thankfully, aren’t allowed at the library), and rack up a tax deduction during my five-mile commute. I park in the back row, doing my part to reserve the best spots for mothers with young children. In the past, that’s always been me. Before this month, I don’t think I’ve even walked into the library without a stroller in tow since the late 90s. It’s a weird feeling. It’s a good feeling. It’s a little like being back in college, where I spent hours nestled in between the stacks of books, escaping my coke-snorting roommate back at the dorm—but that’s a different story.
Pretty much the only people at the library are moms with kids and senior citizens. The moms smile at me because I share a similar taste in clothing. I also don’t shoot them dirty looks when their kids whack each other with a Ranger Rick. To maximize efficiency, though, I try to stay away from them, making my way to the delicious quiet found near the hunting and fishing books. Tables, footstools, and electrical outlets abound here. I face west and have a 180-degree view of the Rockies and Pikes Peak. (I didn’t think there was any work environment that could rival the beauty of Glen Eyrie, but the East Library is close.) My companions are sweet-faced, white-haired ladies and gentlemen who think I look smart—only because of my age—and make me feel smart by asking computer questions that I can occasionally answer.
There’s something about being surrounded by books and learning (as opposed to laundry and dishes) that jumpstarts my productivity. I plug into my iTunes and edit furiously. My focus is interrupted only by the occasional stroll to the restroom (where I reconnect with the moms of small children) and a little scanning-the-shelves indulgence. The best part is that I don’t have to wear gloves and a parka while I work because the library is delightfully warm. I think it has something to do with the senior citizens.
OK, bliss is probably too strong a word, but it’s quickly becoming my favorite place to work. I’m getting my routine down: I put on my work attire (sweatpants and a ponytail holder), load up my computer and water bottle (snacks, thankfully, aren’t allowed at the library), and rack up a tax deduction during my five-mile commute. I park in the back row, doing my part to reserve the best spots for mothers with young children. In the past, that’s always been me. Before this month, I don’t think I’ve even walked into the library without a stroller in tow since the late 90s. It’s a weird feeling. It’s a good feeling. It’s a little like being back in college, where I spent hours nestled in between the stacks of books, escaping my coke-snorting roommate back at the dorm—but that’s a different story.
Pretty much the only people at the library are moms with kids and senior citizens. The moms smile at me because I share a similar taste in clothing. I also don’t shoot them dirty looks when their kids whack each other with a Ranger Rick. To maximize efficiency, though, I try to stay away from them, making my way to the delicious quiet found near the hunting and fishing books. Tables, footstools, and electrical outlets abound here. I face west and have a 180-degree view of the Rockies and Pikes Peak. (I didn’t think there was any work environment that could rival the beauty of Glen Eyrie, but the East Library is close.) My companions are sweet-faced, white-haired ladies and gentlemen who think I look smart—only because of my age—and make me feel smart by asking computer questions that I can occasionally answer.
There’s something about being surrounded by books and learning (as opposed to laundry and dishes) that jumpstarts my productivity. I plug into my iTunes and edit furiously. My focus is interrupted only by the occasional stroll to the restroom (where I reconnect with the moms of small children) and a little scanning-the-shelves indulgence. The best part is that I don’t have to wear gloves and a parka while I work because the library is delightfully warm. I think it has something to do with the senior citizens.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Swan Song
Last night was a perfect night. The five almost-founding members of Dawson Media (and one spouse who's worked with us and feels like one of us) went to Mona Lisa, a fancy, schmancy fondue restaurant, to celebrate our teamwork and bring it officially to a close. Being with these people is like slipping into my favorite running shoes. They fit perfectly, comfortably, and they enable me to do things I never could without them.
It was the kind of night where you don't have to think about what to say, where you don't have to worry if people think you're lame or weird or inarticulate. There was no trying to impress or be someone better than I really am. They've seen me at my best and my worst, and with them I can simply be. For nearly four hours, we dipped and grilled and laughed and remembered. If it hadn't been for the snow piling up outside our window, I wouldn't have even realized that so much time had elapsed. It was that kind of night.
I don't know if the six of us will ever be around another table together. If not, I'm thankful that what we went out with was perfect. A shameful amount of chocolate remained in our fondue pots as we left, but I felt as full—and more importantly, as filled—as I've been in a very long time.
It was the kind of night where you don't have to think about what to say, where you don't have to worry if people think you're lame or weird or inarticulate. There was no trying to impress or be someone better than I really am. They've seen me at my best and my worst, and with them I can simply be. For nearly four hours, we dipped and grilled and laughed and remembered. If it hadn't been for the snow piling up outside our window, I wouldn't have even realized that so much time had elapsed. It was that kind of night.
I don't know if the six of us will ever be around another table together. If not, I'm thankful that what we went out with was perfect. A shameful amount of chocolate remained in our fondue pots as we left, but I felt as full—and more importantly, as filled—as I've been in a very long time.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Do What You Do (again)
Last January, I sent out an e-mail to my friends called, "Do What You Do." Because of the amazing response it received, I'm considering submitting it somewhere. But for now, I post it here, either as a reminder for those who have read it before or a new perspective for you newcomers. I continue to see examples of people doing what they do. Recently, I got an e-mail about a day spa that was giving the proceeds from its haircuts and pedicures to the family of the victims of the shootings at New Life Church. They cut hair. It's what they do. I love it!
One of the biggest lessons I learned in 2006 came from being a person in crisis. I’ve managed to pretty well avoid suffering throughout my adult life, so it was interesting to suddenly be the person in crisis, after our baby died, and to see how people responded. I was overwhelmed by people’s expressions of support, and one of the most natural things said to me was, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” In a stupor of pain, grief, and exhaustion, the easiest response to that is just to say, “thank you” and let it drop. It’s not that the needs weren’t there; it’s just that the offer came at a time when I couldn’t even decide if I wanted to take a shower or not.
“What can I do for you?” is loaded with good intentions, and maybe it’s helpful for some grieving people. But for me, it just added more pressure. I wanted to cry out, “I don’t even know what I can do for myself! How can I tell you what to do for me?”
That’s when I learned something that will stick with me the rest of my life. I wanted people to do what they do. This was easy for me, because I’ve always known what I do. I’m a letter writer/card sender/phone caller. When someone around me is suffering, I pull out a pen and pray for God to give me the wisdom to encourage and love my friend through my words. I’m not much of a casserole-maker or a house-cleaner, although if asked I would certainly do these things for a suffering friend. But I’m more of a letter-writer. That’s what I do. And the brightest part of those dark days was going to the mailbox and hearing from other letter-writers/card-senders.
I’m not someone who particularly cares about flowers, but I was deeply touched by the arrangements sent by my flower-sending friends. Though they made my husband sneeze and my son’s nose run, the flowers sat on my table reminding me that I was loved.
Then there were the sitters—people who just came over to be with me. They weren’t there to cheer me up or load my dishwasher; they were there to listen if I wanted to talk or sit there with me if I didn’t want to be alone.
The casserole-makers are an obvious blessing, especially the ones who just show up and don’t ask a lot of questions beforehand. Food has no taste when you’re grieving, so make what sounds good to you! If it’s one less thing I have to think about, even if it’s not my favorite dish, I’ll be grateful.
My sister-in-law Jana is a doer. She took my kids so I could sleep and cleaned my van while she was at it. My friend Kendra is also a doer. She gave my little girls baths and returned my unused maternity clothes. She also bought me cabbage to wear the dreadful day my milk came in. It didn’t help, but how thankful I was that I didn’t have to buy the cabbage. I needed this from her so much more than a lasagna.
The grieving person is doubly blessed when you do what you do. Not only are you serving her, but you’re removing any potential awkwardness and guilt she may feel about your kindness. If my friend who doesn’t cook brings me some elaborate spread of homemade food, I’m going to be touched, but I’m also going to feel weird. If she runs through the drive-thru and brings my kids Happy Meals, all is right with the world. Spare me the awkwardness of having to pass when you volunteer to watch my three kids but haven’t changed a diaper since 1976. And for heaven’s sake, please don’t come sit with me if you’re not a sitter! (You’ll know you’re not a sitter if long periods of sad silence make you uncomfortable and you’re desperately looking for an escape. It’s OK. Do what you do.)
The day before I went back to work, someone asked my close friend, “What does Leura want us to do? Should we hug her or act like nothing happened?” You can probably guess what I wanted. I wanted the huggers to hug, the criers to cry, and the people who felt uncomfortable to just smile and say, “Good to see you.”
God has given us each unique strengths and passions. You know what yours are. Put these to use when the people around you are suffering. When you do what you do, you’re giving the very best of yourself to someone who desperately needs you.
One of the biggest lessons I learned in 2006 came from being a person in crisis. I’ve managed to pretty well avoid suffering throughout my adult life, so it was interesting to suddenly be the person in crisis, after our baby died, and to see how people responded. I was overwhelmed by people’s expressions of support, and one of the most natural things said to me was, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” In a stupor of pain, grief, and exhaustion, the easiest response to that is just to say, “thank you” and let it drop. It’s not that the needs weren’t there; it’s just that the offer came at a time when I couldn’t even decide if I wanted to take a shower or not.
“What can I do for you?” is loaded with good intentions, and maybe it’s helpful for some grieving people. But for me, it just added more pressure. I wanted to cry out, “I don’t even know what I can do for myself! How can I tell you what to do for me?”
That’s when I learned something that will stick with me the rest of my life. I wanted people to do what they do. This was easy for me, because I’ve always known what I do. I’m a letter writer/card sender/phone caller. When someone around me is suffering, I pull out a pen and pray for God to give me the wisdom to encourage and love my friend through my words. I’m not much of a casserole-maker or a house-cleaner, although if asked I would certainly do these things for a suffering friend. But I’m more of a letter-writer. That’s what I do. And the brightest part of those dark days was going to the mailbox and hearing from other letter-writers/card-senders.
I’m not someone who particularly cares about flowers, but I was deeply touched by the arrangements sent by my flower-sending friends. Though they made my husband sneeze and my son’s nose run, the flowers sat on my table reminding me that I was loved.
Then there were the sitters—people who just came over to be with me. They weren’t there to cheer me up or load my dishwasher; they were there to listen if I wanted to talk or sit there with me if I didn’t want to be alone.
The casserole-makers are an obvious blessing, especially the ones who just show up and don’t ask a lot of questions beforehand. Food has no taste when you’re grieving, so make what sounds good to you! If it’s one less thing I have to think about, even if it’s not my favorite dish, I’ll be grateful.
My sister-in-law Jana is a doer. She took my kids so I could sleep and cleaned my van while she was at it. My friend Kendra is also a doer. She gave my little girls baths and returned my unused maternity clothes. She also bought me cabbage to wear the dreadful day my milk came in. It didn’t help, but how thankful I was that I didn’t have to buy the cabbage. I needed this from her so much more than a lasagna.
The grieving person is doubly blessed when you do what you do. Not only are you serving her, but you’re removing any potential awkwardness and guilt she may feel about your kindness. If my friend who doesn’t cook brings me some elaborate spread of homemade food, I’m going to be touched, but I’m also going to feel weird. If she runs through the drive-thru and brings my kids Happy Meals, all is right with the world. Spare me the awkwardness of having to pass when you volunteer to watch my three kids but haven’t changed a diaper since 1976. And for heaven’s sake, please don’t come sit with me if you’re not a sitter! (You’ll know you’re not a sitter if long periods of sad silence make you uncomfortable and you’re desperately looking for an escape. It’s OK. Do what you do.)
The day before I went back to work, someone asked my close friend, “What does Leura want us to do? Should we hug her or act like nothing happened?” You can probably guess what I wanted. I wanted the huggers to hug, the criers to cry, and the people who felt uncomfortable to just smile and say, “Good to see you.”
God has given us each unique strengths and passions. You know what yours are. Put these to use when the people around you are suffering. When you do what you do, you’re giving the very best of yourself to someone who desperately needs you.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Stewarding the Pain
Shortly after our baby died, our pastor gave a sermon that I don’t remember. I’m sure it was good, but I couldn’t tell you the title, the main points he made, the illustrations he used, or the Scriptures he quoted. What I remember is the nearly out-of-body experience I had when he briefly mentioned the idea of “stewarding the pain.” It was as if he came and sat down right beside me, took my tear-stained face in his hands, and gently taught me—and me alone—this revolutionary concept. It’s something I’m again thinking about a lot.
If we don’t do something with our pain, if we don’t steward it well, it’s just pain. Nothing comes from it but hurt and sadness. We think of stewarding our gifts, our time, our money—but our pain? Stewardship is not something that ever entered my mind when I was hurting. But think about it. Does God want us to hurt just for the sake of hurting? I sure don’t think so. He wants us to be transformed into the beautiful creation He had in mind when He made us. And often that happens through our pain.
I know I want to be all He created me to be. I’ll do whatever it takes. If that means experiencing pain, I’ll take it. But I don’t want pain that leads to nothing. This is where stewardship comes in. I have a role to play in transforming my pain into something that changes me. The biggest way I can hijack this process is to run from the pain. Busyness and distraction are my way of running. Fortunately, I’ve never been tempted to distract myself with illegal substances or activities, but I can certainly understand the draw for those who do. Our human tendency is to get as far away from the pain as we can. But does that make it go away? Nope, it just saves it for another day and robs us of the transformation God intends.
The pastor didn’t get into specifics of what this stewardship looks like, but I’m figuring out what it means for me. First, I’ve got to sit there in it. I have to allow myself to fully experience it, as much as I hate that. I’ve got to express it. For me, that means crying out to God through my sobs and writing down every single thing I feel. It means no pep-talking myself into feeling better. There’s a time to say, “Oh, come on, at least you don’t have cancer,” but this isn’t it.
As I sit in the pain, I find that new thoughts and perspectives come to mind. I find myself engaged in a passionate dialogue with God—me crying out to Him and Him bringing pieces of Scripture, words from songs, or new thoughts to my mind. I hunger for Him like I never do in my “real” life: I set my alarm a half-hour early so I can spend more time reading His Word, I don’t even consider missing church, and I want to be around the people who speak spiritual truth and depth to me the most. And suddenly I find that my focus is no longer on the pain, but on the One who allowed it. When that happens, I can actually feel Him beginning to change me. (From my experience, the deeper the pain, the more significant the change.)
And when I reach the other side—as I did with my dad’s death, and Catherine’s death, and as I’m hoping to do with my current sense of loss and sadness—I can actually, unbelievably, utter, “I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
I’m not sure if this is exactly what my pastor meant, but it’s what stewarding the pain looks like for me. (I’d love to know what it looks like for you.) I’m right in the middle of it again. I’ll let you know how it turns out.
If we don’t do something with our pain, if we don’t steward it well, it’s just pain. Nothing comes from it but hurt and sadness. We think of stewarding our gifts, our time, our money—but our pain? Stewardship is not something that ever entered my mind when I was hurting. But think about it. Does God want us to hurt just for the sake of hurting? I sure don’t think so. He wants us to be transformed into the beautiful creation He had in mind when He made us. And often that happens through our pain.
I know I want to be all He created me to be. I’ll do whatever it takes. If that means experiencing pain, I’ll take it. But I don’t want pain that leads to nothing. This is where stewardship comes in. I have a role to play in transforming my pain into something that changes me. The biggest way I can hijack this process is to run from the pain. Busyness and distraction are my way of running. Fortunately, I’ve never been tempted to distract myself with illegal substances or activities, but I can certainly understand the draw for those who do. Our human tendency is to get as far away from the pain as we can. But does that make it go away? Nope, it just saves it for another day and robs us of the transformation God intends.
The pastor didn’t get into specifics of what this stewardship looks like, but I’m figuring out what it means for me. First, I’ve got to sit there in it. I have to allow myself to fully experience it, as much as I hate that. I’ve got to express it. For me, that means crying out to God through my sobs and writing down every single thing I feel. It means no pep-talking myself into feeling better. There’s a time to say, “Oh, come on, at least you don’t have cancer,” but this isn’t it.
As I sit in the pain, I find that new thoughts and perspectives come to mind. I find myself engaged in a passionate dialogue with God—me crying out to Him and Him bringing pieces of Scripture, words from songs, or new thoughts to my mind. I hunger for Him like I never do in my “real” life: I set my alarm a half-hour early so I can spend more time reading His Word, I don’t even consider missing church, and I want to be around the people who speak spiritual truth and depth to me the most. And suddenly I find that my focus is no longer on the pain, but on the One who allowed it. When that happens, I can actually feel Him beginning to change me. (From my experience, the deeper the pain, the more significant the change.)
And when I reach the other side—as I did with my dad’s death, and Catherine’s death, and as I’m hoping to do with my current sense of loss and sadness—I can actually, unbelievably, utter, “I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
I’m not sure if this is exactly what my pastor meant, but it’s what stewarding the pain looks like for me. (I’d love to know what it looks like for you.) I’m right in the middle of it again. I’ll let you know how it turns out.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
To Forget or To Remember—That Is the Question
My friend Rebekah recently told me that I'm historical. This should not have come as some great revelation to me. Still, it did. I've always thought of myself as nostalgic (read "Letting Go of Christmas" for evidence of this), but the idea of being historical was new to me. Yet it couldn't be more true. I remember grieving over my last shower at my college apartment in 1993, even though I had no fondness for the apartment or the shower and was thrilled to be graduating from college. Still, it was the end of a chapter in my life, and that makes me reflective and a bit melancholy. I'm historical.
I am still in touch with every good friend I've ever made since 1975. My only hobby is scrapbooking—not because I'm crafty (everyone knows that's not the case), but because I'm historical.
I've heard about a journaling experience where you divide your life into seven segments (mine would be slightly more than five years each) and then look back and reflect on each segment through a series of questions. This sounds like so much fun to me! I'm actually chomping at the bit to do it. Only the historical would be this excited about such an exercise.
Nearly 40 percent of my life—and all of my adult life—was spent at my job with The Navigators. No matter how much I tell myself that it was just a job (it wasn't) or that I'm ready to move on to something new and exciting (I'm not), I can't get past being historical. It hurts A LOT. I cry A LOT. It doesn't matter that I'm not particularly sensitive or much of a crier. I'm historical, and to close a chapter this expansive, this deep, this significant in my life . . . I can't even find the words for it.
It makes me wish I weren't historical. It makes me wish I were future-oriented and change-oriented. It makes me wonder if my sadness is just drama or if it's a slap in the face to God, the one who created the change. What does He think about this, I wonder?
I was reminded (thanks, Katie) about all the times the words, "Remember, O Israel" appear in the Bible. Reflection is obviously important to God. He wants us to remember the past and learn from it. But what about Philippians 3:13-14? ("But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.") What did Paul mean by "forgetting what is behind"? Was he just talking about earthly things? Was there a good reason why Paul needed to forget the past? Surely straining ahead, pressing on toward the goal God has called us to, is what we're all called to do, but what are we supposed to do with the past? With our history?
If you're looking for answers, you won't find them here. Nothing here but a whole lot of questions. If you've got any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
I am still in touch with every good friend I've ever made since 1975. My only hobby is scrapbooking—not because I'm crafty (everyone knows that's not the case), but because I'm historical.
I've heard about a journaling experience where you divide your life into seven segments (mine would be slightly more than five years each) and then look back and reflect on each segment through a series of questions. This sounds like so much fun to me! I'm actually chomping at the bit to do it. Only the historical would be this excited about such an exercise.
Nearly 40 percent of my life—and all of my adult life—was spent at my job with The Navigators. No matter how much I tell myself that it was just a job (it wasn't) or that I'm ready to move on to something new and exciting (I'm not), I can't get past being historical. It hurts A LOT. I cry A LOT. It doesn't matter that I'm not particularly sensitive or much of a crier. I'm historical, and to close a chapter this expansive, this deep, this significant in my life . . . I can't even find the words for it.
It makes me wish I weren't historical. It makes me wish I were future-oriented and change-oriented. It makes me wonder if my sadness is just drama or if it's a slap in the face to God, the one who created the change. What does He think about this, I wonder?
I was reminded (thanks, Katie) about all the times the words, "Remember, O Israel" appear in the Bible. Reflection is obviously important to God. He wants us to remember the past and learn from it. But what about Philippians 3:13-14? ("But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.") What did Paul mean by "forgetting what is behind"? Was he just talking about earthly things? Was there a good reason why Paul needed to forget the past? Surely straining ahead, pressing on toward the goal God has called us to, is what we're all called to do, but what are we supposed to do with the past? With our history?
If you're looking for answers, you won't find them here. Nothing here but a whole lot of questions. If you've got any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Letting Go of Christmas
It's January 7. A mere hop, skip, and jump away from Martin Luther King, Jr., Day and Valentine's Day. Time to box up the Christmas tree and retire the Christmas CDs for another year. But every year at this time I find myself resisting it. After so much build-up, so much expectation, and only 24 puny hours of actually celebrating—I don't want to let go. Christmas is my favorite time of year (and you'll realize that's saying something if you know how much I dislike winter), and I love feeling all Christmasy. I love that stores are prettier, dark streets are brighter, people are friendlier, food is tastier.
And then—THUD!—it's January. Dark. Dingy. Cold. Loooooooong. And of course the inevitable stuffy noses and sore throats.
If I were in charge, Christmas would last two weeks. You're probably thinking, "Where have you been, lady? It lasts three months!" But I don't mean shopping-mall Christmas; I mean real Christmas. The kind of Christmas we only experience on December 25. The kind that makes me feel so warm and peaceful and thankful inside. It's that feeling that I hate to give up when I pull the stockings and lights down. And 364 days (365 this year!) seems like such a long wait for its return.
Then I shake myself out of my January gloom and realize it's not December 25 that creates that feeling. It's the Person we celebrate that brings that kind of peace, and He's around even in January.
So I'll go listen to Judy Garland warbling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" one last time and put the baby in her sweet little Christmas outfit for the last time (ever), while I thank God that He can't be boxed up and stashed away for the next eleven months.
And then—THUD!—it's January. Dark. Dingy. Cold. Loooooooong. And of course the inevitable stuffy noses and sore throats.
If I were in charge, Christmas would last two weeks. You're probably thinking, "Where have you been, lady? It lasts three months!" But I don't mean shopping-mall Christmas; I mean real Christmas. The kind of Christmas we only experience on December 25. The kind that makes me feel so warm and peaceful and thankful inside. It's that feeling that I hate to give up when I pull the stockings and lights down. And 364 days (365 this year!) seems like such a long wait for its return.
Then I shake myself out of my January gloom and realize it's not December 25 that creates that feeling. It's the Person we celebrate that brings that kind of peace, and He's around even in January.
So I'll go listen to Judy Garland warbling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" one last time and put the baby in her sweet little Christmas outfit for the last time (ever), while I thank God that He can't be boxed up and stashed away for the next eleven months.
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