It’s time for my annual Christmas Cold. The few times I’ve gone to the doctor for this, they would always refer to it as the common cold. I always take exception to the word “common.” I never feel like the cold I have is common. Indeed, it always the worst cold in the world; it’s the one that will kill an elephant, it could destroy entire civilizations and render armies helpless. It is the Cold From Hell, the Mother of all Colds, the Queen Cold. It is anything but common.
And I know where I get it: Christmas shopping. I’m walking around a crowded Wal-Mart, innocently pushing my cart, watching women scream at their kids, doing my best to stimulate the American economy and all these people are BREATHING on me! I considered wearing a surgical mask and maybe even gloves to create a barrier from germs. I decided I would look too much like Michael Jackson so I dropped the idea. I open the restroom doors with my elbows, hands held high like I’m going into surgery.
There is no time in the year that it’s worse to have a cold than Christmas. There’s all that shopping, cooking and cleaning. And all those distant relatives to be NICE to. And, at Christmastime, even your own family expects you to be nice to them. Talk about an energy sapping event. And how do you feel? Like a walking corpse. Like a mutilated and rotting, walking corpse. Your head feels like a block of concrete and weighs a ton. Your eyes itch and your nose burns. Moving hurts, sitting still hurts. Breathing hurts. Swallowing, coughing, bending hurts. Watching TV hurts.
So what do you do? You run right back to the store where all those people who infected you to start with are and you line up to buy medicine. Except you don’t know what to buy because there are 12 billion choices and you know deep in your heart that none of them will actually work. But, you pick out about five of them anyway and throw them in the basket. You load up on chicken soup, Seven Up and popsicles; cold season is the one time of the year a grownup can buy popsicles guilt-free. Then you add any home remedy your mother ever used, like Mentholatum. (Actually, Mentholatum works wonders. The smell your body emits after a good rub down with this stuff will announce to the world that you are seriously dying and get you a modicum of sympathy. Or, at least, a clear walking path) You get throat drops and cough drops. Aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, eye drops. Five boxes of Kleenex.
Then, when you get to the checker and unload this basket full of enough drugs to cure Finland, the checker says in a cheery voice that “It looks like you have a cold.” So you sneeze on her and hope she gets it. Immediately the store intercom begins a recording of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Man.”
About Me
- Jane
- I'm pretty much a typist for the Holy Spirit. I try to put those things into words in a blog called Jane's Journey. I have another blog for recipes called My Life in Food. Also Really Cool Stuff features Labyrinths and other things like how to fry an egg on the sidewalk.(first step: don't do it on the sidewalk, use a skillet) Come along with me as I careen through life.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Out of the Mystery Comes the Magic
I’ve been trying to figure out this Christmas thing for years. It’s easy enough to separate it into three distinct holidays, neither one related to the other. There’s the Celebration of the American Economy with an orgasmic frenzy of buying gifts and expecting gifts. There’s the Great Family Reunion when people are drawn to spend time with the folks they grew up with whether they actually like them or not. And then there’s the Celebration of God’s gift of a Messiah to humanity. The first 2 are easy to grasp but it’s the last one I am still trying to figure out.
The Celebration of the American Economy comes right at the end of the year when it’s convenient for the boss to give you a little extra bonus for the year’s work. The newspapers keep track of whether this is a good year for the stores or a bad one. And if you haven’t bought enough you feel like a traitor. People spend money they don’t have on things nobody needs.
This new generation- the one they call “X,” is so computer oriented that I started getting emails from my kids with excel spreadsheets of their Christmas requests. My step-mother came to the rescue a few years ago when she decreed that she already had everything in the world she needed and so did we; she donated money to a charity instead and suggested we do the same. It changed our Christmases forever. Now, instead of checking things blandly off our spreadsheet there is the mystery of guessing which charity we “got.” Our family puts a lot of thought and imagination into these contributions. One year Elizabeth gave Beaven a donation to breast cancer research. What in the world does a man care about breast cancer research? Elizabeth calmly pointed out that Beaven has five females that he couldn’t live without.
The church is at it’s best at times like Christmas. In our congregation where we think of each other as family it’s fun to see all the grown up kids return home. And you can’t beat the drama of a church at Christmas. Last year they had a fantastic tableau of the Nativity scene. We even had a real baby Jesus. And Baby Jesus was just as quiet and angelic as they come. The whole congregation was in awe at the sight of him lying there so peacefully with his parents. Then the shepherds came up the aisle to escort the children up to see the baby Jesus. I caught my breath to see Evan Gray dressed as a shepherd. The last time I had seen him was when he returned from Iraq. Evan had been part of the initial invasion, driving into Baghdad in a convoy carrying a shoulder mounted missile launcher. You just gotta appreciate God’s sense of humor in that one. God has given humans the ability to go from invading army to humble shepherd in the blink of an eye.
That same Christmas Eve they passed out candles. Since this was billed as the “Children’s” service we thought nothing of giving each grandchild their own candle. Neither girl, ages 3 and 5 last year, had much experience with candles beyond birthday cakes. I watched Sarah waving her candle around in the excitement of it all and worried about her setting fire to the hairdo in front of us. I was calculating how much hairspray the girl had on and how flammable it was when Sarah spilled hot wax on herself. She let out such a scream of surprise and pain that I’m sure it carried all the way over to the Baptist church across the street. Somehow, she must have jerked her candle when it happened and threw some of the hot wax over to her sister because three seconds later Elisabeth screamed out even louder, a scream for the Methodists two blocks down. These were screams that no amount of hushing or shushing was going to penetrate. So Steve took them out of the sanctuary just as the organist started “Silent Night”. Such are the memories that make family lore. But I digress.
I readily confess that the Messiah/Savior/Emmanuel part of Christmas is a mystery to me. I’ve spent considerable thought trying to figure it out and it just plain old doesn’t make any sense. The whole idea of God sending a human to take the heat for my sins is so incredible—not that I’m ungrateful, mind you. But it just seems so illogical and inefficient. Couldn’t God have sent a detailed memo instead?
And what’s worse, it doesn’t seem to be working. We’re at a place in our world where folks aren’t getting along. I guess we never have. I don’t understand that either—and it frankly makes me pretty mad that we can’t. Now suddenly God just expects me to just forget about all that and be lighthearted because he sent this Jesus guy and it’s all going to work out. This thing just doesn’t make sense any way I look at it.
But, of course, I’m not supposed to use logic. That’s why we call it Faith. Christmas is the time we suspend logic and go in faith. In the middle of this mystery we are presented with magic so profound that we have to accept it. It’s a gut feeling. Christmas has to be celebrated from your instincts; you never make it if you put too much thought into it. Children who have never seen snow or reindeer suspend their experience and believe. We don’t understand mystery or magic either one. But the magic helps me accept the mystery. I had a young friend tell me once that there is no such thing as magic. But what else would you call it if not magic? When the sights and smells and sounds bring an emotion that you can’t describe. When the music of Christmas-- the harp, the zimbelstern, the bells, the French horn, seep into the very pores of your skin and travel through your heart all the way to your toes and bring tears to your eyes.
Out of the mystery comes the magic. I can’t explain it any better than that. It doesn’t really explain much but somehow it’s enough for me.
The Celebration of the American Economy comes right at the end of the year when it’s convenient for the boss to give you a little extra bonus for the year’s work. The newspapers keep track of whether this is a good year for the stores or a bad one. And if you haven’t bought enough you feel like a traitor. People spend money they don’t have on things nobody needs.
This new generation- the one they call “X,” is so computer oriented that I started getting emails from my kids with excel spreadsheets of their Christmas requests. My step-mother came to the rescue a few years ago when she decreed that she already had everything in the world she needed and so did we; she donated money to a charity instead and suggested we do the same. It changed our Christmases forever. Now, instead of checking things blandly off our spreadsheet there is the mystery of guessing which charity we “got.” Our family puts a lot of thought and imagination into these contributions. One year Elizabeth gave Beaven a donation to breast cancer research. What in the world does a man care about breast cancer research? Elizabeth calmly pointed out that Beaven has five females that he couldn’t live without.
The church is at it’s best at times like Christmas. In our congregation where we think of each other as family it’s fun to see all the grown up kids return home. And you can’t beat the drama of a church at Christmas. Last year they had a fantastic tableau of the Nativity scene. We even had a real baby Jesus. And Baby Jesus was just as quiet and angelic as they come. The whole congregation was in awe at the sight of him lying there so peacefully with his parents. Then the shepherds came up the aisle to escort the children up to see the baby Jesus. I caught my breath to see Evan Gray dressed as a shepherd. The last time I had seen him was when he returned from Iraq. Evan had been part of the initial invasion, driving into Baghdad in a convoy carrying a shoulder mounted missile launcher. You just gotta appreciate God’s sense of humor in that one. God has given humans the ability to go from invading army to humble shepherd in the blink of an eye.
That same Christmas Eve they passed out candles. Since this was billed as the “Children’s” service we thought nothing of giving each grandchild their own candle. Neither girl, ages 3 and 5 last year, had much experience with candles beyond birthday cakes. I watched Sarah waving her candle around in the excitement of it all and worried about her setting fire to the hairdo in front of us. I was calculating how much hairspray the girl had on and how flammable it was when Sarah spilled hot wax on herself. She let out such a scream of surprise and pain that I’m sure it carried all the way over to the Baptist church across the street. Somehow, she must have jerked her candle when it happened and threw some of the hot wax over to her sister because three seconds later Elisabeth screamed out even louder, a scream for the Methodists two blocks down. These were screams that no amount of hushing or shushing was going to penetrate. So Steve took them out of the sanctuary just as the organist started “Silent Night”. Such are the memories that make family lore. But I digress.
I readily confess that the Messiah/Savior/Emmanuel part of Christmas is a mystery to me. I’ve spent considerable thought trying to figure it out and it just plain old doesn’t make any sense. The whole idea of God sending a human to take the heat for my sins is so incredible—not that I’m ungrateful, mind you. But it just seems so illogical and inefficient. Couldn’t God have sent a detailed memo instead?
And what’s worse, it doesn’t seem to be working. We’re at a place in our world where folks aren’t getting along. I guess we never have. I don’t understand that either—and it frankly makes me pretty mad that we can’t. Now suddenly God just expects me to just forget about all that and be lighthearted because he sent this Jesus guy and it’s all going to work out. This thing just doesn’t make sense any way I look at it.
But, of course, I’m not supposed to use logic. That’s why we call it Faith. Christmas is the time we suspend logic and go in faith. In the middle of this mystery we are presented with magic so profound that we have to accept it. It’s a gut feeling. Christmas has to be celebrated from your instincts; you never make it if you put too much thought into it. Children who have never seen snow or reindeer suspend their experience and believe. We don’t understand mystery or magic either one. But the magic helps me accept the mystery. I had a young friend tell me once that there is no such thing as magic. But what else would you call it if not magic? When the sights and smells and sounds bring an emotion that you can’t describe. When the music of Christmas-- the harp, the zimbelstern, the bells, the French horn, seep into the very pores of your skin and travel through your heart all the way to your toes and bring tears to your eyes.
Out of the mystery comes the magic. I can’t explain it any better than that. It doesn’t really explain much but somehow it’s enough for me.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Getting ready for Christmas
Decorating for Christmas was interesting this year. Since we’ve moved into a smaller house I had to make some hard decisions on how to fit everything in. Like most people we’ve acquired Christmas decorations that have become part of the family. And, even if you only see them for a few weeks a year, they’re such a part of the season that you can’t imagine a Christmas without them. I gave some things to the kids and had to decide which others to keep or store. Do I still set out Fluffy’s bowl? The dog died 15 years ago but I continued to set her Snoopy dish under the table and hang her collar on the tree. We always enjoyed having Fluffy with us in spirit at Christmas. Hearing her collar jingle brought her back to us again for the holidays. She was our favorite of all the dogs we’ve had. She was infinitely patient with the girls while they were growing up. It wasn’t unusual to see Fluffy walk into the living room wearing their underpants on her head, a quiet sigh in her eyes. But now we have a whole herd of dogs and it’s time to move on. I sent the Snoopy bowl home with Emily.
The two decorations I couldn’t give up were the tin toy horse that was my Daddy’s when he was a boy. When my step-mother gave it to me she said it had never missed a Christmas with us and it never will. At the other end of my father’s lifespan is a ceramic pieta of Mary holding Jesus. My grandmother made for him when she was in a nursing home at the end of her life. The idea of Grandmother making this craft when she wasn’t a “crafty” woman and making it for her son always touched me.
But my favorite decoration to set out is always the Nativity Scene. It’s grown a little each year as we add new pieces to the crowd visiting the baby Jesus. It can’t compare to the elegant ceramic one the church sets out in the Narthex each Advent.
No, our nativity set at home is a humble assortment of several sets with missing pieces all combined into one. We’ve ended up with several angels of all sizes and shapes. It’s a little old and worn; after all, it’s survived two little girls. A lot of the delicate parts of the animals are broken. A couple of camel legs and most of the lambs’ limbs are gone. The angel’s wings, of course, have suffered also. But I’m not sure I really trust a nativity set with a complete set of angel wings. That usually means that children haven’t been allowed to touch it. We all need to touch the Nativity and make it our own. We need to move the sheep and shepherds around a little bit. We all need to hold the Baby Jesus.
And the snowman in our Nativity is also showing his age. Emily made it in kindergarten almost 30 years ago. He’s made out of some sort of soapflake clay-like concoction. He was white years ago but has turned sort of brown with age. One side of him has a black splotch where an advent candle got too close to him. His nose has ended up nearer his chin than the center of his face. And his head falls off if we move him at all.
Emily is always embarrassed when I bring him out to put in the nativity. She can’t understand why I insist on including him every year. Her main argument is not his appearance; she claims that snowmen do not belong in Nativity scenes.
That’s where she’s wrong. The snowman is us: he’s you and me. I’ve always thought we should include something from our modern day in with the usual ancient characters. We belong there, too. We stand by the shepherds and watch for the Messiah. We’re just as awed and puzzled as the others. Sometimes we’re brown from age and have trouble keeping our heads on tight. But, make no mistake, we’re there alongside Mary and Joseph.
I hope you have a Merry Christmas this year. Don’t forget your snowman.
The two decorations I couldn’t give up were the tin toy horse that was my Daddy’s when he was a boy. When my step-mother gave it to me she said it had never missed a Christmas with us and it never will. At the other end of my father’s lifespan is a ceramic pieta of Mary holding Jesus. My grandmother made for him when she was in a nursing home at the end of her life. The idea of Grandmother making this craft when she wasn’t a “crafty” woman and making it for her son always touched me.
But my favorite decoration to set out is always the Nativity Scene. It’s grown a little each year as we add new pieces to the crowd visiting the baby Jesus. It can’t compare to the elegant ceramic one the church sets out in the Narthex each Advent.
No, our nativity set at home is a humble assortment of several sets with missing pieces all combined into one. We’ve ended up with several angels of all sizes and shapes. It’s a little old and worn; after all, it’s survived two little girls. A lot of the delicate parts of the animals are broken. A couple of camel legs and most of the lambs’ limbs are gone. The angel’s wings, of course, have suffered also. But I’m not sure I really trust a nativity set with a complete set of angel wings. That usually means that children haven’t been allowed to touch it. We all need to touch the Nativity and make it our own. We need to move the sheep and shepherds around a little bit. We all need to hold the Baby Jesus.
And the snowman in our Nativity is also showing his age. Emily made it in kindergarten almost 30 years ago. He’s made out of some sort of soapflake clay-like concoction. He was white years ago but has turned sort of brown with age. One side of him has a black splotch where an advent candle got too close to him. His nose has ended up nearer his chin than the center of his face. And his head falls off if we move him at all.
Emily is always embarrassed when I bring him out to put in the nativity. She can’t understand why I insist on including him every year. Her main argument is not his appearance; she claims that snowmen do not belong in Nativity scenes.
That’s where she’s wrong. The snowman is us: he’s you and me. I’ve always thought we should include something from our modern day in with the usual ancient characters. We belong there, too. We stand by the shepherds and watch for the Messiah. We’re just as awed and puzzled as the others. Sometimes we’re brown from age and have trouble keeping our heads on tight. But, make no mistake, we’re there alongside Mary and Joseph.
I hope you have a Merry Christmas this year. Don’t forget your snowman.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Our Backwards Thanksgiving
You might notice I missed a week and I will explain.
We had a very backwards Thanksgiving this year. We celebrated by mumbling a few words of generic thanks, eating lots of food and having great family time on November 24th. The real Thanksgiving came a week later.
On the Thursday before-- the regular Thanksgiving-- we vowed we would eat sensibly and offer fewer desserts than our usual “a pie apiece”. I would set out more vegetables and fewer carbs. It sounded like a great plan and all agreed to it.
The ‘pie apiece” thing got started years ago when we polled the family for their favorites and ended up with so many different requests that we ended up with as many pies as people at the table. This year we vowed to eliminate the chocolate cake and apple pie. That took us down to the spartan (at least we thought so) array of merely three pies, one plate of cookies and pumpkin bread. Plus we were going to use Cool Whip instead of real whipping cream. Is that a sacrifice or what?
Then, we eliminated mashed potatoes and all the fattening casseroles we usually make. And, for the coup de grace of sacrifices, we declared NO rolls. None.
Then my kids came. Emily showed up with a double recipe of macaroni and cheese and Elizabeth sneaked in yeast rolls. I made a second cherry pie and the girls went out and bought a cake. By Thanksgiving morning they had decided against the salad. By the time Steve came on Friday someone had bought real whipping cream for the pies and made mashed potatoes. In short, we ended up with pretty much the same thing we eat every year. In fact, when we sat down to eat on Friday we realized we had two different types of gravy. A meal with two gravies? One thing our family is good at is eating.
One vow we did keep was to exercise—a new tradition we unwittingly acquired is using the chain saw a lot on Thanksgiving. A few years ago I had intended to start a tradition of taking a gorgeous family photo on Thanksgiving for our Christmas cards. But the last two photo sessions were interrupted by a disaster of some sort. Last year it was a tree falling on our house. This year it was cleaning up after an overachieving beaver. I think I need to face the fact that getting both of our girls together with the son-in-law and the grands is always going to lead to a disaster of some sort.
All of this played out within the framework of Emily wearing a heart monitor. There were 4 or 5 leads glued to her chest with wires running to a device the shape of a cell phone clipped at her waist. She had gone to a new doctor a couple of months ago who noticed extra heartbeats. “You probably don’t even notice them yourself.” And Emily really didn’t except for the dizziness and sudden loss of energy she would occasionally experience . She thought it was anxiety attacks.
But by the morning after Thanksgiving weekend Emily’s symptoms of rapid heartbeat and dizziness had increased and the doctor slapped her in the hospital and scheduled the procedure to fix it on Wednesday. Our family has always been fairly healthy so this was new turf for us. We couldn’t get a feel for just how serious this was. On one hand the doctor and nurses acted like it was a routine and common procedure. On the other hand, they had Emily sign for permission to implant a defibrillator during the procedure if the cause of the problem turned out to be heart disease. We weren’t really sure exactly what they were going to do. One explanation was a little ‘zap’ to the heart to regulate the rhythm…another sounded like they were going to electrocute a few bad cells. I just wasn’t sure about anyone messing with my kid’s heart. By Tuesday night she was getting dizzy by just sitting up. It was frightening to me that something supposedly routine was escalating so rapidly. Our family had never had a serious medical crisis. Nobody has even been in a bad car wreck.
Beaven and I took care of the grandkids while Steve stayed with Emily. It had been a long time since I took care of little girls on a 24/7 basis. It was kind of like riding a bicycle but this time the bicycle was going a lot faster than I remembered . I discovered you can buy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the freezer case at the grocery store. I went the wrong direction getting in line to pick Sarah up at school and faced the wrath of the SUV moms who corrected my mistake without pity.
Everything turned out just fine. The ‘fix’ worked and Emily could feel an improvement as soon as she woke up. There was no heart disease. It gave us all a lot to be thankful for.
It all reminded me of the song I learned in Guatemala a few years ago:
Gracias Senor, por el dia tan lindo de hoy.
Gracias Senor, por la vida y la salud.
Vengo vengo a ti Senor
Vengo yo a ti Senor
A mostrar mi gratitude.
(Thank you, God, for the day so beautiful as today.
Thank you, God, for life and health.
I come, I come to you, God
I come to you, God
To show my gratitude.)
We had a very backwards Thanksgiving this year. We celebrated by mumbling a few words of generic thanks, eating lots of food and having great family time on November 24th. The real Thanksgiving came a week later.
On the Thursday before-- the regular Thanksgiving-- we vowed we would eat sensibly and offer fewer desserts than our usual “a pie apiece”. I would set out more vegetables and fewer carbs. It sounded like a great plan and all agreed to it.
The ‘pie apiece” thing got started years ago when we polled the family for their favorites and ended up with so many different requests that we ended up with as many pies as people at the table. This year we vowed to eliminate the chocolate cake and apple pie. That took us down to the spartan (at least we thought so) array of merely three pies, one plate of cookies and pumpkin bread. Plus we were going to use Cool Whip instead of real whipping cream. Is that a sacrifice or what?
Then, we eliminated mashed potatoes and all the fattening casseroles we usually make. And, for the coup de grace of sacrifices, we declared NO rolls. None.
Then my kids came. Emily showed up with a double recipe of macaroni and cheese and Elizabeth sneaked in yeast rolls. I made a second cherry pie and the girls went out and bought a cake. By Thanksgiving morning they had decided against the salad. By the time Steve came on Friday someone had bought real whipping cream for the pies and made mashed potatoes. In short, we ended up with pretty much the same thing we eat every year. In fact, when we sat down to eat on Friday we realized we had two different types of gravy. A meal with two gravies? One thing our family is good at is eating.
One vow we did keep was to exercise—a new tradition we unwittingly acquired is using the chain saw a lot on Thanksgiving. A few years ago I had intended to start a tradition of taking a gorgeous family photo on Thanksgiving for our Christmas cards. But the last two photo sessions were interrupted by a disaster of some sort. Last year it was a tree falling on our house. This year it was cleaning up after an overachieving beaver. I think I need to face the fact that getting both of our girls together with the son-in-law and the grands is always going to lead to a disaster of some sort.
All of this played out within the framework of Emily wearing a heart monitor. There were 4 or 5 leads glued to her chest with wires running to a device the shape of a cell phone clipped at her waist. She had gone to a new doctor a couple of months ago who noticed extra heartbeats. “You probably don’t even notice them yourself.” And Emily really didn’t except for the dizziness and sudden loss of energy she would occasionally experience . She thought it was anxiety attacks.
But by the morning after Thanksgiving weekend Emily’s symptoms of rapid heartbeat and dizziness had increased and the doctor slapped her in the hospital and scheduled the procedure to fix it on Wednesday. Our family has always been fairly healthy so this was new turf for us. We couldn’t get a feel for just how serious this was. On one hand the doctor and nurses acted like it was a routine and common procedure. On the other hand, they had Emily sign for permission to implant a defibrillator during the procedure if the cause of the problem turned out to be heart disease. We weren’t really sure exactly what they were going to do. One explanation was a little ‘zap’ to the heart to regulate the rhythm…another sounded like they were going to electrocute a few bad cells. I just wasn’t sure about anyone messing with my kid’s heart. By Tuesday night she was getting dizzy by just sitting up. It was frightening to me that something supposedly routine was escalating so rapidly. Our family had never had a serious medical crisis. Nobody has even been in a bad car wreck.
Beaven and I took care of the grandkids while Steve stayed with Emily. It had been a long time since I took care of little girls on a 24/7 basis. It was kind of like riding a bicycle but this time the bicycle was going a lot faster than I remembered . I discovered you can buy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the freezer case at the grocery store. I went the wrong direction getting in line to pick Sarah up at school and faced the wrath of the SUV moms who corrected my mistake without pity.
Everything turned out just fine. The ‘fix’ worked and Emily could feel an improvement as soon as she woke up. There was no heart disease. It gave us all a lot to be thankful for.
It all reminded me of the song I learned in Guatemala a few years ago:
Gracias Senor, por el dia tan lindo de hoy.
Gracias Senor, por la vida y la salud.
Vengo vengo a ti Senor
Vengo yo a ti Senor
A mostrar mi gratitude.
(Thank you, God, for the day so beautiful as today.
Thank you, God, for life and health.
I come, I come to you, God
I come to you, God
To show my gratitude.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)