Hi All!  

Still searching for the Joy and Hope in this world?  
Me, too.  
Look forward, look backward.  Looking all around trying to notice all the Hope and Joy I can find .
To help you out, here is a Re-Post from a very Merry June ago....




​
​Merry Christmas!


Yes, there is a Christmas tree in my living room today.
Yes, I know it is June.  


Need an explanation?


We had a photo shoot at my house for a story that will be published around Christmastime.  Publishers work months ahead, in order to have the material ready by December.   So we set up Christmas a bit early, and took the pictures.  This is the first time that I have ever decorated for Christmas when it is NOT December.  And you know what?  It has been a fantastic experience!   


The kids are beside themselves with Joy.  Not kidding.  I never realized how magical this could be.   


I mean, it’s not like June is a dark and sad month or anything.  We don’t NEED Christmas tree lights in June like we need a sparkly tree up north in December.  By the third week of December, we Minnesotans are desperate for anything that twinkles like the sun.  The world is such a dark and cold place that even tiny Christmas lights and Advent candles make us happy.  Christmas gives us HOPE!  


But in June, we have sunshine and sparkling water and boats and loons crying.  And mosquitoes.  Those too.  And kids out of school, and broken arms, and trips to the orthodontist and dentist and doctor and gophers digging up the yard that I just mowed in 80% humidity with a herd of mosquitoes trailing me like flying piranhas through the woods…I don’t worry about wolves in the woods, because the mosquitoes leave so little flesh that no wolf would be interested.  Wolf spiders are more scary, anyway.  June in Minnesota is special that way.


I guess what I am trying to say, is that even though it is summer, and the kites are flying, the sparrows are hatching, and the roses are blooming, I still need Hope.  I still need a little help finding Love, Joy, and Peace.  And you know what?  It is really easy to find those things with a Christmas tree in the living room and a creche on the mantel.  


The kids’ excitement and anticipation of great Joy were contagious.  So I rummaged around the nooks and crannies of my house, and found many odds and ends for presents.  Mostly books.  And silly things like a Bonne Belle lipgloss giftpack (90% off in January!) and some Jolly Rancher shower gel.  How is that even a thing?  Who wants tasty shower gel?  These things are in my house because I can’t pass up a 90% off sale, no matter how ridiculous the items.  I also grabbed all of the individual-sized snacks out of the cupboards, like Cheetos and Sour Cream and Onion Chips.  I wrapped everything up in Christmas paper, and tucked it all under the sparkling tree.  


Then we invited friends over.   


I think they were surprised! 


And you know what?  We had a lovely, unexpected, and Joyous afternoon.   We ate popcorn, we talked, we laughed.  We played a White Elephant gift game with all the wrapped presents, and the mystery gift that everyone wanted the most turned out to be the Jolly Rancher Shower Gel.  Imagine that.  It was wrapped in the shiniest paper.  


If you are looking for Hope or Joy, I highly recommend celebrating Christmas in June!   The sparkly Christmas tree brought us excitement and Joy.  But there was more to it than that.  


Amid the decorations and presents and laughter, something else was there.  


The most powerful part of this week has been the quiet parade of plastic animals and shepherds, making their way across my mantel, looking for the small Christ Child in the manger.  Despite the drafty barn, despite the darkness of the night and the chaos in the world, the baby sleeps peacefully in the manger.  Silent night, holy night.  That is what gives us Hope.  That’s the source of our Joy.   And that is worth celebrating, any time of the year.  


Merry Christmas!

Emmanuel.  
God with us.  

I love the imagery and symbolism of the Holy Family in the stable.  That imperfect, ramshackle cave, the place that God came to be with us.

In this crazy world, it's good to remember that we don't have to be perfect.  
We don't.  
We can't.
It is God who brings perfection to our humble, broken, imperfect hearts.

This reminds me of my favorite poem about the Christmas Stable.
(I wish I could credit the author, but I haven't been able to discover that.)  

Here it is, surrounded by the simply lovely artwork of my second graders, who imagined they were building a shelter for the Holy Family on Christmas night.  A little cardboard, a few popsicle sticks, pebbles, glue and some grand imaginations filled a day of school with prayerful fun.  Without any pretenses of being glorious or grand, these little stables are just right, even perfect.  Here is the poem:

My heart is a stable, Dear Lord
O grant that it may be
Not great or grand or rich enough
but poor enough for Thee.

Emmanuel.
God be with you today.
May we invite Him in to our imperfect hearts and lives.

This made me smile.  Two tiny blossoms, picked by two small hands with grubby fingers.  Together, we placed them in this Lego chalice.  Art at its finest.

April 15.

Tax Day.

Groan...

For as much as I love paint and words and creating messy things,
I despise record keeping and ledgers and the monotony of orderliness.  
Calculating tax returns ranks right up there with the time I got a root canal.  

The root canal was particularly memorable because not only did it hurt like heck, but while the perky, young, blonde endodontist with red manicured nails heartily shoved medical machinery, including a running drill and what might have been a catalytic converter into my mouth, she asked 'getting to know you' questions.  

"Do you have kids?" her smile gleamed, sparkling with a million dollars of dental work.  I was flat on my back, white-knuckled, having infected tooth pulp sucked out with a vacuum hose.  I didn't feel much like small talk.

"Auhughmshix..."  I attempted to smile, and held up six fingers.
  
"Ohmygosh! Imagine, six kids!  How can you keep track!  Ohmygosh if anyone asks you how many kids you have, you can just say half a dozen!!!!!"   Her peals of laughter echoed loud enough for me to still hear today. 

Needless to say, I did not reveal to this woman that I was five months pregnant with number seven.  Better to let her imagine I swallowed a globe on my way in for the root canal.

Compared to Tax Day, which I have to endure every year, that root canal was nothing.  Just a fleeting irritation.   

But April 15 comes every year, with its infernal receipts and columns and calculations.  I am not fond of April 15.

Today my son came home from school, dumped his math homework on the table and said, "Mom, is tomorrow April 15th?"

"Yes."

"Awesome!  Will you make a cake to celebrate?"

"Are you nuts, Kid?  Who celebrates Tax Day?"  

"Mom!" he said, looking shocked with disbelief.  "April 15th is Leonardo Da Vinci's birthday!  How could you not know that?  It's important!"  

Well, who knew?  

April 15 is special!   I think I will go bake a gluten-free, sugar-free cake, after all.
​
Then we will really have something to smile about.  

Mona Lisa (public domain), Leonardo Da Vinci

Yesterday, after supper, I flopped down in exhaustion.  Right on the armchair like Raggedy Ann.  It had been one heck of a day.  Not that it was unique or anything.   I am 49 years old, and I have a lot of kids.  Exhaustion is my middle name.


“Mom!” a teenager comments,  “I didn’t know you could sit like that!”


I was too tired to care.  Yes, even old moms flop on chairs and put their feet up.  Within seconds, I had dozed off.  


“Michelle?”  I hear a small voice.  “Michelle?”  


I open my eyes just a crack, and see Small One standing near me.  She is holding a clipboard, and wearing glasses and her sister’s long, white, button-down sweater.  This can only mean one thing.  


“Michelle?  Are you ready for your doctor’s appointment?”  


Oh dear.  


It’s my fault.  I could have been promoting her possible future career as a hair stylist or masseuse.  If I had done that, maybe she would be standing by my chair, wanting to rub my feet.  But no.  This kid’s been told her whole life that if she wants to, she can be a doctor. 


So she’s here to draw my blood.


With a pencil.


I smile wanly as she takes my arm and pushes up my sleeve.


“See, that didn’t hurt much!” she says, taping a bandage to the inside of my elbow.  She begins to question me, writing notes furiously on her clipboard.  She confers with her sister, who is playing the nurse.  They whisper back and forth about my being tired and having sore feet.  She examines the pencil, holding it up to the light and peering intently.  


“O.K. The blood test results are in,”  the little doctor says.  “and I have great news:  


You’re pregnant!”
​

I was sitting on the couch before daybreak this morning, cuddling the small kiddos.  No school today, so of course they were up extra early.  It was pitch dark, but no bus, no race, no stress.  

Just peace.  Quiet.  A tender moment...I thought.

I wondered if my kids would keep this scrap of time in their memories, just watching the sun rise, peacefully with Mom...

I looked at my son's freckled face.  His eyes drooped half-mast, dreamily.  

"Whatcha thinking about?" I asked.

"I wish I had dentures,"  he said.  

"Dentures?"

"Yeah!  SHARK DENTURES!!!!  That would be even more epic than tiger dentures.  Yeah, I sure wish I had dentures."

I guess peace is a state of mind.

The death of David Bowie had me feeling sentimental today.  I turned on some tunes while I made lunch for the kids.    As soon as he heard me blasting “As the World Falls Down” (Labrynth)  Doug entered the kitchen.   That was the song we began our married life with.  First dance as a couple.  


Aww.  


I was so desperately nervous to dance in front of all those people watching.  David Bowie’s music calmed me down.  What were Doug and I thinking?  Two artists, in our 20’s, getting married and dancing to Muppet music?  And the song was called “As the World Falls Down”?  Really?


Here we are, seven kids and a few decades later.  Yes, the World Has Fallen.  I cast aside the sandwiches and lettuce, like a bride tossing her bouquet all over again.  And Doug and I begin to dance.  In the kitchen.  No one is watching, so it’s all good.  


“Ewww!  Time to leave!” one child cries.


“It’s so romantic!” says another, dreamily.  


Small One appears out of nowhere, an Easter basket full of Kleenexes on her arm.  She pulls a tissue out of the basket with great pomp and circumstance, and throws it on the floor at our feet.  Again and again, she rains down Kleenexes around us as we whirled around in front of the dishwasher.  


“I’m your flower girl!”

When she asked me to put on my wedding dress, I just laughed.  Perhaps my arm might fit in the skirt part?   She was thrilled when I suggested it might fit her better, instead.  Oh, the twirling that ensued.  Just Joy.


Thank you for the music, Mr. Bowie.  

It's a lovely world, even though it has fallen down.

Still on the lookout for one precious moment in each day.  Some days it is more difficult than others.  Some days I am just cranky!  

Hmmm.  

Today I am very grateful for sleep, which I know that I am going to get, sooner or later.  

Also this pillowcase.  

I bought it once upon a time, a very long time ago, at a garage sale on the street where my grandma used to live.  It reminds me of her.  It's a very beloved item around here.  Somehow, the kids all think that the 'bluebird pillowcase' is special.  How many hours did my grandmother spend, trying to teach me to stitch and sew?  Was she always patient?  Ha.  I was not a very neat and tidy seamstress, follow-the-pattern sorta gal.  I wanted to change everything and do it fast.  I can still hear my grandma scolding "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right!"  Then all the crooked seams would be ripped out of the pink polka dot nightgown.  The threads would flutter to the floor like raindrops, and we would begin again.  

Sheer agony.

But I am smiling now, remembering her small and tidy stitches.  And her patience.  

And her love.

So now today ends on a beautiful note, after all.  Thanks, Grandma.

Which moment will you hang on to today?  

Do I love you?


Oh, I do.  I’ll tell you how much, Dear.  I won’t tell you all the details right now.  But someday, when you are older, you might stumble across this blog of mine… And then you’ll find out the truth.


I love you so much that I let you have a pet.  That buffalo that you love so well, the one that masquerades as a dog… The one that digs holes in the front yard and sleeps on my couch.  Yeah, that one.   I love you so much that I let you have the dog. 


Late last night, while you were sleeping peacefully,  your beloved dog didn’t feel so well.  It seems that his foray into the garbage can yesterday gave him much more than the plunder he sought.  He got a tummy ache.  


At midnight, his restlessness grew into groans.  The rest of the house was sleeping soundly.  But Dog was unhappy.  As time ticked by, his sadness ballooned into a storm of desperation.  He needed to go outside.  Bark, bark, bark.


I stumbled to the hall, donned my parka over my bathrobe, stepped into my son’s arctic boots that are three sizes too big for me, and opened the front door.  A cloud of steam escaped, swirling, dissipating off the porch, and I gasped for air.  Did I mention it was cold?  The windchill was under -20 Farenheit last night.  I braced myself.  I’m tough.


We walked up and down the icy street in the dead of night, Dog and I.  With not a cloud in the sky, the stars pierced the heavens brilliantly, glittering their reflections on the snow.  It was brittle, but beautiful, I will admit.  But I wondered at my own sanity.  I wondered how many minutes it would take for my hands to freeze.  I wondered how my mag light would fare against coyotes.  I wondered when your dog would finish his business of being sick, and want to go back inside.  His paws got cold, too.  


We repeated the scenario a couple hours later.  


It was still dark.  Still starry.  Still frigid.  


Still, you slept.  And I was glad.  Because I love you.


By 4:00 a.m., he finally stopped the bark bark bark noises, and settled down for a nice old-dog-nap.  I started the coffee.  


So here I sit, sipping some ridiculously thick coffee, and thinking of you.  You’ll be up soon for school, and I’ll be making your breakfast and lunch and pushing you out the door.  Dog and I will spend the day together, I will write and paint, he will sleep and bark.  


Yes, I love you quite a lot, My Dear.

Recently I needed to drive to the airport to pick someone up from a red-eye flight.   I tried to plan ahead a bit, so I wouldn’t be too tired.  Supper was on the table, bam!  Right at 5 o’clock.  Dishes done, backpacks and lunch boxes for tomorrow morning’s school rush all lined up.  Just like clockwork.


At around 6 pm, the kids were all calmly reading, so I thought I’d take a small nap before the kids went to bed.  I cozied up with a fuzzy blanket, fell asleep right away, while the neat, clean kids read books quietly, the whole time.  The kids said their prayers and put themselves to bed.  I awoke refreshed, and rested…


…Said No Mom, Ever!


Who am I trying to kid?  Reality runs a different race around here.


Instead, I dealt out bowls for Cheerios, smooth and fast, like a blackjack pro.  Spoons flashed, a blur of lightening on the table. Watch out for flying cups!  Good thing they are plastic.  Milk spilled where?  And that is ENOUGH sugar, Mister-I-Don’t-Care-If-I-Have-To-Go-To-The-Dentist-Again.  Did you really spill milk on her homework?  Well, it’s not the graphing calculator, so we’re fine.  Prayers, anyone?


At around 6 pm, dishes were piled high.  Dishwasher broken again!  The kids were nowhere to be seen.  Backpacks and lunch boxes and homework papers were scattered all over the living room.  This seemed the perfect time to sneak off and sleep for a few minutes.  I should have hidden in the closet.  I cozied up with the unfolded but clean laundry piled all over my bed, closed my eyes, and drooled like a leaky faucet. 


Then I heard them.  In my drowsy state of semi-consiousness, I heard the pitter patter of small feet.  No one was yelling, so I kept on dreaming…I can sleep through this.  More feet entered the room.  Clickety click, the dog’s toenails crossed the hardwood floor.  With a few squeaks on his tennis ball, he scampered away like an aged buffalo across the prairie, hoofs beating.  Two Small Someones climbed onto the bed.  One began to giggle.  One began to jump.  The giggler joined in the jumping, and bounced the other kid off the bed.  A chorus of laughter ensued, and the voices faded away into the kitchen.  Meanwhile, Child Number Three climbed into bed and covered me with her cherished blanket.  


And she began to sing.  


Her little hands tangled into my hair, rubbing my head like just like I have done for her whenever she is sick, or needing extra love.  Gently, she smoothed out the snarls, and caressed my sagging jowls.  “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me hoooooome…”  Her voice lilted through my foggy brain and I drifted, asleep in the softness of the melody and the laundry.  I didn’t fully awaken even as she began to sing Christmas carols.  Joy to the World, Silent Night, We Three Kings… Every song she had heard lately, during Advent and Christmas, rang out softly and clearly in her little cherub’s voice.  


She mothered me, just like she mothers her ragged pink stuffed dog.  I felt loved.  Cherished. 


Just then, in my dream-state, I knew the two bed-jumpers had returned.  They began to jump and laugh and chortle and steal my bath-towel pillow.  Oh, how the Lullaby Girl howled!  Fiercely and Instantly, she was upon them.  She leapt from the bed, a fa-la-la-la-la trailing behind her like tinsel from a tree, and she chased those two big siblings right out of the room.  Scolding them for all she was worth.  A roaring tigress, defending her sleeping kitten.


My eyes opened completely, and I saw her face then, peering closely into mine.  “It’s all right, Mom.” she whispered.  “They’re gone now.  They won’t be back.  Close your eyes.”  Again she lifted her voice in song “…The First Nowell, the Angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay….”




Late that night, as I drove off to the airport, I remembered the touch of her little hands on my forehead.   And her ferocious defense of her sleeping Mom.  


This was what being a Mom is all about, and I wondered at the mystery of it all.  Motherhood is a tumbled mix of Love and Ferocity, Lullabies and Scoldings, a full kitchen sink and a shepherd, lying in the fields among her sheep.


Silent night, Holy night.  


Motherhood is oh, so very lovely. 

“What are we doing for New Year’s Eve, Mom?”


It was the 30th of December.  Plans had been made.  The Vietnamese egg rolls had been ordered and picked up.  Shopping almost done.  Phô ingredients in the fridge.  Well, almost.  I forgot the bean sprouts.  And the shrimp.  


Also meat.  


There was no meat in the house at all, except one leftover piece of salami.  Maybe I should call it Ramen instead of Phô.  Then they wouldn’t expect anything exotic like limes or vegetables or meat.  Also, the noodles are mung bean, not rice stick.  Technically, mung bean noodles in broth are neither phô nor ramen.  Who was I trying to kid?  But the broth was really good, I reasoned.  I bought fresh basil!  Maybe they wouldn't notice.


Did I mention the kids had been sick?   Of course they were.  After every major holiday for the last 21 years, someone in my family has gotten sick.  So like clockwork, right after Christmas, the stomach aches had begun.  


“What are we doing for New Year’s Eve, Mom?”  The question repeated, jolting me out of my reverie.  


“Well, dear.  Three people still have stomach aches.  And since someone puked on the dog in the middle of the night,  I think we better keep it a little low key…Let’s enjoy our egg rolls and Phô and have some fun!”  


“So, Mom.  Let me get this straight."  True teenage tact.  "What you’re really saying is that for New Year’s Eve, we are staying home and eating soup?”


“Yeah, something like that.  Want to eat egg rolls today instead?  It’s almost New Year’s Eve, and there really isn’t any other food in the house.” 


Yeah!


They were delicious.  


We all said “Happy New Year” and smiled.  


The next day, the Real New Year’s Eve, my kid said  “Mom, did you know that some people watch T.V. on New Year’s Eve, and there is this giant silver ball thing that drops in New York City?  Someday can we see that?”


“Sure, kid.  Someday...  Hey,  there is just one egg roll left in the fridge.  I hid it under the lettuce so no one else could find it.  Do you want it?”
​
"Aww, Happy New Year, Mom." 

Happy New Year indeed.

Are you ready for Christmas?  

There is so much to do!  Start checking off the long list:

Presents… ’Tis the season to bustle about, rushing to buy presents.  Make sure you don’t forget anyone!  Is this the right size?  Oh, forget it.  If a mom buys clothing for a teenager, it just ends up on the closet floor anyway.  This mom definitely doesn’t know what is cool.  Is cool even a word anymore?  I think they say “hot” now.  Personally, I would rather spontaneously combust than call my daughter’s clothing “hot”.  Good grief.  The thought of my little girls someday being hot is enough to engulf me in burning flames of panic.  That is hot.  Better stick to books.  Maybe if I buy them books, they’ll be more interested in the library.  Libraries are safe and quiet.  And socks.  Books and socks.  They’ll be so pleased with their Christmas presents…


Decorate…  Must I?  The house is so cluttered already, that I can’t bear to do it.  Can’t we just arrange your Playmobil characters on the mantel in a Christmas-y, manger scene and be happy?  You can add the giraffe and the orangutan, too, Dear.  I know they all want to see Baby Jesus.  I’ll even light some candles.  But that didn’t go so well this year.  The first night of advent, the lone candle flickered in the darkness, a glow of warmth like a halo while we sang Silent Night.  Then the flame scorched a hole in a lampshade.  I knew it was too cluttered in here!  I am done with candles. 


To the delight of the kids, we do now have a tree in the living room.  It’s not enough to have a huge family, a dog on the couch, and a rabbit dwelling in the living room.  We also have a Christmas tree.  It is completely covered with hundreds of sparkling things.  We had a lot of lights to string up.  This fake tree is supposed to automatically light up, but it is old and mostly doesn’t work.  After searching for stored strings of lights, finding the lights in the garage, untangling the lights, testing the lights,  dropping the lights, cleaning up the glass from the broken lights…I had enough of lights.  But one side of the tree was clearly still dark, and all we had left were nets of lights that are supposed to go outside on shrubs.  We have no shrubs.  Why do we own lights like this?  I figured no one will ever notice if we throw them on the Dark Side of the Tree.  The next day, my mom came over to visit, and see the tree.  She ooohed and aaahed and praised me completely for my newly-emerged home decorating skills.  Then she looked at me quizzically. “Why did you use shrub lights?”  Why, indeed.
Let this be a lesson to you.   
You can’t fool Mom. 


Bake… I did it.  I specially adapted my grandmother’s Christmas cookie recipe to be Gluten Free.   After years of trial and error, and more trial and error, they were finally perfect!  “These are great, Mom!”  “Can we frost them now?” “I get the green sprinkles!” The kitchen was filled with warmth and sugar and lovely memories of my grandma.  We can only do just one cookie sheet before bed, I warned.  Just one.  We are not eating all of these cookies before Christmas!  This is just a sample!  So we rolled and cut out and baked and finally, we all crowded around the table to frost and decorate the one pan of cookies.  As little hands grabbed for stars and trees and gingerbread shaped cookies, one little hand knocked over a rather large glass of water.  Yes.  Right onto the cookie sheet.  “Save the cookies!!!” the cry rang out.  Now, some cookies might be strong enough to be dunked in coffee, and enjoyed.  But not my gluten free genius cookies. They did not fare well with the mild drowning.  We decorated the few cookies that survived, trying not to stare at the mush in the pan.  At least we hadn’t baked them all.


Clean…  Clean?  I have nothing to say on this matter.  The more I clean, the more I realize that the walls need fresh paint.
You know, I can barely juggle my own regular stuff.  How can I add Christmas preparations as well?!   It is so frustrating!  It will never be clean, let alone perfect!  Our Christmas dinner will be loud and crowded, probably burnt, and someone will spill their drink, and the plates will have to be pushed aside and the tablecloth lifted and scrunched, and we will all laugh and be soggy and happy together anyway.  Reading books.  In our new socks.  


I guess that is our "perfect".


In all my preparation frustrations of last week, I grabbed my camera and went for a walk.  I needed some peace and quiet.  I needed an ‘all is calm, all is bright’ kind of moment.  A  new perspective.  In the frosty cold of the morning, with the sun just beginning to rise, here is what I found:

It's just an old barn.  That's all.  Run down, caving in.  Severely deficient, like my home decorating skills.   But some hard working people, a long time ago, picked rocks from their fields.  They gathered them together, and patiently stacked them.  One rock at a time, a bit of mortar here and there... added rough wood and nails.  It's not pretty.  It's not perfect.
But this barn is all that was needed.
It's all I need right now.  
I stood at the barn door, thinking about the holy night in Bethlehem long ago...
This is all I need to get ready for Christmas.  
I will muck out my own barn by going to confession, and saying I'm sorry to those I have hurt.  I will sweep away the stones of cynicism, and instead try to repair faith by putting the stones to more constructive use.
I will add some hay of gentleness.
That's it.  
And I will wait.

I'll be ready for Christmas, after all.

7:00 a.m. Happy Thanksgiving text from the family.  
9:00 a.m. Early Mass.  
By 11:00 a.m., I had peeled 22.5 pounds of potatoes.  I am not kidding.  I am the Undisputed Mashed Potato Queen.  I have prepared mashed potatoes for family holidays for many years, because they are impossible to mess up.  It’s all about butter, whipping cream and vast quantities of potatoes.  But about the time I put the third stock pot of water on to boil the last of the spuds, I knew something was not right. 


At 1:00 p.m. We were supposed to be at Thanksgiving Dinner, for 31 people.  
But Small One had a headache, a raging sore throat, and a fever of 101.5.


Time for a plan B.  


1:20, late as usual, the rest of the family packed into the trucks with the potatoes and drove away for dinner.  Small One and I cuddled up on the couch together.  


“Happy Thanksgiving, Kiddo.”  I said.  “Just you and me.  What do you want to do?”


“I like corn.”   She whimpered, huddling under her blanket.   “Can we eat corn out of a can together?”


Yes, we can.


And so we did.  


After all the cooking of the morning, the only clean pot in the kitchen was an egg poacher.  I was far too tired to wash dishes.  So I dumped the egg poaching cups out of the pan, and dumped a can of corn into the poacher.  In a few short minutes, we were cuddled up together in the big arm chair.  The poacher piled on top of every other pot and pan and potato bowl in the house, and I left it balancing there.  


And Small One and I ate canned corn with mashed potatoes.  She wore a damp washcloth on her head.  


Our Thanksgiving feast was unusually quiet. 


There was no hand holding, no long traditional prayer.  No cousins jumped about, shrieking and laughing, snitching treats.  No games of tag were dashed under the table or up the stairs.  No aunts discussed politics or sales, no uncles hammered out the details and how-to’s of organic gardening or ant farms.   No sisters talked about low-glycemic desserts, and no sisters dished up huge portions of homemade gluten free pie, crowned with whipped cream. No college kids regaled us with horror stories of final exams or roommates.  No one asked me to cut up their food.  


Just Small One and I, together, ate canned corn with mashed potatoes.  We did smile at each other.    


And we were thankful.  


She was thankful that she had her mom.  She had her blanket.  And she had her favorite food, canned corn.  


I was thankful for peace.  For hugs from my child.  For the antibiotics that would surely cure yet another case of strep throat.  I was thankful for the dirty dishes piled high, which meant that there was plenty of food for the family celebration.  I was thankful for the family.  Even if I wasn’t with them.  I was thankful for my mom, who hosted the party in her always-clean house, for a sister who made three turkeys, for a sister in law who baked all the pies.  I was thankful for the sister in law who made a special plate up for me, when all was said and done, with the best slices of turkey on it.   And mashed potatoes.  Lots of mashed potatoes.  


I fell asleep, holding Small One while she watched Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving special.  


I slept in the peace and quiet of alone-ness, hugging my feverish child, and dreaming of My Big Fat Family Parties.   It was almost like I was there, in the fray.  


Sometimes being absent makes me appreciate life even more.  


And I’m thankful for that.  

Okay, I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet...  But this just arrived in the mail, and I wanted to share it.  Guideposts has published their 2015 Edition of  "The Joys of Christmas", and inside is a story about Stella!  We're so excited!  This was the big Christmas photo shoot that I wrote about in June.  A great big thank you to my editor, Daniel Kessel, and to Guideposts editor-in-chief, Edward Grinnan, who writes about his brother, Bobby, in the notes from the editor.  Also many thanks to David Bowman Photography for patiently taking pictures.  
 Thank you all for sharing in the Joys of Christmas with us!

“This is highly unusual,”  the nurse practitioner said.  


Of course it was.  


“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this happen before,” he continued.  “Five family members test positive for Strep throat at the same time…”


I tried to give him the lame excuse that our dishwasher was broken.  Why?  Why would a broken dishwasher lead to five cases of strep?  Well, gee whiz.  The repair company schedules a week out, and we were sick of washing so many dishes.  So in the interest of saving time at the sink, we shared a water cup or two.  That’s all.  This is excluding all of my teenagers, of course.  Let it be known that they shared no cups.   Yes, the small ones and I were the only ones to share cups and therefore, get strep.  


Welcome to my life.  If there was a prize for being unusual, we would win.  Not if there was a prize for something unusual like, say, winning the lottery.  Not that kind of unusual.  No, we tend to win the “5 Cases of Strep Throat at Once” sort of prize.  



Last week was kind of a record, though, even for us.  Five people with fevers, sore throats, and short fuses, all at the same time…it didn’t really count as “Fun and Memorable Days Off School.”  We drank a lot of broth.  Broth was such a hit, that we had it four days in a row.  That means I didn’t have to cook, which was kind of a bonus.  I just kept the stock pot warming on the stove, and voilá:  Breakfast, lunch, and supper!   Too bad I was too sick to enjoy the vacation from cooking.  


But on the up side, nothing happened to the laundry.  Nope.  It’s still there, waiting for me, right where I left it before we got sick.  And it has multiplied.  What joy!  Our Laundry Mountain is a young mountain range, and somehow continues to grow over time.  I think that defies geological norms, but then again, it’s not truly petrified yet.   


We got into the doctor’s office really early.  To do that, everyone skipped breakfast.  “There is still Halloween candy in the car,” I said.  “You can have suckers for breakfast.  And it doesn’t matter if you’re still in your pajamas.  Let’s go!”


Thank God for penicillin.  I really am grateful.  You may not have been able to tell when I picked up the prescriptions, though.  I had a fever and a carload of sad, crabby sick kids, all with sore throats and fevers.  So of course, the pharmacy had problems filling our prescriptions.  Because I didn’t want to share germs around the world, we went to a new, drive-through pharmacy.   


Our prescriptions ended up at a different drive-through pharmacy with a similar address, other side of town.   I rested my head on the steering wheel, looked at the poor guy at the window (who did not want my germs) and said “I am not driving across town to that other pharmacy.  How long will it take to fill it here?”  


Thirty minutes.  We could do that.  “Look, let’s all get ice cream for our sore throats,” I said, hoping that would kill a half hour.  I couldn’t take everyone home and back again.  We were going to stick it out and wait.  But it was still morning.  No ice cream shop.  Fevering child number one began to sniffle.  “No crying!” I yelled, my head beginning to pound.  “I’ll fix it.  Look, there is a McDonalds with a drive through across the street.”  But that wasn’t any good, either.  Morning McDonalds for the gluten free crowd is limited to an egg McMuffin with no muffin.  Also no cheese, because my kids are the only kids in America who won’t eat melted cheese.  


“I’m sorry, kids.  But I am not paying $2.79 for each of you to have bread-free, cheese free Egg McMuffin.  That’s just a boiled egg and a piece of ham.  Not even if you’re sick.  You probably couldn’t swallow it, anyway.  Then it would end up on the car floor with all the Halloween candy wrappers.”  


We went back to the pharmacy.  They needed another half hour to solve insurance problems. 


By then, even my best-natured kids wanted to go home. 


“No, we can do this!”  I entered cheerleader mode.  “Look, there’s a lake here.  Let’s drive around the lake and see what we can see.”  Silence fell in the car, as I drove them into sleepy boredom.  Ten minutes.  Twenty minutes.  At thirty, we were back at the drive through pharmacy.  


“Still having trouble with one of the insurance cards,” our faithful pharm tech said.  “I mean, it’s obvious that all the cards are the same family, the same numbers…there must be a glitch in their system.  I’ll need another half an hour to solve this.”


I looked at him.  I had glassy eyes, disheveled hair, and white knuckles on the steering wheel.  He smiled sheepishly and said he hoped we all felt better soon.  I handed him the cash to skip insurance, and finally drove away.  


Five bottles of penicillin, one big couch, and Netflix were all we needed.  
And some broth.  Out of five clean mugs. 


Next time my family does something unusual and noteworthy, I’m going to ask for a Different Prize.  

Last night, just as the sun began to set, I began a long drive home.    I don't often get to just sit and watch the sky, but last night was an exception.  I was a captive audience to the most amazing moon transformation!  I wasn't washing dishes, I wasn't putting kids to bed, I wasn't sorting paperwork or homework or planning for tomorrow.  For two and a half hours, I just watched the moon.  Well, and the roads, of course.  The roads were pretty deserted, because everyone else was busy sitting on their patios, watching the moon with their kids.   I called a friend to let her know how beautiful it was, and believe it or not, they had known in advance that the supermoon eclipse was coming.  They had their camera all set up already.  They probably even had popcorn.  

​I, apparently, was the only one on earth that didn't know it this was planned in advance.  Like everything else in life, it took me by surprise.  And I didn't have my camera with me.

​But I had coffee.  I had silence.  And I had the moon.   The night felt so ethereal and majestic;  I wanted to be part of it, be in it.  Being hermetically sealed in a metal car, looking through a window wasn't enough.  I wanted to fly, to feel the wind on my face, and breathe in the night...  

So I rolled down all my car windows, just in time to be flooded with a fog of fresh woodland skunk.
​Way to ruin my dreams of night flying.  
​Back in my sardine can.  The moon was glorious anyway, even when viewed through a window.

I made it home just before the moon disappeared completely under the red shadow... 
My kids and I watched the rest of the magnificent eclipse together, breathing in the damp dark air, laughing together in the glow of the moon.   No homework.  No skunks.

​And that's just the way I would have planned it.    

Before my daughter was born with Down Syndrome, some people painted a grim and terrible picture of what my life would be like if such a thing happened.  

“Your life will never be the same!”  
“Your life will revolve around hospitals.”  
“You won’t have time for your other kids.”  
“You will always be sad and regretful of the things your child cannot do.”

Even after she was born, a geneticist at a specialty clinic upbraided me, using primitive scare tactics.  
“I know you like babies, but you will never want to have another baby after this one,” she said in an authoritative voice, towering over me in my daughter’s cardiology office.  “You will worry and agonize every moment of another pregnancy.  You’re old and your risks are high that this will happen to you again.”  

She said this to me as my small, almond-eyed daughter cooed softly in my arm, tightly gripping my finger and my heartstrings.  

Despite that doctor’s admonishments and scolding, a couple of years later, my daughter grew into a  glorious, curious toddler.  And I did get pregnant again.  On purpose. 

I was 39 years old.   

At that ultrasound appointment, the doctor examined my prenatal son’s body closely.  He measured limbs, organs, examined bone structure, checking all the typical markers for Down Syndrome.  

“You need to have a Triple Screen done,” he said.  “I don’t see results in your file.  You are considered a geriatric in the ob/gyn world, so you need to have that done.  The fetal matter is high risk for abnormalities.”  

Wait.  He had just told me I was having a son.  Why was he now calling my little man fetal matter and wanting tests for abnormalities?  

“Look.  I’m not afraid,” I said.  “I already have a child with Down Syndrome, and she’s not the least bit scary.  She’s wonderful and absolutely beloved.”

The doctor looked me in the eye for a moment.  He closed his file, stood up, and left the room without another word.

After he was gone, the young ultrasound technician leaned in toward me, with a confiding smile.

“I’m not allowed to say this in the office", she said in a hushed voice. "But I’m so happy for you!  My friend has a toddler with Down Syndrome, and he is full of love.  He has made their family’s life so rich and happy!  I know how much love your daughter brings.”

We chatted about babies and Down Syndrome for a few more minutes, quietly sharing the joy that we both knew well.  Babies with Down Syndrome are, like every baby, full of Love.  

As an expectant parent, you may feel afraid.  You will be tested, and categorized, and railroaded.  You will be counseled, scolded, and warned.  You may feel inept or not up to the task, or just plain stressed out, because all circumstances are not ideal.  But talk is talk.  Threats of doom are just threats.  You don’t have to go down that path of worry and fear.  Especially if your child shows some characteristic that seems unique, or challenging, or just plain scary… 

Don’t lose sight of the simple truth.   

Your life will change forever, because you will be filled with Love. 

When my daughter was about a month old, I was holding her in my arms, speaking to a friend.  A man in a suit, a stranger, approached me.  He was visiting from out of town, he said.   "My own son has Down Syndrome, too.  I miss him so much when I travel.  May I hold her, please?” he asked.  He cradled my baby close to his heart, then kissed her soft, peachy face.  Tears dripped down his cheek and into his beard.  “You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you,” he said, and walked away.  

He was right.  

You have no idea of the Love that is in store for you.  

That is the truth.

It’s the first day of school.

The house is quiet.  Eerily quiet.  They are all in school.  

This is probably the first time in 21 years that I have a quiet morning.  Really. I am standing in my house, surrounded by twenty one years of childhood debris.  The walls are scuffed, the windows are fingerprinted.  Laundry spills out of the laundry room like a lava floe, oozing into the living room.  Cereal bowls and sandwich fixings line the countertop.  It is a mess, and I am feeling weird.

“The school bus comes, and you’re supposed to do the happy dance!”  one friend says.

“Want to come over for coffee?” says another.

But I can do neither.   I have too much emotion building inside of me, and there is only one thing to do.  

Cry.

None of the kids were sad to leave, of course.  They were ecstatic, joyful, bouncing off the walls at 6 a.m.  Ready for a new adventure.  Loaded down with 40 pound backpacks, they marched off as eager as Bilbo Baggins leaving the Shire.  

And I am sitting here alone, sobbing to Disney Music Soundtracks.  

Not kidding.  

“You’ll be in my heart, no matter what…  You’ll be here in my heart Always.
From this day on, now and forever more…I’ll be there for you always….Just look over your shoulder, I’ll be there always.”

This isn’t what I had envisioned when I got pregnant, so long ago.  I was on the five year plan:  Five years at home with a child, then back to real life.  I had it all planned out.  Parenting was like a small sabbatical, a little recess on the job of life, I thought.  A side dish.  Ha!

I didn’t know that the agony and the ecstasy of Motherhood would sweep me off my feet and overwhelm me like a tidal wave of love, and leave me sitting here, twenty one years later, crying to Tarzan music like a lunatic.  

I’d better pull myself together, because in a few short hours, they’ll be back, Trashing the Camp.  If you know your Disney music, you’ll know what I mean! 

And they’ll want cookies.

Here is a small thing that I found in my garden today.  

It doesn’t belong there.  It’s just a weed, winding its way into my garden from the ever-moving, encroaching woods.  There are a million of these things out there.  I rip them out without thinking of anything but the tomatoes I planted, that are ripening somewhere in the forest of weeds.   

“Stop!” one of my kids yelled in dismay.   He had come to keep me company.  “Don’t pull the Elephants!”

“What? What elephants?”  

“Mom! That thing in your hand!  You’re ripping out the beautiful Elephants!”

I stopped and took a closer look.  

“See Mom?  Two big ears, and a trunk?  These are baby elephants!  Don’t pull them out, they’re my favorite.” 

He ran off to play, and I was left, standing in the weeds, thinking. 

Admiring the elephants.

Why hadn’t I seen these before?  How could I miss these magnificent elephants, living right in my front garden?   

Each flower is only about a centimeter across.  They grow on thin vines, tangling all through my garden.  I just dismissed them as weeds, never taking time to look more closely.  But now, I was seeing things through my child’s eyes.  He sees the world differently, more clearly.  His sight is not clouded by experience and utilitarianism.  

He sees only wonder and magnificence.

It’s right here, all around us.  Wonder and Magnificence.  The God who created you and me is an artist who cares, right down to the intricate details.  This tiny, unnoticed elephant flower living in obscurity in my garden is living proof of the Creator’s love and care for us.   Wow.  Kids see things so clearly.  Life is so rich and beautiful when I have someone to help me see it.

I’m going to check for elephants in my living room now…

I found these Acorns lying on the ground today.  There were so many of them!  They had fallen from a great height, a Giantess of a tree, really.  The tree has some broken limbs from last night's storm, but she is stronger than she looks.  The cracks and broken parts will heal.  Trees have a way of doing that.  She will survive, probably another sixty years or more.  Even if she doesn't know it, she is stronger than this recent storm.  

But some of her acorns had fallen in the wind.  Some were cracked and broken, some were too small.  All they had needed was a little more time with their Mama Tree.  Just a few more weeks, really.  Just time, nothing more.

If they had been given a few more weeks, then Earth would do the rest.  

Like for this other Little Guy in my yard...  He was given enough time on the Tree.  He fell into my flower garden a few years ago, brown and plump, and Life Happened.  

He got dirty and muddy.  He got cracked and broken up.  It rained on him a lot.  Sheesh.  He had a rough time for a while, just like the rest of us.  But then, in all the pain and trouble, after he thought he was dead and buried, really done for, this began to happen:

And then, this.  This is his future!

Every rainstorm makes that Tree stronger.   Amazing, isn't it?  All that power, all that beauty, all that potential, hidden away inside a tiny little Acorn...

All they need is a few short months with a Mama Tree...

And God will do the rest.  Mightiness unleashed!

Sometimes when I look at my grown children, it’s as if a shooting star crosses the sky, and I catch a one-second glimpse of them when they were eight years old. Or three  or five years old…  

A flashback to childhood…

One burst of light, and then it’s gone.  

There are moments that I suck in my breath as my grown child is talking, telling me about work and college.  And suddenly, I see her as she was:  Freckles, missing and crooked teeth, three and a half feet tall, telling me about science and how she is going to be an archaeologist when she grows up.  Or in a shimmer, I see my little author child, pen in hand, holding up her latest story.  Her braids fly wildly askew under her straw hat, which she wears to help her get in character to write.  Her freckles are drawn on with brown crayola marker to look more like Tom Sawyer.  “It’s all about a girl who wants a dog, Mom.  And she finally gets one!  That’s the happy surprise ending, see my illustration?  She gets a dog!”  Or, as my now-teenager asks for the car keys, and reaches out her hand, I see the chubby little fingers of her at two years old, holding my hand just because I was the powerful one who kept away the monsters in the dark.  She’d grip my fingers in hers, and hold on tightly until she was sound asleep.  Ah, the days when I could fix everything that was important to them.  

Those days didn’t last.

And at these lucid moments, when I again see a mirage of my small children, my heart beats on my chest wall with a pang of longing, and tears spring to my eyes.   I smile and reach out, but they are transformed.  They are grown.  

It was just a shooting star.  A glimmer of what used to be.

Suddenly, I am old, and they are taller than I am.  “You okay, Mom?” they look at me quizzically.  “What are you smiling about?”  Snap.  They are adults, and they take the vision of my tiny child with them when they walk away, unknowing.  “Are you smiling and crying at the same time, Mom? Are you?”

Of course I am.  

This week, the Perseid Meteor Shower hit around here.  Carpe diem, I say.  This is one of those moments!   We all stayed up until it was extremely late, and extremely dark.  Then my youngest kids and I camped out, wrapped in quilts under the dark sky, and counted real-life shooting stars.  

“One!”  
“Oh Mom!  Did you see that?  I saw one! I saw one! I saw a shooting star!”
“Don’t kick me.”
“Watch out!  You’re crowding me!  I don’t want to fall off the roof of the truck.”
“Can I have some of your blanket, please?”

“Two!”

“I saw it! I saw it! I saw it!!!”
“I lost my shoes, Mom”
“Pass the binoculars.”
“Did you know that stars are made up of burning gas?”
“Mom, what’s a star made of?”
“Well, she’s right.  But quit worrying about burning gas!  You’re not a star.”
“Foot out of my hair, please.”

“Three!”  
“Wow!  That one was huge!”
Small One nestled in my elbow, on the hood of the truck.  She lisps through the new hole in her teeth, where a baby tooth fell out earlier.  “I’m tho glad you got me up the thee thith, Mom.  Thankth.”  

“Four.”
We whispered now, partly because some kids had fallen asleep.  And partly because we were deep in Awe.

“Five.”
We felt the dark silence of the universe surrounding us.  Alive, burning, sparkling.  

“Six.”
We were small. 

“Seven.”
Silence.

We stayed out there until the wee hours, counting shooting stars.  It was priceless.
This is one of those moments in life that will keep coming back to me.  

Watching the sudden, silent bursts of light in the darkness with my kids…finding the joy in the stillness of the night.

As I carried the small ones back inside to their beds, I promised myself that in the rush and bustle of life, I will never be too busy to hug someone under the stars.

Because shooting stars don’t last forever.

Carpe diem.

;

A semicolon is a small bit of punctuation that separates two related ideas.  

It’s a clause. 

A pause.  

A semicolon says,  “Wait!  This is not the end;  there is more to come.”

The news today tells us that some people are tattooing semicolons on their wrists to symbolize that there is more to their life story.  They are people who have fought with death or trauma or attempts at suicide, but they have won the battle.  Even though they walked through a very dark valley, and their world and situation seemed hopeless, they made it through.  People with semicolon tattoos are survivors with a backstory.

They paused. 

And they chose hope. 


So, I'd like to introduce my friend.   I like to call him Semicolon Cat.  He has a backstory.

Someone didn’t want him when he was a baby.  He was thrown away.  Abandoned in the darkness of a Minnesota winter.  He was unloved and left to die.

Semicolon Cat appeared on the edge of a woods where my friend lives.  He was tiny, hungry, and matted.  Just a kitten, he had battle scars from facing a mean world on his own.  One ear was wounded; probably frozen in the winter winds.  It bent over, cartilage broken, and just stayed that way, folded in half.  His tail was bent, too.  It dangled and dragged along as he walked, hanging by a thread.  His abdomen was caked in matted blood.

He stayed on the periphery of the woods, watching my friend’s cat daintily lap up her cream on the sunny porch in the mornings.  She slept in an igloo dog house with a heated floor pad, dining twice a day.  She was petted and fluffy and beloved.  He stayed on the edge of the yard, watching.  Suffering.  Afraid.  Wounded.

The family asked around, but no one admitted to losing a little ragged calico cat.  Not a cat whose half a tail just fell off.  The family put out a little extra cat food at night, and left a warm quilt out on the porch.  

The kitten stayed.

The female cat wouldn’t let him in her house.   “It’s too cold for him!” the children said.  “The little kitty needs a place to sleep!”  They left him treats, and my friends cut a hole in their garage door, just the size for a stray feral cat.  He curled up in the warm garage, and began to heal.  Days and weeks and months passed.  Spring came, and Semicolon Cat fattened up on the love of the children, on the pets and caresses and the joy of strings tied to sticks that he chased around the yard.    

He chose this family, and they all love him, just the way he is.  He came out of the woods and right into their hearts, to stay.  He likes to keep close by, following them around, purring and marking their legs with his scent of ownership.  He is a good hunter, and leaves his people special gifts of dead frogs and moles.  He lounges around, right at their front door, rolling over to expose his belly for pets, because he trusts them so implicitly.  He is the most affectionate and loving cat I have ever met.   He is beloved.

Someday if you find yourself in a dark place, feeling unloved and alone, please remember Semicolon Cat.   

Pause.  

Hope. 

Make it through for the Love and Joy that is waiting for you, on the other side of the woods.  

Because someday, today will only be your backstory…  and you can fill the rest of your story with love.

“I see you have a child with Down Syndrome. (Snort) So how’s that goin’ for ya?”   

The woman waited for a response, looking at me with a snarky smile.  I took a deep, slow breath.  

How does one answer a question like this?

Was she hoping I would give her an inside scoop, gossip with a stranger about the difficulties of caring for a child with special needs?  Could she be serious?  

I know it’s easy to get defensive.  Maybe she wasn’t trying to be rude.  Maybe she really wanted to know. 

A lot of people want to know.

Children with Down Syndrome are just not seen much these days.  They are like an elusive, gentle, endangered Panda.  

Rare. 

“My daughter is doing really well, actually.”  I begin.  “She’s a gentle kid who loves to read.  She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.”

I smiled at the woman.  After a few more minutes of chatting, when she walked away, she smiled back.  

Only now, her smile was genuine.  

Today reminded me that life is not about confrontation.  It’s not about winning by lawmaking,  or by brute force, or even by being just rude.

We win this life one heart at a time, with gentleness.  With love.

Because when people care, it makes all the difference....

for both an endangered animal and for a child.