Our family spent last night in a closet. The whole family in a tiny pink closet. We didn't exactly sleep, and we did come out from time to time. So maybe saying we spent the night in there is a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. No, we weren't having a pajama party on a school night. We were simply following the weatherman's strict instructions to "take cover". The weirdest "winter" weather I've ever experienced slammed into our little part of the world last evening. My mom was on the phone first thing this morning informing me that she heard on the news these were the worst January storms in this region since the 1800's.
It was a sneaky storm too. For three days before it hit, the weather was gorgeous, complete with record-setting highs. Then, yesterday about 5:00, everything got still..and dark. The wind blew and it rained. It was eery but not scary - yet. During dinner, we turned on the news "just to be safe" and already a tornado had touched down about forty miles west of us - headed right toward us. That's when we "took cover", tornado language for getting in the smallest, most cramped part of your house, contorting your body into the most uncomfortable position you can imagine and covering your head with soft cushy items like pillows and blankets to protect your head and neck from flying trees and crumbling houses. Sounds reasonable, right? So that's what we did. Not once, not twice, but three times. The storms just kept coming, one after another, from 6:00 pm to 4:00 am. They were moving as quickly as 70 mph, and they came in waves, complete with driving rain, baseball-sized hail and deadly twisters. Hence, the reason for hanging out in my daughter's pink closet.
Mackenzie, who's 12, cried silent tears. Maddie, whose closet was our temporary residence, hunched over with her knees drawn to her chest and shook. Micah, the five-year-old, sat on Dad's lap and played with the flashlight, asking, "Can we get out now?" continuously, until we all wanted to scream! We dozed, we held hands, and we prayed - for protection, for peace and for the people who'd already lost their homes and their lives.
It was all too familiar. Eight months ago, a tornado completely devastated Greensburg, Kansas, a farming community 10 miles from where my mom & stepfather, brother and sisters live. The kids and I had gone to help with the relief efforts, and they remember it well. So when they hear the word "tornado" they get very real pictures in their minds - pictures of a hundred cots set up in a school gymnasium, people sobbing out of grief and exhaustion, and strangers embracing as friends in the midst of a shared tragedy. Because of one storm, they know that nature is strong but God is stronger, that loss hurts but love heals. They've seen a town obliterated in 10 minutes and the townspeople plan to rebuild it 10 minutes after that. They know that courage and determination trump shock and fear every time. Oh yeah and one other thing... They know that when the weatherman says, "Take cover," we all go to the pink closet.
Tuesday, January 8
Friday, January 4
New Year's Resolutions and Taunting Treadmills
Happy New Year, everyone! I hope each of you had a healthy, safe holiday season. I guess now it's back to the real world. I've decided that I have a love/hate relationship with the New Year. I love the idea of 12 fresh, new months unfolding before me. But... I hate my treadmill. The way it beckons to me from the corner of the room, taunting me with memories of all the food I've inhaled since.. well, Thanksgiving.
At the beginning of each new year, I used to make a detailed list of about a hundred completely unrealistic resolutions, psyche myself up and get started. I'd get up well before the sun and exercise for an hour. Then I'd shower, read my Bible and eat a nutritious breakfast, complete with two 8-ounce glasses of water. I was sweet and patient with my kids, professionally dressed for work and ON TIME everywhere I went. I ate a healthful lunch, taking time to stretch for 10 minutes and listen to soothing music. After work, I picked up the kids from daycare and school, hugging each one and asking how her day was, listening intently to their responses. Next came a healthful dinner that all the kids loved, after which the whole family snuggled and read books until bedtime. Do I really need to tell you the rest of the story? You got it - it lasted about 48 hours. Then I was back to my frazzled, breakfast (and exercise) skipping, tired, grouchy self. I always ended up feeling overwhelmed, anxious and miserable, which caused me to despise my "lack of discipline" and the first day of January.
Fast forward five years. I've learned from that vicious try-fail-hate myself cycle. Now, I do it differently. At the beginning of each new year, I 1) think about my priorities and 2) jot down a few things that I would like to improve on and one or two dreams I have for my life and family. It's encouraging to think back on the previous year and realize that I did learn, grow and change, even if only in small ways. I mess up a lot, and I still have a long way to go, but thankfully I'm not where I was 10 years ago. I fall short of expectations - my own and other people's. But the realization that each day matters and the assurance that God's grace is new every morning - not just some mornings - helps me keep things in perspective. When I think about the moments I'll share with the people I love, the books I'll read and the places I'll go, I feel grateful and optimistic about 2008. Who knows? I might even get up on that treadmill.
At the beginning of each new year, I used to make a detailed list of about a hundred completely unrealistic resolutions, psyche myself up and get started. I'd get up well before the sun and exercise for an hour. Then I'd shower, read my Bible and eat a nutritious breakfast, complete with two 8-ounce glasses of water. I was sweet and patient with my kids, professionally dressed for work and ON TIME everywhere I went. I ate a healthful lunch, taking time to stretch for 10 minutes and listen to soothing music. After work, I picked up the kids from daycare and school, hugging each one and asking how her day was, listening intently to their responses. Next came a healthful dinner that all the kids loved, after which the whole family snuggled and read books until bedtime. Do I really need to tell you the rest of the story? You got it - it lasted about 48 hours. Then I was back to my frazzled, breakfast (and exercise) skipping, tired, grouchy self. I always ended up feeling overwhelmed, anxious and miserable, which caused me to despise my "lack of discipline" and the first day of January.
Fast forward five years. I've learned from that vicious try-fail-hate myself cycle. Now, I do it differently. At the beginning of each new year, I 1) think about my priorities and 2) jot down a few things that I would like to improve on and one or two dreams I have for my life and family. It's encouraging to think back on the previous year and realize that I did learn, grow and change, even if only in small ways. I mess up a lot, and I still have a long way to go, but thankfully I'm not where I was 10 years ago. I fall short of expectations - my own and other people's. But the realization that each day matters and the assurance that God's grace is new every morning - not just some mornings - helps me keep things in perspective. When I think about the moments I'll share with the people I love, the books I'll read and the places I'll go, I feel grateful and optimistic about 2008. Who knows? I might even get up on that treadmill.
Tuesday, December 25
Magic in the Madness
Today is Christmas. Our family's favorite holiday. So sometimes I wonder why it doesn't feel more, well.. magical. We wait for it all year, build up to it starting immediately after Thanksgiving. We have our own traditions, like cruising around town, with kid-sized Starbucks hot chocolate, listening to holiday tunes and checking out the best light displays. For weeks before, I bake, shop, address cards, and wrap gifts, just like many of you.
Our Christmas Eve routine goes something like this: We go to church. Then we come home, eat what the kids call a "snack dinner", then open our presents, all except Santa's of course. As we headed to church in our minivan last night, my son, who's five, was somber. The build up to Christmas, combined with the Kindergarten class party sugar buzz, had brought out the worst in him the last few days. And for a little boy worried about which list he would be on, it was a serious situation. He confided that he was afraid if Santa saw everything he did, his name might be at the top of the naughty list. After some discussion, we managed to convince him that he was a shoe-in for the nice list, based on our recommendation, especially if he sat still and listened intently during the next hour - Christmas Eve service.
The service was beautiful; classic Christmas carols and Scripture readings in candlelight helped me focus on the magic of Christmas. But the balcony was crowded and little children whined and squirmed while their parents grew more and more frustrated. We'd been there, done that, so instead of being irritated, I found myself thinking two things: 1) The chubby three-year-old who informed his daddy that "I will never play with you again!" was pretty cute and 2) I'm so glad it's not my kids this year.
After service, we bolted out the door toward the parking lot because the kids didn't want to "waste" one minute socializing while their presents beckoned from the other side of town. I was irritated. I had vowed not to let the Christmas chaos get the best of me, and here I was practically speed walking to keep up with my family, on a mission to open more stuff that none of us needs.
We threw "dinner" together - plates of fruits, veggies, chips & salsa, and cheese & crackers. Steve & I insisted on an orderly family dinner, pointing out that there was plenty of time to open gifts. (After all, we only give each child two gifts, and Santa gives one. That's what grandparents are for!). It didn't quite turn out that way. My son ate three carrots, two Ritz crackers and a slice of cheese, then hopped up from the table insisting that he was "stuffed". Against my better judgment, we abandoned the snack food and dirty dishes and headed into the living room to unwrap. The kids liked their Legos and CD's, but after all the frantic activity, there it was again. The feeling. That something was missing. That going through the motions of Christmas is not Christmas at all. That the white lights, red bows and fragrant Christmas tree do not Christmas make.
After we put the kids to bed, I sat in front of the fireplace, sipping peppermint hot chocolate (Steve's last-minute egg nog quest had been unsuccessful.). I was still, for the first time in weeks, and I forced myself to think about that night 2,000 years ago. God put on baby skin and laid down next to the animals in a Bethlehem stable. That's the part that always gets me. I can't wrap my mind around it no matter how hard I try. I get goose bumps, then I cry. I feel overwhelmed and humbled at the same time. I wonder why He did it. Then I remember, "For God so loved the world, that He gave..." That's what I almost missed in the rush of our routine rituals -- the simplicity of love. Come to think of it, I probably do that a lot.
Our Christmas Eve routine goes something like this: We go to church. Then we come home, eat what the kids call a "snack dinner", then open our presents, all except Santa's of course. As we headed to church in our minivan last night, my son, who's five, was somber. The build up to Christmas, combined with the Kindergarten class party sugar buzz, had brought out the worst in him the last few days. And for a little boy worried about which list he would be on, it was a serious situation. He confided that he was afraid if Santa saw everything he did, his name might be at the top of the naughty list. After some discussion, we managed to convince him that he was a shoe-in for the nice list, based on our recommendation, especially if he sat still and listened intently during the next hour - Christmas Eve service.
The service was beautiful; classic Christmas carols and Scripture readings in candlelight helped me focus on the magic of Christmas. But the balcony was crowded and little children whined and squirmed while their parents grew more and more frustrated. We'd been there, done that, so instead of being irritated, I found myself thinking two things: 1) The chubby three-year-old who informed his daddy that "I will never play with you again!" was pretty cute and 2) I'm so glad it's not my kids this year.
After service, we bolted out the door toward the parking lot because the kids didn't want to "waste" one minute socializing while their presents beckoned from the other side of town. I was irritated. I had vowed not to let the Christmas chaos get the best of me, and here I was practically speed walking to keep up with my family, on a mission to open more stuff that none of us needs.
We threw "dinner" together - plates of fruits, veggies, chips & salsa, and cheese & crackers. Steve & I insisted on an orderly family dinner, pointing out that there was plenty of time to open gifts. (After all, we only give each child two gifts, and Santa gives one. That's what grandparents are for!). It didn't quite turn out that way. My son ate three carrots, two Ritz crackers and a slice of cheese, then hopped up from the table insisting that he was "stuffed". Against my better judgment, we abandoned the snack food and dirty dishes and headed into the living room to unwrap. The kids liked their Legos and CD's, but after all the frantic activity, there it was again. The feeling. That something was missing. That going through the motions of Christmas is not Christmas at all. That the white lights, red bows and fragrant Christmas tree do not Christmas make.
After we put the kids to bed, I sat in front of the fireplace, sipping peppermint hot chocolate (Steve's last-minute egg nog quest had been unsuccessful.). I was still, for the first time in weeks, and I forced myself to think about that night 2,000 years ago. God put on baby skin and laid down next to the animals in a Bethlehem stable. That's the part that always gets me. I can't wrap my mind around it no matter how hard I try. I get goose bumps, then I cry. I feel overwhelmed and humbled at the same time. I wonder why He did it. Then I remember, "For God so loved the world, that He gave..." That's what I almost missed in the rush of our routine rituals -- the simplicity of love. Come to think of it, I probably do that a lot.
Saturday, December 22
Santa Claus Has Come to Town
Thanks to Old Man Winter, our holiday plans have already been canceled, and Christmas is still three days away. We were all set to spend the weekend with my aunt, but the weather, and unexpected car repairs, rearranged our schedule. The kids were disappointed, of course, but at least they're getting old enough to understand that even Dad can't control everything. My mom was planning to meet us there too. Not getting to see Grandma, and the presents she brings, is what upset them the most.
So we all moped around the kitchen table, trying to make the best of it. It was about 8:30 and we had already recited our family mantra, "Everything happens for a reason," when the phone rang. It was Grandma - she had decided to come to our house instead of her sister's, even though it meant an eight-hour drive. "Tell the kiddos Santa Claus is coming to town," she said. "And she'll be there about 10:30." (I'm sure there's something sacrilegious in that statement, but the kids' excitement drowned out my penchant for 'Santa correctness'.) "I feel like Santa tonight," she continued. "I'm jolly, fat, and wearing my red jacket. Not to mention that I've got the Saturn sleigh loaded with toys and goodies." The kids howled and jumped up and down! "Grandma (hidden meaning - and the presents) is coming!!" they squealed.
Sure enough, Santa and her elf, my 17-year-old brother, "Uncle Michael", blew in right on schedule. They piled bags and boxes under our barren Christmas tree, while the kids made a joyful noise. Clapping and squealing, they hugged Grandma and danced around. She had done it again. Turned their sorrow into joy and their gloom into glee.
I adored their smiling faces and found myself wishing that all heartache could be so easily transformed into holiday happiness. Like my husband's 30-year-old friend, a husband and father himself, who had cancer surgery Wednesday. Marriages crumbling under the weight of infidelity. Children in foster care whose parents are prisoners, drug addicts, or just uninterested - only a sampling of the shattered families that won't be magically glued back together just because it's December. This is my grandpa's first Christmas in heaven. It's been 10 Christmases since my dad died, and it still hurts. I'm used to the hollow place that his death created, but the holidays will never be quite the same.
So... I'm learning that Christmas isn't always merry, that tragedy is no respecter of the calendar. But I've also learned that good people always give, especially at Christmas time, that love really is more powerful than.. well, anything. And, that given enough time and the healing salve of compassion, even the most tragic circumstances can give birth to hope and peace. With that in mind, I do what I can... comfort the grieving, give to the needy and hold sacred the blessings of this year. An unlikely Santa and little happy feet are at the top of my list!
So we all moped around the kitchen table, trying to make the best of it. It was about 8:30 and we had already recited our family mantra, "Everything happens for a reason," when the phone rang. It was Grandma - she had decided to come to our house instead of her sister's, even though it meant an eight-hour drive. "Tell the kiddos Santa Claus is coming to town," she said. "And she'll be there about 10:30." (I'm sure there's something sacrilegious in that statement, but the kids' excitement drowned out my penchant for 'Santa correctness'.) "I feel like Santa tonight," she continued. "I'm jolly, fat, and wearing my red jacket. Not to mention that I've got the Saturn sleigh loaded with toys and goodies." The kids howled and jumped up and down! "Grandma (hidden meaning - and the presents) is coming!!" they squealed.
Sure enough, Santa and her elf, my 17-year-old brother, "Uncle Michael", blew in right on schedule. They piled bags and boxes under our barren Christmas tree, while the kids made a joyful noise. Clapping and squealing, they hugged Grandma and danced around. She had done it again. Turned their sorrow into joy and their gloom into glee.
I adored their smiling faces and found myself wishing that all heartache could be so easily transformed into holiday happiness. Like my husband's 30-year-old friend, a husband and father himself, who had cancer surgery Wednesday. Marriages crumbling under the weight of infidelity. Children in foster care whose parents are prisoners, drug addicts, or just uninterested - only a sampling of the shattered families that won't be magically glued back together just because it's December. This is my grandpa's first Christmas in heaven. It's been 10 Christmases since my dad died, and it still hurts. I'm used to the hollow place that his death created, but the holidays will never be quite the same.
So... I'm learning that Christmas isn't always merry, that tragedy is no respecter of the calendar. But I've also learned that good people always give, especially at Christmas time, that love really is more powerful than.. well, anything. And, that given enough time and the healing salve of compassion, even the most tragic circumstances can give birth to hope and peace. With that in mind, I do what I can... comfort the grieving, give to the needy and hold sacred the blessings of this year. An unlikely Santa and little happy feet are at the top of my list!
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