I'll Take Note of the Lesson

Most parents will tell you, if you wonder what your selfishness and self-centeredness looks like in the eyes of another, you need look no further than the same behaviors in your children. I write a lot about the positives of Mommy land, probably because there's far more positive than negative about it in my heart. But, just to be clear, that don't mean there ain't none!

Tonight was a perfect example. We're on staycation this week...the explanation of that will come in another post. But, in summary, this is code for lazy week at the Covak house. We usually do it this week every year because, well, we can. Craig has the time off work, the kids are on week #2 of break, my honey's marking another birthday, and there isn't much happening on the social calendar. So we spend our days on no particular time schedule, flying by the seat of our pants and relishing each family moment. Today's agenda was a case in point: Craig slept in while the kids and I fixed breakfast and laughed. We opened each one of the kids' new board games from Nana (another annual treat) and played them each in turn. Daddy made lunch while Mommy blogged (wink, wink) until it was time to finally get out of jammies and go on a "family date." In short, we gave our days to our kids, just because we love them and enjoy embracing time with them. We asked for nothing in return...until one request sent the evening into a tailspin.

After dinner, Craig and I decided to squeeze in a quick errand to an electronics store (we're shopping for a flat panel...aghast!!) and I asked Grace to keep her eye on Judsen as he circled our feet. And what do we soon see? Judsen, strolling ever so nonchalantly toward the open automatic doors while Grace is 15 feet away staring at open space. Um. Huh? When I ask her what's going on, she replies, "It's hard to focus. And I didn't want to watch him anymore because it's boring." At this statement, I'm inwardly spinning in violent circles until I find myself airborne, flames sparking behind me as I shoot into the stratosphere.

Yeah, I was ticked.

Outwardly, as Grace continues to ramble on, I say, "No more talking. No. More. Talking. I need silence from you until we get home." We then complete the questions we had, gather up the wanderer, and secure the other two blondies, too, before we head to the car. I inform Craig of the happening, to which he only sighs. I mean, seriously, what else can one say to that?

Well, how about this: Grace still has the potential for irresponsibility in the slightest of areas. Red alert! ALL children do. But here's my big learning moment: this moment is also about me, for as stupified as I was with Grace's behavior and her subsequent explanation of it, I've done and said worse to my own Father. I've told Him I'm too tired when He asks me to serve or complained to Him of my sacrifice without sufficient love in return. I've whined about my lack of focus and willingness to obey Him. I've even hung my head in self-pity and wondered if I even matter to Him at all. And this in response to a Son sent to die on a cross for my salvation. Hmmm....

So, I'll call myself student on this one. Of course, I'll teach Grace...again...about responsibility and playing on the family team. About sacrificing for one you love despite your emotion at any given instant. About how it's hard to be the oldest...but it's great to be it, too...and about how love transcends any mistakes we make with any consequences that come.

But as I'm teaching her, I'll take note of the lesson myself...seems maybe I need to be reminded of those truths, too.

The Journey of Family

We have several events that fall under the category "Christmas Eve Traditions." But this is the one that makes me laugh the hardest and inspires its own category of thanks to God. Three years ago, we invited this large group of people to join us in what we had already been doing since our move back to Colorado in 2001: dinner out on Christmas Eve. It started as a way to treat Craig's mom, but as close relationships with friends have morphed into something far more akin to family (get it, a"kin"), it has become a full-on, all-for-one-and-one-for-all family outing. Here's this year's brood, though a bit blurry....

The Bowles, Covaks, Tycers, and Frayers

(l-r) Logan, Morgan, Grace, Sandy, Charmaine, Michelle, Nicole, Candy, Jared,  

Mitchell, Judsen, Jason, Elijah, Craig, and Al)

Each year, we attend service at Vanguard and all sit together...that's a feat of a long row, for sure, so thanks, Mama Char, for saving those seats! Then we all pile into our cars and hit the restaurant planned for that Eve. Now, this is involved: I usually make the reservations while 10 other people are coordinating phone calls and schedules and disseminating what we affectionately call "The Plan." And, with this bunch, getting that plan together is a holiday miracle: consider that must maintain our individual family, work, and holiday season commitments for that week while also trying to grasp onto some sense of sanity and calm during the season of peace. I say this because, despite the effort, patience, grace, and determination it takes to pull it off, we still do it. Every year.

To me, this says more about our genuine love and commitment to our "family" than any big-bowed present or fancy card. This says, "You matter. God bringing us together in love matters. Celebrating this time of year - the time we party in thanksgiving for the One Who paid our debt - matters. Christmas Eve time and again is now marked with great memories of laughter and flashing cameras and yummy food that's good...but not as great as the family around the table.

Here's some memories from this year.

Jason and Judsen...buddies! 

Craig and his mom, Sandy

It used to be Nic...until God brought her perfect man, Jared. This year, we got to have "The Frayers" join the tradition for the first time.

Jason and Michelle. Love them. That sums it up.

The Three Siblings: Michelle, Mitchell, and Nic

Really, so typical of this group...but notice Mom and Grace haven't quite evolved to the same level of silly mediocrity as the rest of us. Laugh.

And another great friendship formed: Morgan and Grace.

My favorite couple. Wink.

Thank you, God, for this group of people you began forming into family almost 9 years ago: this friendship has withstood time, distance, divorce, marriage, children, disease, hospitalizations, and even death.

But we don't grow deeper in relationship in spite of life events: we grow deeper because of them.

Because depth lays in the journey, not in the outcome...because the outcome is always family.

Lobe Bling

Grace turned 9 on December 21st. We started asking her what she wanted to do for her birthday a couple of months before that. At our house, starting at age 3, we only have a friends' party every other year: after careful structuring in the last two of those, we've now got everybody (except Judsen, of course) on the same year for partying. With our anniversary in late October, Elijah's birthday in early November, then Thanksgiving, then Grace's birthday, then Christmas, then the New Year, then Craig's birthday on January 2nd....inhale big breath here...we'd rather face the parties every other 365 days than look 'em in the eye every year.

Funny, isn't it, how such planning becomes an employment of simple survival?

Anyway, this isn't a party year; instead, we plan a special family event structured around the likes and wants of the birthday child. About two years ago, Grace came home from school asking, "Mommy, how come my ears don't have holes?" Another little friend in 1st grade had just pierced her ears, and Grace had fallen fast infatuated with the glimmer of lobe bling. Obviously, every house institutes a different philosophy on the appropriate ages for this milestone. I'll note that, at our house, girl "fancies," as we call them, are kept to a careful minimum. I resisted this same mantra in my own girlhood as my parents held off on ear-piercing, nail-painting, makeup...you get the drift. In fact, I never painted my nails until my twenties...and, even then, only my toes. I didn't wear makeup until I got married. But, though, I at first made a fuss as the other girls my age got to explore and embellish when I could not, the appeal soon ebbed and, before I knew it, didn't matter at all. I passed through adolescence and into adulthood rarely considering hairstyles or eye shadow, preferring to forego the broken nail if it meant having fun in the moment. Now, as an adult woman, I like to pedicures and facials and will take a slammin' shade of lip gloss any day, but I don't need those fancies to feel pretty. Consequently, you're just as likely to see me in a t-shirt and ball cap than a dress and heels. We want that same freedom for Grace: the extras that make us embrace our femininity are great and, like most other cultural components of gender, they're best used in the right time and place. So, you see why deciding about pierced ears was a biggie for me and Craig.

We ultimately figured 7 was too young for our parental palate and told her that, if she continued to be interested, we'd revisit for her 10th birthday. And we did. And she was. And we held true to our word. So, our event was particularly special because we'd never planned a date with just one child. We each take our kids on "dates," but only one at a time and only with a single parent. But Gracie wanted both of us present to share in this momentous occasion: first, she picked Red Robin for lunch where she got two balloons (yep, her heart is easily glad) and then off we went for her new accessories. She picked her birthstones to be her first earrings and asked Daddy to hold her hand while the lady "loaded the gun."

After a quick couple of pops, she declared, "That wasn't too bad. Harder than a pinch, I'd say, but not as bad as a shot." And, like most Grace stories, this one ends with a smile and a laugh and the best compliment she's received so far: upon our return home, Elijah looked at her ears, hugged ear, and proudly proclaimed, "Grace, you're beautiful!"

The Pre-Bling Lobe

"Daddy, Will You Hold My Hand?"

Here Comes the Pinch...

...and There's The Blinged Lobe

Here's The Happy Birthday Girl

The Gift of Nana

Most who know us recall that we lived in Alaska for 5.5 years: the best 5.5 years of our marriage, hands down, I'd say...for reasons that are both great and not-so-great. But that's for another post.

Here, I'll start with that because those amazing years made the decision to move to Colorado an even more difficult one. But we felt God calling us to return here (Craig hails from the Springs) to be closer to family and, more particularly, to his mother.

One of the benefits of living here is having Craig's mom near. My mother-in-law, Sandy, is a friend, a daughter, a sister and a buddy. She's a reader, a cross-stitcher, and a card player. She gets a good chuckle out of a dirty joke. She hates beer and only drinks sweet wine. She's not crazy about any exotic food and has always wanted to go to Hawaii.  She works full time, and she's a widow with 8.4 grandchildren. So, yes, she's busy. She's lots of roles to lots of people, but at our house, she goes by just two names: Mom and Nana.

We have lots of traditions with her during the holidays, but there's two I'll spotlight here: making sugar cookies and attending her company party. Mom rolls the dough and the kids cut out the shapes. Later, they decorate them with frosting and sprinkles laughing uncontrollably while Mom reminds them about a hundred times NOT to lick their fingers. AT her party, we play Christmas bingo and make crafts, eat pizza, and drink cocoa. We do this every year because one gives her a chance to make a memory with the children. The other lets her watch them have fun while showing them off a bit: I give a thumbs-up, of course, to both activities.

Grandparents are supposed to be proud, supposed to indulge and gush and sing praises all day long of these little wonders they love so desperately but don't have to raise. Mom does a great job of teaching and training and rebuking as needed while holding onto her role of "the fun one." We never allow the children to forget what a gift she is and how they're not to take her for granted. So we make sure we don't, either.

We won't always have the opportunity to carve such traditions, so we seize the days He gives us, hoping that, in all we do, we remind her that she is, in short, the best present under our tree...all year long. And we all have the memories to show for it.

(left) One of my favorites of Mom with our children. This one's with Judsen, just days after his birth. A thousand words. A thousand words, indeed.

The Story of Grace

Craig and I married young - or what I now consider to be young. I suppose, intellectually, I knew that 20 (me) and 23 (Craig) was a tad early in years to make such a profound commitment, but I didn't invest much time in considering it beyond that point. But our age did impact one critical decision: because we were young (among other reasons), we chose to wait a while before having children.

We agreed we'd reconsider that choice at the 3-year mark in our marriage. But, when that time came, we were at opposite sides of the junction: I was ready to have children and Craig was not. Whammy. I had just finished my undergraduate degree and thought it was finally emotionally, physically, spiritually, and professionally a prime time for makin' babies. Craig simply wasn't prepared in any of those avenues to make the commitment a child would bring. And boy was I mad. Mad! Yes, it may sound petty, but that's the truth of the matter. How come I had to conceive, carry, and birth the baby, but with his resounding "no," Craig got to decide the issue? I felt like my husband had garnered control of the one aspect of my femininity I deemed most my own: the ability to bear children. Of course, that was not at all Craig's intention and, through prayer and concentration on the big picture, I learned to daily tell God that Craig mattered more to me than any other dream. Any. Other. Dream. And I'd rather have him and a healthy marriage than any plan or purpose I harbored. Of course, that all sounds so mature and spiritually evolved, right? Well, let me tell you: like most final products, the end truth has lots of shine. But the amount of poop it took to get there wasn't pretty. At all.

So life went on. About 8 months passed. We were happy. Content. Then one morning, in classic Craig fashion, he woke up, turned to me, yawned, and said, "I'm ready to have a baby. Do you still want to have one?"

Yet, circumstances delayed us when we learned Craig, who was a lieutenant in the Air Force at the time, had been tagged for a 90 day TDY to Bogota, Columbia. We said goodbye at the Anchorage airport on the Eve of the Millenium (yeah, that was brutal), and committed we'd start trying for a baby upon his return. My nurse practitioner - along with everyone else who suddenly had opinions regarding our fertility - told us we should reasonably expect 6-8 months would pass before we became pregnant...after all, as Deb (my np) explained, "Pregnancy is sticky business. You've gotta give it time and space." Sticky business, indeed. That still cracks me up.

Craig returned home on March 26th amidst the hustle and bustle of mid-terms and taxes and talk of extending his deployment. It is stressful and overwhelming - as any military spouse will tell you - when your trooper comes home because, though you're thrilled for his safe return and overjoyed to be reunited, you also have to readjust to sharing a home, a schedule, an emotional upheaval, and...well...a body. So let's just say nothing about the timing was right to conceive.

I'll spare the details here and suffice to say that, when nature still didn't take its course after three weeks, we took a pregnancy test. Negative. So I called my doctor thinking something was seriously wrong. I still chuckle when I remember her response: "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a duck. Come in for a blood test." That night, we were having dinner with close friends, and we'd agreed to meet there. I walked into the house, and everyone was staring at me with these grins to rival the Cheshire Cat. Craig asked, "Have you checked messages on our machine?" Um, no. He told me I should retrieve them and, when I did, Deb's voice was on the line, singsonging, "I know something you don't know."

When I reached her at 7 the next morning, she told me, "Honey, you're 5 weeks pregnant." But how could this be? my uninformed, ain't never had a baby, don't know nothin' mind queried. Craig's only been home three weeks! Deb spun her wheel using the dates I gave her and immediately bubbled into hysterics. What!? What was so funny? "You conceived on March 26th!" Friends in AK still tease us about that. I called Craig at work, stunned to tell him our news. He put the receiver down, and I heard him shout to the entire floor, "I'm a dad!"

Grace was born on December 21st. She was 10 days late. We tried to induce four different ways, none of which were completely effective. Finally, after 36 hours of labor and two more pushing, Gracie decided she wasn't going to camp out in my tummy for the rest of her days, after all, and came into this world at 9:02 pm weighing 8.10 and measuring 21" long. She's our smallest baby, but has the biggest heart. She's sassy and effervescent, and blow-your-mind smart. And she's proof that God's timing is all that matters: it trumps every other agenda, schedule, and plot to circumvent Him it encounters. In short, she came when she was meant to be.

In the 4.5 years we waited to have children, we heard the following question often: "When are you going to have kids already?" To which we'd smile and politely respond, "Not today." When I was finally the one asking that question, Craig's reply was the same. It wasn't time. I may not have liked that answer, but I learned to trust it in the end. I see now that God was speaking to Craig, telling him to lead his wife into the season God had prepared. It wasn't time. It wasn't today. And you can't circumvent God's timing.

But when the right day came, we welcomed our only daughter. We celebrated here then as we celebrate her now, 9 year later. When Craig tells her the story of her birth, he always finishes with, "And I saw you come out, and I held you. You looked right at me. And you took my breath away." Every now and then, I'll peek into her room at bedtime or catch them sitting on a swing outside or see them holding hands as they walk down the street, and I'll hear Craig turn to Grace and say, "You still take my breath away." There are no words to describe her smile in return.

That's my favorite part of the story of Grace.

Just in Case...

Just in case you are not of the either near 36 million or 7 million who have not seen these videos on You Tube, well, then let me send them your way. These are in keeping with "My Favorite Things" concept, being that they kept me laughing and cheering throughout the year. They remind me that I do, in fact, have a silly, saucy, and sometimes even raunchy side (and I don't feel badly about that) that few know about because I've found few want me to be that way.

Regardless, these videos appeal to my lighter side, making me do what is one of my favorite things to do...laugh.

I hope they do the same for you.

JK Wedding Entrance Dance

Baby Dancing to "Ring on It"

Nancy Drew

Now, you can laugh all you want, but this is a guilty pleasure. And, unlike most guilty pleasures that, by their very definition, are secretive and/or private, this one has brought more than many great memories with the ones I love.

I discovered them by chance at the library one day, and have been solving the mysteries for years since. Each time a new one comes out, Grace, Elijah, and I rush to the library to pick it up and play it together until it's solved. We exercise our brains and work as a team, with each player knowing which puzzles we can conquer and which requires us to yield to another. I'm good at words, Grace is good at memory, and Elijah's good at anything requiring him to think the big picture.

We've played, just the three of us. We've played with Nana over popcorn and soda. And we've played with "Auntie Cole" so many nights when she lived here: remember, Nic, the blizzard passed with cocoa and Drew? Now it's a memory we share for years to come...maybe as long as they keep making the Drews because, as sure as there is family and there are friends, the medium of joy and memory doesn't matter.

It only matters that you make them...and maybe that you catch the bad guy now and again.

A Public Salute

I'm a product of the public school system...or, mostly, anyway. I did attend a private school from K-5, but I transferred to public after that. So, in the ledger of my formative years, I count the largest number in the public column. I went to traditional state universities for both my undergraduate and post-grad degrees, and I'm better for it. I got a great education and learned that school, while fundamentally about the curriculum of learning, is also about far more...like how to resolve conflict, stand for what I believe, express my discontentment, say, "I don't know" and "I don't understand" (two keys to life, I'm quick to add), and learn the real-life differences between love and lust, speaking your mind and biting your tongue, and saying you're a friend versus actually acting like one.

Now our children are in public school and, roughly 15 years since we last left it, the quality of the system has remarkably improved. And vastly eroded. I know many parents making the switch to private, atypical, or untraditional modes of education: and I think that's dandy. Like most other products of a postmodern generation, I say do what's best for you and yours. But I won't stand for slamming the public school system - especially if you ain't in it. Despite what critics may need to believe, kids aren't necessarily getting poorer educations if they go to public and, let me remind you, kids aren't necessarily getting better ones if they attend private. Schools, like people, are a varied box of chocolates where your favorites depend entirely on your experience of trying them and finding what you like.

Grace doesn't even test on the charts of literacy, math, and science. I don't say this to boast; I say it to make a point. And here it is: God made Grace smart. He took my genes and Craig's genes, and they spliced together quite nicely, I think. But it's Grace who does the work to get smarter: she reads, she studies, she asks questions about her world, the people in it, and how she can impact it. And it's Grace's teachers...all 5 of them, thus far, who have stimulated, cultivated, shaped, and generally spurred on her smarts. We don't take credit for it, we just say "thank you" for it.

Now, as Elijah has entered the system, we're adapting to cultivating an entirely different person than his sister: if you're a parent, you know this is necessary because, despite misconceptions about offspring, they're not all the same...I don't care who's raisin' 'em. So we get to see how he, too, is flourishing in a public school. And hats off to parents who recognize that different children have different needs and so may have multiple children in multiple school settings and refrain from scorning any one system.

So, what's my ultimate point here? Well, it's twofold: first, I want to recognize the "public" teachers who have touched my children's hearts and minds. Amy Amsden, Jamie Minette, Angie Kelley, Kate Motley, Heidi McClure, and Julie Nealy...you're the cream of my crop, literally. You have planted seeds in the field of my precious harvest - my children. And I won't soon forget you and your contribution. I plan to continue telling my children that superb quality doesn't have to come in expensive or elite school packaging - you're a testament to that truth.

Which leads to my second point: don't slam public school. It's an option that for our family, and many others like us, has proved to be a blessing beyond measure - and one I wouldn't trade. Please remember that our history was founded on a public system, on the belief that no child is more important than another whether yours wears a uniform to school or mine wears blue jeans. We're all trying to do what's right for our families and best for our world and teaching, no matter where you do it, is a hard, hard line of work.

So remember the teachers, public or private or otherwise, who have touched and are touching your lives and the lives of your children. We serve and bless ours for all their commitment to leaving a legacy of learning.

I thank you.

And my children thank you, too.

Grace's 2nd grade teacher,

          Mrs. Motley.

Grace's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Minette.

"Glee"-full Golden Globes

I know I mentioned this show in my post "My Favorite Things -- TV Land." But the Golden Globe nominations were released yesterday, and I find it's worth mentioning that Glee received the majority of the nods. With four nominations, they received more than any other series in the comedy or musical category. Included in those are the coveted Best Series, Comedy or Musical and, not surprisingly, best actor for Matthew Morrison (Will Schuster) and Best Actress for Lea Michele (Rachel Berry). Jane Lynch (Sue Sylvester) was also noticed in the Best Supporting Actress category.
This is a show many adults shrug off, citing it seems "cheesy" or an updated version of any other teenage-focused comidrama. I admit there is some truth to that: it's quirky, and I found I had to press through the first couple of episodes I tried. And, admittedly, there's a teenage spin on some plot situations; however, this isn't the WB network. You won't find Dawson's Creek or 90210 or Gossip Girls creeping in (um, did I just date myself?), and if you don't like singing and dancing, you're out of luck.

But if you want to indulge a guilty pleasure -- that craving for entertainment that excites the sense with no heavy mental lifting involved -- this will scratch your itch. You can meet Sue, who I'll wager we ALL wish we could be in some moments: that gal who says what you would were you ever totally without ethics, morals, tact, or basic human decency. You can be inspired by the love of teaching and one guy's drive to make sure teens know they matter. You can wish you were friends with the OCD-afflicted but generous-hearted Emma Pillsbury who's just trying to figure out love and life.  And, of course, any show that's got a guy my age breakdancing is a go for me.
Give it a try (locally) on Wednesday nights at 8 pm or check your listings for reruns.

It may surprise you. You may surprise yourself.

A New Moon Date

We went to Forks, WA, to hang out with vampires and werewolves.

What's the matter: cat got your tongue? Not if you've read the Twilight series.

We went to see if the movie remained true to the book (well, Morgan and I did since Michelle doesn't read anything but county assessments and debt-to-income ratios). We were voyeurs, peering into the same love story told countless times throughout literary history (think Romeo & Juliet, Lancelot & Guenevere, David & Bathsheba: I could go on). And the movie was fine.

But that wasn't really why I went to Forks; rather, I went for the memory.

As the numbers in my age tick ever higher, I've come to realize that the best memories aren't about the event itself. The first date, first kiss, graduation, proms, concerts and parties...even the all-nighters in the dorms cramming for finals: they're all about the people, not the event. Now I embrace memory-making with this in mind understanding that, yes, I wanted to see New Moon. But I could have seen it with any one of at least a dozen other friends. I could have seen it on a date (of course, I'd have needed to sedate Craig, first). I could have even seen it by myself. But I wanted to see New Moon with Morgan and Michelle because of the experience of simply going together, of embracing the experience together. Of seeing the movie after discussing the books, sharing what we thought and felt about the story.

Afterward, we went for dinner and ate good food while we laughed and laughed and laughed. We recalled how, sure enough, Morgan couldn't make it through the movie without needing to pee. And, being on Team Edward, we all admitted how we like Jacob more than we thought we would. And we wondered, "What's up with the waiter calling us all honey, baby, dear, and darling?" I'd prefer the werewolves and vampires to creepy Red Robin guy any day. We didn't discuss world peace or boys. Or cheer practice or boys. Or the unemployment rate or boys. We simply dwelled in the moment...

and there's freedom - elation - in that.

All in all, we celebrated friendship that night and have a memory to show for it. A good memory. One that will last us when the days draw long and we've haven't had the opportunity to make another memory. Or when we wonder if we really have pure, honest, intimate relationships where someone else on the planet knows us just as we are...warts and all. When those times come (and most assuredly, they will), we have that memory to sustain us. And to remind us that a date is never merely a date if it's celebrated in love and friendship.

My Favorite Things - TV Land

I titled this post with one of the weirdest Christmas songs in mind: whenever I hear it, I think of the 1950s and picture book children made of sugar and spice and everything nice. And, of course, let's not forget that Oprah has made the once mildly well-known phrase into an uber-phenomena of hot-ticket must-haves. But both get me thinking: what are some of my favorite things?

Each fall, I begin the hunt for television shows: my limit is 5. Yes, just 5. For some, that's excessive. For others, that's ridiculously minimal. Either way, it's the number that keeps me disciplined from over-watching the tube and forces me to consider carefully where I'll lay my time. I mean, come on now, how much tv do we watch purely to veg out -- even if we don't care about the programming itself? And, while I'm all for the vegging, I don't want the porthole to suck me in, either.

Of course, the trick in current cable and network scheduling is filling the gaps: gone are the days when all shows run from September to May. Instead, you've got 13 episodes, late starts, test starts, feature series, and "events"...whatever those are. So, I find my five slightly rotating as one might end and another begins. Here's a sample of my faves...what are yours?

 

He Is Tradition

Some would say they grew up without traditions. I'm convinced we all grew up with traditions: the problem is that we don't label our recurring recollections as such. Instead, we see them in clippings - segmented, cataloged happenings that were caught in the shafts of light we call memory. But if we take a step back and try to loop those segments into a running reel of childhood film, we'd see that some of them are, in fact, traditions that visited us time and again. Certainly, they may not all be happy. But they're probably not all bad, either. And good or bad, they're valuable. They've marked us as who we are, stamped us in some recognizable if not irresistable way.

My brother recently posted on his Facebook wall, "Reflecting on the memories of Christmases past. Some good. Some not so good. Ah, the balance of life." I like his summation not only because its succinctly accurate, but also because it prompted the realization that, though we shared the Christmases of our childhood and all the traditions they entailed, our sense of good and not so good may not be the same. This only goes to show how the components of our childhood -- and the traditions entrenched within them -- are individual and personal like tattoos of the same shape from a different artist's hand.

Some of my childhood traditions I practice today and, in light of the approaching Christmas holiday, I find myself recalling most those surrounding the season of giving. I recall how my mom and I decorated the house the day after Thanksgiving while my brother and dad went deer hunting: my family, which began with just me and my husband, deck the halls and dress the tree the day after Thanksgiving. The only hunting I do is for the best deals on Black Friday: however, I do liken some radicals' behaviors to the crazy wildlife rabidly lurking in the backwoods. As a child, we opened presents on Christmas Eve, not Day, and went to midnight mass in the brittle Midwestern cold. And, point of interest, Craig's family did the same. We still open presents on the Eve, stockings on the Day, and I still hold back the giant, post hectic-day yawns and go to 10:30 pm mass with my mother-in-law. I'm sure you could recite similar lists of memories past and present.

But new life has also made way for new traditions - which is as it should be. As we've had children, we've made room for their joys and imaginations: we build gingerbread houses and frost sugar cookies.  Candy canes go in dark chocolate cocoa and the musical tinklings of snow globes herald bedtimes in bedrooms. There's mistletoe at the front door and a jingly snowman on the back, and one candlelight flickers in every window facing front. And we read Luke throughout December, teaching the story of Christ's birth anew to each little one who asks, "What is Christmas about?" We see Grace and Elijah telling the story to Judsen now,  and we quietly contemplate the blessing of the best tradition of all: family.

Family is the tradition that weaves the tatters of our memories together, whether they be whimsical or bittersweet; raw or raucous; mundane or miraculous. Family is what forms us, whether yours is two or 20 or 200 in number. God isn't keeping stats: He's storing tears in bottles with thoughts that outnumber the sand. That's family. He's family...the best Family of all with the best Father there is. He's the New Year, Easter, Independence Day, and Thanksgiving. He offers fresh starts and new births: He sets us free and inspires gratitude.

And He is Christmas. He is family. He is tradition.

(left, Gingerbread House 2009. Right, wraparound banister's garland)

 

And, this year, it was Elijah's turn to put the angel atop the tree. By the way...Craig made that angel as a gift for me our first Christmas married. Yep, tradition.

We Are All Learning

So this picture is the summation of my life the last two weeks of every semester: grading, grading...and then more grading. Now that it's over, I'm reflecting once again on this intense phase that comes and goes twice a year. Though it leaves me with this heady, rather euphoric feeling (minus the "happy" head that comes with it), it's rather like a relationship you find yourself engaging even if you aren't always on the best of terms. Think Old Man Winter or Spring Fever (or Cabin Fever, for that matter).
But this time of year also reminds me of how much I love to teach. I recall each May and December that I am not only doing what I love, I am doing what I am. I treasure that opportunity because, in a world where dollars and cents often trump worth and bliss, we find ourselves punching the timecard at a place we don't belong doing work we don't value. But I get to start with 20 faces every semester and teach their minds. Teach their minds, I say! What a privilege!

After 10 years in the profession, I've become accustomed to "seeing" these students, even after the first class: I can tell you who's going to drop...and even make a pretty decent wager on why. I can tell you who's hungry, who's thirsting for knowledge and personal betterment: who's wanting to become the person they wish they'd always been, hoped to always be.

Learning is what changes us. Grows us. Takes us someplace we've never seen, been, or dreamed. Learning changes us. And I get to teach them that, above all else.

For we are all students. We are all teachers. When I sit and listen to our pastor's sermon on a Sunday, I am a student of his Biblical knowledge and fervor for the Word. When I help my children resolve conflict without hitting or name-calling, I am a teacher of love beyond self. When you take my childrens' hands and tell them everything's going to be okay, you are a teacher of compassion and mercy and grace above all else.
When I observe my husband's conviction to be a better man, I am a student of his zest for godliness and dying to self. And when you embrace me and tell me you're with me come what may, you are a teacher of loyalty and friendship that never dies.

We are all teaching. Every day.

This semester, I met a woman recently divorced. After decades of marriage, her husband had decided to move on to something...and someone...better. Younger. Fresher. She has three children, one the same age as Grace. She's never been to school, never thought it mattered before. But now she must feed and clothe and nurture these children without a husband. Without their father.

Could this have been you? Could this have been me?

She wasn't a great writer at first: high school is a faint blur in the rearview mirror of her life and there's been no practicing in between: there's not often cause for rhetoric when you're changing diapers and wiping noses between carpool, lunches and mopping the kitchen floor. But, she was determined, this one. She was hungry. She wrote fairly average work, but always applied my feedback, always struggled to grasp every new piece of information - until about midway through the semester. I sat down to read her essay, and I knew it was different. Instantly. She had a new confidence, a bolder stroke with her words. A fervor to communicate beyond the average, you might say.

And I graded her essay.

And I tallied her points.

And I wrote a purple "A" at its bottom.

And I felt rich.

Next class, I asked her to see me for a moment at break. She came up front, her step a bit hesitant, probably worrying the news was not good. I laid her paper face down on the table and said: "I want you to hear this before you look at your grade. I want you to understand what I want to say. I want you to know that you are the reason I teach. I want you to know that you should be proud of this grade...not because I taught you  or because the book helped you. Not because your peer reviewed it or because your computer checked it. You should be proud because you wrote it. You did that. You did it well, and I'm proud of you."
And she turned over that paper and saw her grade. And she cried. She actually cried. And she taught me something in that moment...

We are all learning. Every day.

Soul

In conducting research for another project, I stumbled upon this. Every one of them made me go "Hmmm...." and want to put them on Post-Its so I can ponder them throughout my house. Enjoy.

I have found that among its other

benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver.
Maya Angelou

It is only to the individual that a soul is given.
Albert Einstein

The devil has put a penalty on all things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health or we suffer in soul or we get fat.
Albert Einstein

Begin to see yourself as a soul with a body rather than a body with a soul.
Wayne Dyer

Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.
Marilyn Monroe

Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul.
Mark Twain

Be careless in your dress if you will, but keep a tidy soul.
Mark Twain

You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.
C. S. Lewis (my favorite, of course)

And check this out: It's called "The Heart and Soul Nebulae" located in a region of the galaxy where astronomers are currently fascinated to find huge numbers of stars now forming. Uh-huh. Tell me again there's no God. And He's got souls.

 

The Everyday "Every-Moment"

We look to the skies, wondering of all we don't know: the mystique of falling stars and shooting rockets; the mystery of the Milky Way and the man in the moon. We gasp at bones unearthed - records of a species and planet long ago ceasing to exist. We ponder the where's, the why's, and especially the how's of the unknown world above, below, and around us.

But what about the miracles of the everyday, the "every-moment"? Are we as mystified by them if we fail to label them as "mystifying"? As miraculous?

Due to leading the couples ministry at our church (The Vow), we are privileged to encounter all sorts of marriages.Some are new, some are old. Some are happy; some not. And some are so full of life and hope, I find myself momentarily taken aback: we met one such couple on Sunday. Just married on September 25th, they reminded me of the everyday, "every-moment" miracles. They reminded me because, especially in their eyes, they're living one.

I love couplehood -- all stages. But it's Godly, Christ-centered marriage I love the most. And I'm not a romantic - except when it comes to marriage. This idea of two becoming one is a miracle to me. Notice that, as generations have progressed, this feat is one decreasingly achieved and increasingly scoffed by naysayers of commitment who mock, "Marriage, indeed." But make no mistake: marriage - the with you til the end, never leave nor forsake you, never have another, in it to win it, soul mate and destiny kind of marriage - is alive and well. I'm living one. I'm proud to know others who are living it, too. And, in a nation where the divorce rate is going nowhere but up, this IS a miracle. And so I was reminded of this miracle when I met this couple.

They kept close watch on the other - not as a protective measure, but rather like each saw the other as perfection. Not perfect. But perfection - the best possible version of what they needed most. They've been married for two months. We've been married 13 years. Our friends and marriage mentors, 30 years. And it seems one component never changes...

the miracle of the everyday, "every-moment."

We asked if we could pray for them, pray a blessing over this brand new covenant: for, as certain as the day is long, they will encounter hard times. But their choice to live as a miracle will give them an edge, I've no doubt. And their miracle will beget others...and so the cycle will go on. And I believe that, if we embrace and cultivate these miracles, the minority will become the majority, and marriages will thrive. Soon, we'll think a divorce is uncommon...not because we judge it or scorn it or deem it as less than we. But because the miracle conquers its opponent.

And what seems impossible or even improbable will become the everyday...the "every-moment"... of marriage.

I Would Rather...

I would rather have a daisy than a rose. A 4Runner than a Mercedes. A flip-flop than a heel. A pencil skirt than a dress. And long instead of short.
I would rather have lip gloss than lipstick. A shower than a bath. A push up over a sit up. And I prefer cross-country to downhill skiing.
I would rather have 3 children than 4. 3 friends than 30. And I'll take a home over any 50 luxury houses offered.
I would rather hear you say "thank you" than give me all the money in your pocket. But I still like it when you buy me a Starbucks.
I would rather adults didn't abuse children. But I won't lose sleep when justice finds those who do.
I would rather live right here than any other place in the world. But I don't mind going back to my roots.

I would rather have God than not. Would rather love and lose than never love at all. I'd rather take today than live in all the yesterdays I've ever had.
And I would rather have one long, hungry stare from my husband across the room than all the world's reddest roses and finest fancies.

What is "Me"?

Walking to school the other day, Grace posed a question which, at first blush, seemed easy. Uncomplicated. But, like most of Grace's queries, I soon discovered that deep-thinking waters were swirling beneath the kiddie pool language.
She asked, "Mommy, what is me?"
"What am I, you mean?"
"No."
"Huh? You mean you're asking what you are."
"No."

Apparently, mommies don't always understand even the simplest of things.

"I mean, when we say what we are -- that we're the 'me' -- what does that really mean?"

Uh-huh. Now you see the depth, don't you? Waiting to know what I said, aren't you?

"Well, baby, I don't know what other people mean. I guess that  isn't always clear to me. And if I want to know and don't, I just ask them what they mean."

Pause here as she ponders.

"Well, what does being 'me' mean to you, Mommy?"

Pause here as I ponder.

"Hmmm. Being 'me' (to me) are those things that I am that I realize aren't true for everybody."
"Like what, Mommy?"
"Well, I wake up every day, and I have to write something. It makes me feel good in my mind and strong in my heart. I think that's what makes me a writer. And I like to think about stuff. All stuff, all the time. I guess I like to just sit and think. But some people like to laugh or cry or play basketball or paint. And I guess that makes me a thinker."
"Does that make those other people laughers and criers and basketball players and painters?"
"Yeah. Or I think that's part of them. Just like being a mommy, for me, is the most important job I'll have. And being your Daddy's wife is the best present I'll ever receive. Some people might never get married or maybe never have children. So I'm also a mommy and a wife."
Pause here as we approach her drop-off point.
"I think I'm a daughter. And a sissy. And a horse-girl. But I'm also an artist, cuz you and Daddy say I'm good at drawing. And I'm smart cuz my teacher's say I understand things."

Pause here as we hug.

"Oh, and I better not forget I'm God's...cuz Jesus saved me."

Pause here as I my eyes fill with tears.

"Yes, baby. That is you."
Pause here as she casually waves goodbye.

I'm in awe of her "me."