Make This Christmas a Miracle

Today has been one of those days when I wish I had a video camera permanently strapped on my forehead so I could show my children fifteen years from now just how mischievous they really were.

One snapshot would show a crying Wyatt, pink flower boots stuck firmly in the center of the mud as a bootless-mama tentatively wove a path to him without sinking out of sight herself.

The next snapshot, a mere 30 minutes later, would show my face sag in defeat as I realize that while I folded laundry, the twins pulled all the ready-to-pop blossoms off my blooms-once-a-year Christmas cactus.

The final snapshot from right before bath time would show Amelia happily covered in three entire shelves worth of children's books...courtesy of Wyatt.

My children are enough to make me scream--and it's only Monday!But in the midst of it all, they give me glimpses of maturity, of kindness, of an empathy for others that just amazes me.

Last week, Wyatt wanted to write a letter to his Grandma who recently went through knee surgery. As the babies slept, he told me what to write, and I did. Then, he copied the letters.
If you can't read his writing, the last sentence reads, "Hope your knee is better now." I tried to get him to skip the "now," telling him that although we prayed ever night, it would take her awhile to feel better.

Completely undeterred, he insisted on writing the "now" anyway.

Today, he and I spent our afternoon "special" time looking at the World Vision Gift Catalog. Crouched over the small kitchen table, he spent half an hour flipping back and forth through the small twenty-page booklet. I tried to explain what each item was how it could help others, and how it would be our way to show them at Christmas that God loves them since Christmas is about God sending His best gift of Jesus to us.

I was so amazed to see how serious Wyatt was about this decision. As he looked, he would have me repeat the story of some pictures, especially of the one boy with the distended stomach from parasites.

Finally, I asked what he would like to give. First on his list were two chickens (expected since Oma raises them and he knows how good an egg tastes). But after that, he surprised me, asking for mosquito nets to protect a family from mosquitoes, medicine to help them feel better, and clean water so they wouldn't get sick from drinking bugs.

Late in the evening, I had Wyatt tell his daddy what he was "buying" to give and why. I smiled as he actually remembered (1) exactly what he chose to give and (2) that we were giving to others who were in need to show them God's love.

Seeing this child blossom, watching him learn to show Jesus' love to others...these are the "milestones" that I tuck away in my heart.

And it makes me wonder--although my family's gift won't make but a tiny difference in the world, what if we all spent more on others in need this year than on presents for ourselves?

Then, what an even greater miracle Christmas truly would be.

Preparing Your House for Advent

Every year, it sneaks up on me, this starting to remember the Christ child while the calendar still oozes autumn with its burnt oranges and golden yellows.

Perhaps, like me, you'll be surprised to learn that two days from now, Sunday, November 28 starts Advent, the countdown to Christmas.

And perhaps you'll be even more surprised to learn I'm (gasp) prepared!!!

If your family doesn't celebrate Advent, author Ann Marie Stewart's Preparing My Heart for Advent is an awesome book with short daily readings to guide you through the season. The main point of Advent is to keep your focus on the coming of Christ, to truly remember the reason for the season.

Although everyone celebrates Advent a little differently, it is common to have an Advent wreath where you light a candle each Lord's day until Christmas.

A few weeks ago, somehow, in God's sovereignty, He saw fit to have the mail carrier mis-deliver to our home a neighbor's copy of the children's magazine Highlights. When Wyatt saw it in the "back in the mailbox" pile, he pestered me until I read it from cover to cover before returning it to its rightful owner.

In the midst of non-memorable stories was a cute, easy Christmas project for children to make their own Advent wreath. I thought it was a great idea for those of any age who aren't quite mature enough to be trusted with matches, lighters, or anything else they could possibly use to burn down a house.
After tracing Wyatt's favorite leaf collected on one of our nature walks, he cut our four leaves...I cut out the other 40 something. Definitely not equal division of labor in this household.

I was going to wait to "light" the candles with yellow tissue paper until Advent started, but his almost-four-year-old mentality insisted the project wasn't complete until it looked like the picture. I'm still not sure how it's going to go over on Sunday when they're all "unlit" save one.

Although Wyatt's Advent wreath is a new addition to our dinner table, this is a tradition I've had in my family since childhood. I vividly remember my mother having the pink and purple candles lit on the Sunday dinner table.

Last year, she gave me a precious gift, the Advent wreath she carefully painted many years ago.
One year, I'll light those candles just as she did for her children.

For now, though, I'm content to stuff yellow tissue paper into the top of a toilet paper roll as I remind my children of Jesus' birth, of the true meaning of Christmas.

The Thanksgiving Eve Funeral

Digging a shallow grave by flashlight wasn't not exactly how I intended to spend the evening before Thanksgiving. Choosing what portion of my yard to use as a pet cemetery wasn't on my "to do" list today, either.

Yet, death doesn't seem to understand it's supposed to work around holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and the like. In fact, it seems as if these events always manages to fall on those over-stuffed days on the calendar, the ones where I've already written in bold blue marker strokes and highlighted the words.

The first kitty Doug and I adopted soon after we married was a calico-Siamese mix whom we named Mia. Today, we had her put to sleep after finding she had an inoperable tumor consuming her stomach, liver, and endocrine system.

Mia was no mere cat.

She was my child when I could not children. She spent the summer in an apartment with me in Montreal while Doug left to attend school each day. She woke me in the mornings and napped with me in the afternoons. Every night, she would come to the tub and drink the water I would let trickle down the sides. And every time I sat at this computer to type a blog entry, she would sit at my feet until I picked her up for lap-time.

Most visitors to our home never saw her portly form because of her overly-shy personality. But anyone on the phone with me could easily hear her motor that sounded like a large diesel engine.

Tonight, Douglas brought her back from the vet so we could bury her.

With his car lights shining on the newly-loosened dirt piled up beside the hole, we all circled 'round. Emerson didn't care about anything but the dirt. Wyatt, on the other hand, was curious. He understood completely that this was Mia's body but that she was no longer here.

Amelia did not. As I lay the blanket-wrapped body in the hole, Doug and the boys began shoveling dirt back in. One pretty abysmally-exposed shot was all I got off as Amelia started to bawl uncontrollably and scream, "Mia!!!!" I had to scoop her up and hold her as she cried those gut-wrenching sobs like I wanted to cry.

As a kitty girl like her mama, all she understood was that we were burying her Mia in the ground. Since all cats go to heaven, I told her that Mia was up in heaven with Jesus, just like her balloon that just last week escaped out the front door of the house and sailed heavenward over the trees. I'm not sure she believed me.

As I write this, I'm lonely. My legs are warm from another kitty's love, but they're not vibrating from Mia's loud purr. And I know when I sign off here and head up for a bath, she won't be waiting for me there either.

Tomorrow, I will celebrate in thankfulness with my family. But tonight, I mourn. And I remember.

Why Shoes Are Important to God

It seems totally irrational to think that the biggest topic of conversation in my household over the past few weeks has been (drum roll)........shoes. In fact, I think the dialogue about shoes has sucked up more air time than potty training and the new porno airport pat downs combined. And I know it's been associated with a lot more tears...as well as some heart-thumping excitement.

Two Fridays ago, I finally broke down and started trying on shoes in my closet. A couple weeks before, I had discovered I couldn't wear my tennis shoes--my feet had either grown or my arch had fallen within the four-month window since I last wore them.

After sending my tennis shoes to a new home, I waited. I intentionally put off the inevitable not because I thought I could avoid this day. As someone with a narrow heel and a hatred of the modern pinched-toe, insanely-high heeled trend in shoes, I simply was afraid of what the damage might be.

As it turns out, I had reason to fear. It was worse than I expected. Twelve pairs of dress flats and heels. Twelve (sigh).

Sure, I inherited several of them from my mother and the rest I purchased on what used to be fabulous Dillards clearance sales...but that's not the point. Until trends change, they're virtually impossible to replace, a fact I know all too well after two weeks of shoe shopping.

When I had counted up the casualties and noted the huge gap where my church shoes used to be, I had a big boo hoo meltdown. The following morning was no better--my husband made a stray remark about a new can of soup I'd bought for him, and I crumpled to the floor, sobs shaking my shoulders as (once again), my children watched in wonder that mommy could cry just like they could.

Before this past week, I can't remember the last time I shopped for shoes for me. And to say that I've had seriously limited success so far is putting it in the best light possible.

But today, God showed me there was hope.

I went to Wal-mart for Thanksgiving day gumbo-fixings and (maybe) some size 11 sandals for Wyatt since in Louisiana, we can wear sandals with socks all winter...a great invention for dirt pile play.

I wasn't too hopeful, but was making a required pass by the shoe department when on an end cap, I saw a whole rack of sandals. And at the top, the sign said "$1." My jaw dropped as I instantly realized God had heard me this morning. And He had provided.

My mom was with me and quickly realized that these would be fantastic to send to the Mexico orphanage her church supports, so we quickly filled her buggy with the remaining 28 pairs of little kid sandals.

Isn't God just so amazing?

I never asked Him to provide Wyatt a pair of shoes. And there in the glow of fluorescent retail lighting, I realized that I've never asked His help, not once, with finding me some shoes.

Why not? Did I think the God who knows every hair on my head wouldn't care about something, anything that concerned me?

My God is the God of shoes. Of rotten pine trees. Of my husband's eyesight. Of the orphan.

And that is comforting beyond belief.

Making Peace with Santa Claus

Christmas was my all-time favorite holiday as a child and young adult. Sadly, that all changed the moment I had children. After four years spent wrestling with the concept of Christmas in our commercialized society, only now am I beginning to make peace with how my family will celebrate the holiday.

My husband and I grew up in two very different worlds. Mine was filled with Santa Claus, Christmas Eve gift-giving parties with family, and a huge Christmas Day dinner. My husband's was a Santa-Claus-free world with little emphasis on gifts and little celebration of the day itself.

As you can imagine, with Wyatt's birth came a load of emotionally-charged decisions where Christmas was concerned. And then came the guilt. Each time I said the word "Santa," it stuck hard in my throat because I knew many Christians refused to allow Santa a part in Christ's birthday. I respected their decisions and wondered if I were doing right by my son.

Only in the last month have I finally made peace with Santa Claus and his role in my family's Christmas.

I'm teaching my children that Santa is the man who fills their stockings (and only their stockings) with gifts in celebration of Jesus' birthday because Jesus was God's best gift to us. Wyatt, especially, is intrigued by the idea of gifts. And yet, at 4-years-old, it seems like he's learning what I've been trying to teach--that Christmas is about giving. Last week, we practiced his writing skills by writing a letter to Santa. Wyatt told me what he wanted, I would write it on a dry erase board, and then he'd copy the letters on his rather large post card. What caught me totally off guard was how his list progressed.

First, he wanted a teddy bear for Amelia and Emerson, then a fishing rod for me and his daddy. Once his family was taken care of, he asked for our three cats: a tree scratcher for Jonah, a rug for Mia and Tabby, and a toy mouse for Kira. Only then did he ask for himself--a bouncy ball, soft sheets (a complaint about current bed sheets), books, and a mama duck.The twins aren't up to speed on Santa yet. They're too busy playing with the nativity scene placed on a table low enough for small hands to rearrange dozens of times a day. Baby Jesus is most always out of his stable...and is always encircled by shepherds and wise men who have come to worship Him. Amazing how even a two-year-old knows that everyone, even the donkey, must look to Jesus.While I know this is a decision each family must prayerfully make, I finally feel at peace. I finally feel free to celebrate. Since I'm about to enter the end-of-the-semester-crazy-paper-grading time of year, this past week, my children and I pulled out boxes of Christmas decorations, some that I haven't used since the second year of my marriage.It's been exciting to see Christmas through their eyes--to be able to tell the Christmas story almost daily. To explain how the twinkling white lights remind us of the star that led the wise men to Jesus. To show them the red and green plaid ribbon and sparkling white butterflies from mommy and daddy's wedding right before Christmas almost ten years ago. To show them the sequined nativity on the Christmas tree skirt that Grandmama and mommy made together oh so many years ago.In a few weeks, I'm looking forward to sitting down with them and a catalog we receive that provides goats, deep wells, mosquito netting and other life-sustaining, life-protecting items while sharing the gospel of Jesus. Instead of gifts to each other, Wyatt, Amelia, and Emerson will start another family tradition--giving the gift of life to another child in another part of the world.

This is the first Christmas in such a very long time that actually feels like a celebration of freedom, of life, of joy...of Jesus.

When Thank You Isn't Enough

If you've followed this blog for long, you know the story of our three precious miracles.

There's no way to put into words the years we spent longing for children. The years of battling infertility. The suffering through two miscarriages.

I'd like to say I handled that period of my life with more grace than I did. The tears, the anger, the hormonal mood swings caused by medications--I'll always be indebted to my husband for the grace he extended to me when I had none to give in return.

Through everything we endured, we both always knew we would have children. Though at times our faith faltered, we always believed we would one day hold in our arms one we could call "ours."

It was just a matter of when. And just a matter of whether God wanted them to be biological or grafted into our family as we were into His.

Long before Wyatt's birth, one late-night run to Target saw me cooing over little girl dresses, especially those sporting an image from my childhood--Strawberry Shortcake. I could imagine nothing more perfect than my daughter wearing such an outfit.

With Doug's encouragement, we brought home that dress and tucked it away in the back of a closet, unsure of whether we would ever use it.

A few weeks ago, the weather turned cold in Louisiana, and I began hanging in the closet little girl 2T clothes I had bought for the winter. In the mix was that dress bought long ago by a mama and a daddy with hopes and dreams for a family.
Thank you just isn't sufficient for expressing my gratitude. Yet, with all my heart, mind, and soul, thank you Father for hearing, for answering. And thank you that even when our faith wavered, yours did not.

Generations of Courage

Courage is not the absence of fear. It's the ability to complete one's mission in the face of fear.This is not the definition I find in Webster's. But it's the definition I have always been taught.

My father and his father before him. My mother's father. My brother. They know what courage means.

World War II. Vietnam. Iraq.

When the time came, they served their country as their country asked them to. Knowing the risks. Seeing the horrific results of those risks. Days. Months. Years. They dutifully served so that I might live free.

I grew up knowing my daddy was a soldier in a time when men were drafted, forced into service, and then treated poorly when they returned home. Because of that, daddy didn't speak much about his stint in the military. Every once in awhile, though, I guess he would need to remember, so he would bring out stacks of black and white photos of Vietnam and rattle off story after story.

On the rare occasion, he would fire up the slide projector, and I would watch frame after frame appear on the living room's white wall as he narrated. I saw napalm-cleared land, forests of trees, airplanes, and a photo of a cocky young man holding a huge machine gun. It was a glimpse into another world miles away, at another fatigue-clad man with a dark brown moustache who didn't look like the daddy I knew.

As I looked at the photos, I knew my daddy was courageous. His job was to fly in the planes and take aerial photographs so American forces would know where the enemy was located. As you can imagine, a plane makes a pretty good target.

Yet, God kept him safe and returned him home to meet my mother. And to become my father.

Today, the Audubon Nature Institute offered free passes to all veterans and their guests. So, what better way to spend Veterans Day than with the veteran I love best.

The aquarium, the insectarium, and the zoo--my parents, my children, and I toured them all.

At the end of our day, my parents rested with the twins and a cup of Haagen Dazs while I took Wyatt to visit the new dinosaur exhibit at the zoo. As we walked through the door, life sized animatronic dinosaurs lept off the pages of the books we've been reading this past year, literally roaring to life...

Wyatt was instantly terrified and turned around to head back through the door that had (uh oh) closed behind him. I hurriedly touched one to show him it was ok.

"No, mommy! It's going to eat you!!!!"

Eventually, I convinced him they were plastic, not real. Yet, the fear still remained. It was obvious he expected them to come to life (for real) at any second and devour us both for their next meal. He didn't even want to snuggle close enough to any of them so that I could fit him + the dinosaur in the camera's frame.

But, he really, really, really wanted to "pet" one of his favorites--a triceratops. So, I stood back and watched as he sidled closer, closer, stretching out that hand as far as it would go, touching, then yanking it back and celebrating his bravery.
In the face of fear--courage. Just like his grand daddy.

(Top Photo: Grand daddy and Wyatt eating beignets.)