Every year, the growing number of girls in the family makes the Christmas tree turn more and more... pink. I guess I don't mind. I gave up on having a cute, organized decorative Christmas tree the first year we were married when my husband basically wanted big lights (ugly) with these extra ones that make bubbles inside a candle-shaped piece of glass. He also liked the big pine trees more than the fur trees, and... basically everything I don't like about trees.
The first Christmas we had together was different than this one. Much different. Now we get a little bonus from his employer at Christmastime that gives us money to buy gifts, and we have a kind of agreement not to really worry about getting gifts for each other. We've figured out how to include the things I like on our tree and in our home. But, our first Christmas looked like... kind of what you'd expect from a 19 and 20-year-old with no money who were still in college.
[Wayne's World time warp sound effects here]
We had about eight dollars in our bank account, which came from some temporary work we'd both done in our spare time. I'd lost my more permanent temp job around Thanksgiving, and nothing had really come up since then. We were home for the weekend (usually spent about $20 on gas to drive home and back) because one of the cars wasn't working and husband wanted to use his dad's garage because it was really cold.
My mother-in-law was decorating for Christmas and I mentioned I didn't think we'd have a tree this year because of the cash flow. So, she went through her ornament collection and lights, and gave us a little supply to start off with. It was really nice of her. Nothing fancy, just a few things that she knew my husband liked and an extra two strings of lights.
So with that, we went to the nearest place that sold trees and bought an $8 Christmas tree. Seriously, I can't even imagine finding an $8 tree anymore. We set it up and went to Wal-Mart to pick out a couple more decorations. By that point, I had some job that was providing a little bit of cash flow. I think it paid $13 an hour. We picked out stockings because we didn't have our own. We also picked out a tree topper. My family didn't really do that... we just left the tree empty or maybe put a star ornament at the top. Husband always had an angel, so we had to find an angel. He liked these gaudy doll-like ones that lit up... I still can't figure him out. We settled on this crocheted one that probably cost more than the tree. Then, we split up with separate carts and sneaked around each other for an hour, picking out a few little gifts and stocking stuffers.
We had a couple of gifts each, two bags of candy and some beef jerky to share between our stockings. It was, how shall we say, humble? We didn't really know how to merge traditions then. Mostly because my family didn't really have any, and his was all about them. We celebrated our little Christmas at our apartment before we left to go back to the folks' for the real Christmas.
We don't really have any of the gifts we gave each other then, and most of the ornaments we hung that year have fallen apart or mysteriously disappeared (I may or may not have something to do with that). I don't even remember what we gave each other. Really, most of that year is history. But what remains (besides the stockings and the angle tree topper) is the way we love each other.
Some people get a little worked up about the commercialization of Christmas and the way people care more about gifts than God. I know that happens, but for me, giving gifts and celebrating with a little tree is just the way to remember our love for each other. It gives us a place in time to look back on and think about what's changed.
We still like to split up at the store and sneak around to get gifts. And we still argue about what looks pretty at Christmas. But now we get to look back at sixteen other Christmases and enjoy the ways we've changed and the gifts God has given us through the years. Four of those little gifts like to bring us full circle and decorate the tree with their little decorations and argue about what looks best.
The Writer
the saddest stories are the unwritten ones
Monday, December 19, 2016
Friday, December 9, 2016
The Rebel Jesus
I don't really like Christmas music.
In fact, I mostly hate it. Not because it's Christmas music, but because it's all.the.same. They play and replay the same canned music, some of which never should have been recorded in the first place. And some of it was good, but it was 60+ years ago, and every yahoo with a soundboard goes and sings it again for their obligatory Christmas album and then America gets subjected to listening to it in every department store, restaurant and car radio for the month of December. Just no.
Anyway, once in a while, there's a good song. A good album comes out, with someone who spent the time to re-think a classic and even better, wrote a thoughtful song. I have a little list of albums that fall into that category for me. One of them is Bebo Norman's. He has some nice arrangements using folk instruments that you don't hear too often in mainstream music. Also he has a couple of new ones. And then this cover of Jackson Browne's song "The Rebel Jesus".
Listen to it and see if it changes how you think about your Christmas time. We say it's about Jesus, but we don't always let it change our lives year round. It's a non-traditional Christmas carol that leaves you feeling uncomfortable more than the usual "Yay! Jesus! Happy!" that people love about Christmas. I don't know if Jackson Browne professes faith in Christ, but either way, the "heathen and pagan" sees something that some of us might be missing. The song probably rubs a lot of people the wrong way. I like it because it rubs people the wrong way.
In fact, I mostly hate it. Not because it's Christmas music, but because it's all.the.same. They play and replay the same canned music, some of which never should have been recorded in the first place. And some of it was good, but it was 60+ years ago, and every yahoo with a soundboard goes and sings it again for their obligatory Christmas album and then America gets subjected to listening to it in every department store, restaurant and car radio for the month of December. Just no.
Anyway, once in a while, there's a good song. A good album comes out, with someone who spent the time to re-think a classic and even better, wrote a thoughtful song. I have a little list of albums that fall into that category for me. One of them is Bebo Norman's. He has some nice arrangements using folk instruments that you don't hear too often in mainstream music. Also he has a couple of new ones. And then this cover of Jackson Browne's song "The Rebel Jesus".
Listen to it and see if it changes how you think about your Christmas time. We say it's about Jesus, but we don't always let it change our lives year round. It's a non-traditional Christmas carol that leaves you feeling uncomfortable more than the usual "Yay! Jesus! Happy!" that people love about Christmas. I don't know if Jackson Browne professes faith in Christ, but either way, the "heathen and pagan" sees something that some of us might be missing. The song probably rubs a lot of people the wrong way. I like it because it rubs people the wrong way.
“The Rebel Jesus,” by Jackson Browne
All the streets are filled with laughter and light
And the music of the season
And the merchants’ windows are all bright
With the faces of the children
And the families hurrying to their homes
While the sky darkens and freezes
Will be gathering around the hearths and tables
Giving thanks for God’s graces
And the birth of the rebel Jesus
And the music of the season
And the merchants’ windows are all bright
With the faces of the children
And the families hurrying to their homes
While the sky darkens and freezes
Will be gathering around the hearths and tables
Giving thanks for God’s graces
And the birth of the rebel Jesus
Well they call him by ‘the Prince of Peace’
And they call him by ‘the Savior’
And they pray to him upon the seas
And in every bold endeavor
And they fill his churches with their pride and gold
As their faith in him increases
But they’ve turned the nature that I worship in
From a temple to a robber’s den
In the words of the rebel Jesus
And they call him by ‘the Savior’
And they pray to him upon the seas
And in every bold endeavor
And they fill his churches with their pride and gold
As their faith in him increases
But they’ve turned the nature that I worship in
From a temple to a robber’s den
In the words of the rebel Jesus
Well we guard our world with locks and guns
And we guard our fine possessions
And once a year when Christmas comes
We give to our relations
And perhaps we give a little to the poor
If the generosity should seize us
But if any one of us should interfere
In the business of why there are poor
They get the same as the rebel Jesus
And we guard our fine possessions
And once a year when Christmas comes
We give to our relations
And perhaps we give a little to the poor
If the generosity should seize us
But if any one of us should interfere
In the business of why there are poor
They get the same as the rebel Jesus
Now pardon me if I have seemed
To take the tone of judgment
For I’ve no wish to come between
This day and your enjoyment
In a life of hardship and of earthly toil
There’s a need for anything that frees us
So I bid you pleasure
And I bid you cheer
From a heathen and a pagan
On the side of the rebel Jesus
To take the tone of judgment
For I’ve no wish to come between
This day and your enjoyment
In a life of hardship and of earthly toil
There’s a need for anything that frees us
So I bid you pleasure
And I bid you cheer
From a heathen and a pagan
On the side of the rebel Jesus
Wal-Mart, the Music Man, and the month of November
I thought I'd be able to be regular with this blog but it looks like life has sucked up all of my spare time again, so it's been a while. Oh well. No one's reading yet anyway. :) So. What have we been up to?
Today was an out-of-town field trip to tour a hotel designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and then the Music Man museum in Mason City. I really enjoyed that. I think the kids did too.
Last week was a birthday for my oldest baby who turned 10!
And Thanksgiving is right around the corner. So, with that, I just want to say I'm thankful for the place I live. Today while we wandered around Mason City and found out about life in the 1910's for Meredith Wilson, I thought about how quaint and wonderful it all seems. I thought about how I like Iowa because it's quaint, and how familiar it is to me. We drove through harvest fields and cloudy skies today, and I just love how November looks after the corn's all been cut down and the fields have been plowed over. It's gray and brown and amber, with the steely sky all around and it's beautiful in one weird way.
I love how we're so proud of all ten famous people who came from our state. Meredith Wilson being one of them. Frank Lloyd Wright being another. Their genius was remarkable, and it was so fun to get a taste of it today.
But there's a deeper level of gratitude for where I live. Because it's a place that's in the middle of everything, with samples of all of the different ways of life from the country, the different races and communities, the different political views and world views that make up the rest of the country. There are pieces of it woven throughout the state, and sometimes you have to dig around to find them, but I've seen quite a few. That means there's ugly things too. The phrase "racism" is very charged these days, and it would be ignorant and naive to deny that it is still a problem. It would be foolish of me to think I live in a place where everyone happily sees everyone as equals and we don't deal with hateful police officers and people of color who are dissatisfied with their treatment. I mean, there was a crazy lady down at the market just a few weeks ago who couldn't seem to get a hold of herself, yelling at cops. And there were cops hurting people just a skip and a jump away last month too. I want it to all stop. But it doesn't.
But here in the middle of the country, where those little strings tangle together and cross paths easily, I also see things that give me hope. In my own little corner of the world, I've seen my little girls playing soccer on a team where they were the only white girls and loving it. I've seen harmony in unexpected places. Churches working together to help instead of protest. Neighborhoods coming out to look for solutions to violence. I like that it isn't a hopeless cause around here.
I don't usually go to Wal-Mart, but I needed some last-minute things the other night, so I ran in. While I shopped, I noticed an older white woman going out of her way to show kindness to a black mommy with her daughter. And throughout the store, several other interracial interactions. Maybe I'm a clueless white girl, but I like to see those as the norm around here. Not the exception. A black woman helped me with my four kids in the restroom the other day, and I kept thinking about how glad I was that she was there because I was changing a poopy diaper and the three year old was throwing a fit about washing her hands. I found it hard to imagine a time when there were separate bathrooms for people with different colored skin.
In Iowa there is definitely racism. There is anger and hurt and confusion and fear, but there is also unity and hope. And we are people who push through and do what needs to be done. We're slow to change, but we can be convinced. I hope that we continue on that path--the listening, growing, learning, and helping, and that our kids, who have no issue playing soccer together in fifth grade, don't grow up seeing us as separate people, but as... people.
Today was an out-of-town field trip to tour a hotel designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and then the Music Man museum in Mason City. I really enjoyed that. I think the kids did too.
Last week was a birthday for my oldest baby who turned 10!
And Thanksgiving is right around the corner. So, with that, I just want to say I'm thankful for the place I live. Today while we wandered around Mason City and found out about life in the 1910's for Meredith Wilson, I thought about how quaint and wonderful it all seems. I thought about how I like Iowa because it's quaint, and how familiar it is to me. We drove through harvest fields and cloudy skies today, and I just love how November looks after the corn's all been cut down and the fields have been plowed over. It's gray and brown and amber, with the steely sky all around and it's beautiful in one weird way.
I love how we're so proud of all ten famous people who came from our state. Meredith Wilson being one of them. Frank Lloyd Wright being another. Their genius was remarkable, and it was so fun to get a taste of it today.
But there's a deeper level of gratitude for where I live. Because it's a place that's in the middle of everything, with samples of all of the different ways of life from the country, the different races and communities, the different political views and world views that make up the rest of the country. There are pieces of it woven throughout the state, and sometimes you have to dig around to find them, but I've seen quite a few. That means there's ugly things too. The phrase "racism" is very charged these days, and it would be ignorant and naive to deny that it is still a problem. It would be foolish of me to think I live in a place where everyone happily sees everyone as equals and we don't deal with hateful police officers and people of color who are dissatisfied with their treatment. I mean, there was a crazy lady down at the market just a few weeks ago who couldn't seem to get a hold of herself, yelling at cops. And there were cops hurting people just a skip and a jump away last month too. I want it to all stop. But it doesn't.
But here in the middle of the country, where those little strings tangle together and cross paths easily, I also see things that give me hope. In my own little corner of the world, I've seen my little girls playing soccer on a team where they were the only white girls and loving it. I've seen harmony in unexpected places. Churches working together to help instead of protest. Neighborhoods coming out to look for solutions to violence. I like that it isn't a hopeless cause around here.
I don't usually go to Wal-Mart, but I needed some last-minute things the other night, so I ran in. While I shopped, I noticed an older white woman going out of her way to show kindness to a black mommy with her daughter. And throughout the store, several other interracial interactions. Maybe I'm a clueless white girl, but I like to see those as the norm around here. Not the exception. A black woman helped me with my four kids in the restroom the other day, and I kept thinking about how glad I was that she was there because I was changing a poopy diaper and the three year old was throwing a fit about washing her hands. I found it hard to imagine a time when there were separate bathrooms for people with different colored skin.
In Iowa there is definitely racism. There is anger and hurt and confusion and fear, but there is also unity and hope. And we are people who push through and do what needs to be done. We're slow to change, but we can be convinced. I hope that we continue on that path--the listening, growing, learning, and helping, and that our kids, who have no issue playing soccer together in fifth grade, don't grow up seeing us as separate people, but as... people.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Can Some History Repeat? The Joy of Cousins
This weekend a couple of my cousins came to visit. I have 17 on Dad's side, and even though we were stretched around the country, we did grow up knowing each other because we'd converge at Grandma's house most summers. We fell into three categories as kids: The buttheads (all of the older boys, who grouped together in various pairings at different times), "us" which usually included me and my two younger girl cousins and sometimes the older girl cousin if she wasn't busy running the house or working the farm, and the "babies", basically everyone else younger than us three girls.
We only saw each other once a year at best, so we made the most of those weeks when we were together.
My family would show up after our drive-through-the-night adventure, station wagon spilling over with blankets, suitcases and grandkids, and we'd hole up in Grandma and Grandpa's house for a little bit. Grandma would come out and greet us no matter what time it was, and then we'd wait around until Grandpa dropped back home. "Who we got here?" he'd always say, like he was surprised to see us. (Now that I'm older I kind of wonder if he actually was asking. I mean, 21 kids is a lot to keep track of). If it was anywhere near dinner time, we'd have stew and homemade bread made from Grandpa's own milled wheat. Those short moments were always sweet and special, catching up with the grandparents, watching Dad get back into his roots. But there would be this anxiousness, and we were all watching out the windows, waiting for "The Cousins" to show up. Grandma usually called them on speed dial 2 to let them know we'd arrived. And then it took a while to get their stuff together and travel that whole mile and a half down the back roads to the farm.
They'd pull up in their big econo van and pile out, then pile into the house with grins, and we'd stand around giving hugs and sizing each other up while the adults caught up on crops and asked how the trip had gone. Then we'd pair off. Whichever sibling went with whichever one was the closest to their age. Usually Becky and Ben and I would find our own place in the house and talk for a little while, warming up to each other, talking about what had changed in the last year. Then Ben would wander off to find better things to do (which usually involved fire or guns or eating).
After the first day, we were all old friends again, like we'd never left the place, and we'd run off in our seperate directions (far from adults) and do our own things. There was some kind of magic between us in those dog days of summer, something that didn't happen with anyone else in our lives. For me, this was a place I could be myself and not worry about who was watching. For the cousins, maybe it was just good to have friends around who understood them.
Becky and I spent so many late nights together, giggling like stupid girls. We ate a lot of candy and played a lot of games. I still sometimes imagine that tiny office of Grandma's and how many of us could cram into that tiny space to play Wheel of Fortune or Castle on the old Tandy. There were movies we always watched--Swiss Family Robinson, the Music Man and Robin Hood. We'd play board games like the adults did, but of course, much worse. The favorite for us and the younger kids was Scatergories and Boggle.
Grandma kept a stock of ice cream in her overflow freezers in the basement, and on days when it got really hot outside, we'd camp out down there in the cooler temperatures reading a box of old comic books and digging through National Geographic magazines that dated back to the 30's.
I can't even list all of the best memories. It wouldn't matter. Everyone has their own space and time that held that childhood magic for them. Mine happens to be a little farm in Northeast Montana, in a house that barely fit all of us, overflowing with Grandma's love and surrounded by the people who you didn't have to explain yourself to.
Life has changed a lot, and we can't go back to those times. Everyone's moved around and the grandparents have passed away. But there's something about cousins. When we get together, there's this piece of us that hasn't changed. Every single one of our circumstances may be different, but some how, there's still a little thread of magic between all of us. That family bond, I guess.
We're raising up a new generation, and our aunts and uncles are becoming the grandparents that we grew up loving. I see my dad playing the same games Grandpa used to play, bouncing little kids on his knees and pretending to steal their noses. I see my mom baking up pies and making sure everyone has enough food. When I'm lucky, we sit around and play board games at night. These are the remnants of the good old days.
When I think about cousins, I want all of my kids to cherish their cousins like I do. I want them to know each other and build the same kind of memories together like ours. The innocent childhood kind, within the safety of our little worlds we've built. I want to preserve the best things from my grandparents and let my kids experience it with theirs. I know you can't go home again. I know the world is different, and the characters of my childhood stories have all grown old now. But once in a while, when the cousins come to visit, I get a glimpse of how history can repeat itself. For better or for worse, it does. And in the case of my family, it's mostly the better stuff.
We only saw each other once a year at best, so we made the most of those weeks when we were together.
My family would show up after our drive-through-the-night adventure, station wagon spilling over with blankets, suitcases and grandkids, and we'd hole up in Grandma and Grandpa's house for a little bit. Grandma would come out and greet us no matter what time it was, and then we'd wait around until Grandpa dropped back home. "Who we got here?" he'd always say, like he was surprised to see us. (Now that I'm older I kind of wonder if he actually was asking. I mean, 21 kids is a lot to keep track of). If it was anywhere near dinner time, we'd have stew and homemade bread made from Grandpa's own milled wheat. Those short moments were always sweet and special, catching up with the grandparents, watching Dad get back into his roots. But there would be this anxiousness, and we were all watching out the windows, waiting for "The Cousins" to show up. Grandma usually called them on speed dial 2 to let them know we'd arrived. And then it took a while to get their stuff together and travel that whole mile and a half down the back roads to the farm.
They'd pull up in their big econo van and pile out, then pile into the house with grins, and we'd stand around giving hugs and sizing each other up while the adults caught up on crops and asked how the trip had gone. Then we'd pair off. Whichever sibling went with whichever one was the closest to their age. Usually Becky and Ben and I would find our own place in the house and talk for a little while, warming up to each other, talking about what had changed in the last year. Then Ben would wander off to find better things to do (which usually involved fire or guns or eating).
After the first day, we were all old friends again, like we'd never left the place, and we'd run off in our seperate directions (far from adults) and do our own things. There was some kind of magic between us in those dog days of summer, something that didn't happen with anyone else in our lives. For me, this was a place I could be myself and not worry about who was watching. For the cousins, maybe it was just good to have friends around who understood them.
Becky and I spent so many late nights together, giggling like stupid girls. We ate a lot of candy and played a lot of games. I still sometimes imagine that tiny office of Grandma's and how many of us could cram into that tiny space to play Wheel of Fortune or Castle on the old Tandy. There were movies we always watched--Swiss Family Robinson, the Music Man and Robin Hood. We'd play board games like the adults did, but of course, much worse. The favorite for us and the younger kids was Scatergories and Boggle.
Grandma kept a stock of ice cream in her overflow freezers in the basement, and on days when it got really hot outside, we'd camp out down there in the cooler temperatures reading a box of old comic books and digging through National Geographic magazines that dated back to the 30's.
I can't even list all of the best memories. It wouldn't matter. Everyone has their own space and time that held that childhood magic for them. Mine happens to be a little farm in Northeast Montana, in a house that barely fit all of us, overflowing with Grandma's love and surrounded by the people who you didn't have to explain yourself to.
Life has changed a lot, and we can't go back to those times. Everyone's moved around and the grandparents have passed away. But there's something about cousins. When we get together, there's this piece of us that hasn't changed. Every single one of our circumstances may be different, but some how, there's still a little thread of magic between all of us. That family bond, I guess.
We're raising up a new generation, and our aunts and uncles are becoming the grandparents that we grew up loving. I see my dad playing the same games Grandpa used to play, bouncing little kids on his knees and pretending to steal their noses. I see my mom baking up pies and making sure everyone has enough food. When I'm lucky, we sit around and play board games at night. These are the remnants of the good old days.
When I think about cousins, I want all of my kids to cherish their cousins like I do. I want them to know each other and build the same kind of memories together like ours. The innocent childhood kind, within the safety of our little worlds we've built. I want to preserve the best things from my grandparents and let my kids experience it with theirs. I know you can't go home again. I know the world is different, and the characters of my childhood stories have all grown old now. But once in a while, when the cousins come to visit, I get a glimpse of how history can repeat itself. For better or for worse, it does. And in the case of my family, it's mostly the better stuff.
Monday, October 17, 2016
She Can't Help Herself
After shutting down my last blog (unofficially), which had about 4 regular readers, I've avoided writing anything of length for public reading. I know my opinions aren't going to change the world, and I know that they aren't very original or any more spiritual than anyone else's. But. Sometimes I'm kind of bursting at the seams to write something. It's more of a way for me to process things than it is for me to shove off my thoughts and feelings on the rest of the willing world. Maybe that's the purpose of blogs anyway? Maybe most bloggers just don't know that? I don't know. Personally I'm not a big fan of blogs. But because I love writing and because sometimes I want to spout off, I'm opening this new little guy for anyone who wants it.
Life got a lot busier in the last year with building the house, having an injured child and being at the hospital with her, and adding a fourth girlie to the family. So I make no guarentees about how much I'll write. I do plan to be more focused in this blog. While I'd love to have a multi-paged site with all kinds of good topics to explore, time and energy require that I mostly just focus on my narrow perception of society and the way we live in it as Christians. I guess. We'll see.
That's all for now. I have three kids to put to bed.
Life got a lot busier in the last year with building the house, having an injured child and being at the hospital with her, and adding a fourth girlie to the family. So I make no guarentees about how much I'll write. I do plan to be more focused in this blog. While I'd love to have a multi-paged site with all kinds of good topics to explore, time and energy require that I mostly just focus on my narrow perception of society and the way we live in it as Christians. I guess. We'll see.
That's all for now. I have three kids to put to bed.
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