Wisdom Over Youth

Humorous, inspirational take on growing up and growing older

Holiday

The Day After The Day After Christmas

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It’s The Day After Christmas and the exhaustion of making Christmas magic is lingering like a bad cold. Especially when looking at the stack of dirty dishes despite doing several loads throughout Christmas day. Shipping boxes, packaging, wrapping paper and ribbons litter the room along with most of the gifts that haven’t found their permanent home yet. A stuffed refrigerator requires unloading half the shelf to find leftovers. An eclectic array of containers holding the last bits of delivered goodies lay scattered over the counters.

This familiar path to holiday exhaustion actually starts before Thanksgiving with cleaning and decorating and planning Thanksgiving dinner. Then it’s a slow march to Christmas, adding in shopping and wrapping, baking and delivering, cooking and cleaning and creating new memories until we finally arrive at Christmas day – and the final push with gifts, food and familiar family traditions.

Let’s take a step back for a moment. You realize, that a company like Disney spends billions each year and employs an army of people to create their brand of magic. It may look effortless when you visit, but creating that magic is a highly researched, financed and executed business with a lot of people behind the scenes.

I dust off my martyr complex and commiserate with myself about how much planning and effort and $$ it takes to create our magic holiday season. It feels good to wallow for a bit.

Thankfully, The Day After The Day After Christmas arrives. Exhaustion loosens its grip. The detritus of gifts find their permanent home and become wonderfully useful. Leftovers provide a welcome break from cooking and clean-up. Quiet moments allow for remembering the reason we celebrate Christmas. Memories surface: an adult child’s delight over an unexpected gift; a final sugar rush from treats that drop off the menu until next year, time to enjoy the lights, decorations, and music and perhaps even a few more cheesy Christmas movies without the distraction of a “still needs doing” list; grandchildren’s excitement as they explore their new toys, face-time videos with family. It all points to strengthening and renewing the relationships we hold dear. Holidays are prime time to bind hearts together.

So, the martyr surrenders. In its place, a deep feeling of gratitude for being able to celebrate every year with the people I love. I know I will do it again in 362 days thanks to The Day After the Day After Christmas.

The Babe of Bethlehem

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Tiny hands reach for his mother’s caress, hushed in her loving embrace.

Small fingers curl around Joseph’s hand. Trusted to keep him safe.

One day His hands, ten lepers will cleanse,

Straighten bend limbs, bring grief to an end,

Raise from the dead a cherished friend.

All from the Babe of Bethlehem.

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Jesus awakens, his tiny feet kick the crude manger filled with hay.

Shepherds adore, heavenly choirs sing. Distant looms the day,

Obedient feet to the garden wend, Calvary’s cross with courage ascend,

Step from the tomb, death’s victory end.

All from the Babe of Bethlehem.

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The world he created denied him room. Will I also turn away?

Above the confusing noise of sin, I hear him gently say.

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I’ll not forget thee, I’ve graven thee. Graven upon my palms.

Sorrow, discouragement fade away. Fear and anxiety calm.

Darkness retreats as the light descends, with peace on earth good will t’ward men.

In gratitude every knee will bend,

To worship the Babe of Bethlehem.

Mother’s Day Mud Pots

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I spent 13 years riding the infertility merry-go-round. I can spin tales all day about the crazy up and down cycles. And after adopting our three daughters, I can tell motherhood stories with the best. But what I can’t talk about, is the actual pregnancy and birth process. My experience is limited to interactions with pregnant women and a terrifying black and white health-class film half a century ago, where the screams of the woman giving birth still haunt my dreams.

Recently, my daughters have married and are having babies of their own. Hitchhiking on their journey, I immersed myself in the online community of tracking the life growing inside, a virtually inexhaustible supply of birth stories and the aggressive marketing of everything for baby.

Covid-19 protocols scuttled the first invitation to witness a birth, but actually worked in our favor for the second. Two and only two people could be in the room. My son-in-law and I settled in, both equally inexperienced.

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‘Twas the Day After Christmas

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‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the rooms,

not a sound could be heard even though it was noon.

The stockings lay empty ‘mid ribbons and tags,

torn wrappings and packaging, boxes and bags.

Deep snores rose from Dad fully dressed on the couch,

while scattered about him were tools from his pouch.

When Mama arose she took one look around

and crawled back in bed without making a sound.

The manger scene tipped as the dog tried to lick

the stray crumbs from cookies left out for St. Nick.

I righted the stable, the shepherd and sheep,

the Mary and Joseph and babe still asleep.

Again the three Wise Men could place by His side,

their gifts for the infant King long prophesied.

Could I give a gift? Something special from me?

I studied my jumble of gifts by the tree.

Would He like to try out my skateboard or sled?

My soft, fuzzy blanket would soften His bed.

And then, from above, there arose such a sound!

Forgetting the gifts, up the stairs I did bound.

Louisa had wakened. Oh my! What a stink!

I tore off her diaper and quick as a wink,

I put on a clean one, now sister smells great.

But wouldn’t you know, a new problem awaits.

It’s past time to eat, sister’s starting to fret,

and joining the ruckus are two hungry pets.

I rummaged through cupboards for something to eat,

and gathered up holiday left-over treats.

I plopped sister down on her favorite quilt,

and gave her a bottle of cold chocolate milk.

The dog wolfed the roast beef with horseradish sauce,

while the cat slurped the eggnog poured over the squash.

I picked up torn papers and boxes galore,

replaced all the tools, and then vacuumed the floor.

When Mom and Dad wakened, they looked at the sight.

Then wrapping their arms ‘round me said with delight…

“Of all of the gifts we received who could guess,

the gift that you gave from your heart was the best!”

And ruffling my hair Mom repeated this truth,

“By serving each other, we’re serving Him too.”

Without even knowing, my gift was just right,

to give to the Savior that first Christmas night.

A Father’s Day Tribute

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          My father is a quiet man. By today’s standards he would be labeled an introvert. His quiet way belied his wisdom, however. If I wanted someone to reflect my passion or validate my actions, I went to Mom. If I wanted thoughtful, measured advice, I went to Dad.

          Women’s liberation started in my childhood. By the time I was a teenager, it was churning full force. I listened, explored ideas with friends and tried to find a balance between my own stay-at-home-mom-traditional-family, and the ideas of breaking out from under the oppression of men and demanding equality that swirled around me in society. As I job hunted after graduation, it felt like an opportunity to join the cause and make my own personal statement. All kinds of fields were opening up. Anything seemed possible, and yet I found the sheer volume of choices more paralyzing than empowering.

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A Mother’s Day Rose

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                I got a rose in church for Mother’s Day.

                I tossed it in the garbage when I got home.

               It isn’t like I haven’t had difficult Mother’s Days before. Thirteen years on the infertility roller coaster equaled 13 years of ingenious excuses to avoid church on Mother’s Day. After adopting, I jumped overnight into Motherhood as I literally held the life of each child in my hands.

                But it has been said that the art of parenting is the art of turning over control of their life — to them.

                It is hardly a straight line. And so I may have been hovering a bit with my baby.

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10 Things I am Grateful I Don’t Have to be Grateful For

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There are a few words of holy writ I wish had never been written. With slight variations, they all say the same thing: Give thanks unto God for all things.

It’s that qualifier “all” that is troublesome. It is easy to be thankful for all things when fortune is smiling down on you. Not so much when your life has been up-ended.

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A Father’s Day Tribute — Lunch With Dad

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I walked in the back door of my parents’ home physically spent, teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss. My husband helped me to the spare bedroom where I dropped onto the bed. Satisfied I would be OK, he left for a few hours of errands.

The tears I had held back flowed, fueled by the morning’s pain and a healthy dose of self-pity….

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The REAL Mother’s Day Gift List

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Shortly after my daughter was born, in the fog of sleep deprivation, amidst the 24/7 feeding, changing, rocking and bathing schedule, and when the neglect of not cooking, cleaning or doing laundry began to overwhelm me, I clearly remember the moment I had an epiphany.

“MY MOTHER DID ALL OF THIS FOR ME? ”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!”

The level of sacrifice, work and love required to bring a child into the world and help them grow into an independent, moral, contributing human being…well…. words fail. It almost has to be experienced to be understood.

Thus my dilemma….

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