She sniffed the night air, savoring the smells of grass and dead leaves surrounding her den. A screech overhead drew her gaze, but the owl’s presence woke no concern in her yet.
A musky scent set her body trembling, and her mate trotted out of the underbrush. He sat just out of reach, tongue lolling from his mouth, waiting. She heaved her swollen belly up and attempted to gambol around him playfully, managing little more than a waddle. He licked her nose and trotted back into the underbrush.
She followed him, panting with the effort. It would be the last hunt together under the moon for many weeks. The cubs would be born before another night arrived. A scratching in the leaves behind her stopped her in her tracks, and she locked her chops as her mate crouched.
Part of Christmas tradition is the giving of gifts. It has been argued that this tradition has become too commercialized, that focus on gifts detracts from what is important. I certainly saw advertisements that missed the point and pushed the idea of social status rising from gift quality or price. However, the concept of giving gifts stems from the core of God’s nature and is one of the ways humans in our limited capacity can try to reflect Him in our lives.
Gift giving is one of our favorite family traditions, and rather than allow financial restrictions to cast shadows on our joy, we decided to let it motivate us to deeper intention. Wish lists became highlights of interests and favorites. The kids used their own money saved from birthday gifts and odd jobs for family to buy things like stickers or art supplies, or used their talents to make gifts to suit the receiver’s personality. I raided my fabric stash and used outgrown clothes to make hand-sewn treasures.
It was a simpler approach, reminiscent of a time when life was simpler, but there was nothing easy about it. Handmade gifts take time. A lot of time, squeezed between the usual chores and responsibilities that don’t vanish because holidays are coming. Artwork requires both work space and space for drying paint, which in our full little house means the dining table. Sewing with scraps and old clothes means working with materials that weren’t designed for small projects or for particular work with needle and thread. It means aching eyes and fingers from hours of close work creating straight, invisible stitches. Handmade gifts make surprises difficult, as everyone is working right in front of each other.
The hard tried to take over as Christmas drew closer, raising stress levels and encouraging distractions. Tears flowed, panic attacks occurred. It’s harder for adults to remember the important things than for kids, it would seem. It was the kids who kept us grounded with their excitement for everyone to open the gifts they had made.
When the time came to wrap everything and fill stockings, the true blessings began to be revealed. What we had feared would be a sparse spread had grown to as many or more packages as usual. They were small, but so much thought and effort had gone into every single one that they seemed larger than life. On Christmas morning, stockings that had felt underfilled were received with unmitigated joy. Sticker sheets and snacks produced reactions associated with gifts of gold and incense. Paintings and purses were pored over and strutted with as if made by the world’s finest creators.
Simplicity isn’t easy; it never was. In so many ways our lives are much easier now than when life was simpler. There’s nothing wrong with easy, but sometimes having everything at our fingertips makes us a little too focused on what we can have. Love isn’t about stuff or money, it’s about what we are willing to give up or go through for someone else. Nothing we did was extraordinary; our usually easy lives made hard begin to feel burdensome, but hard carried love that would never have been seen otherwise. Sitting in their little piles of love offerings, our kids declared our recession Christmas to be the best ever. They understood better than we did the blessing of love found in hard simplicity.
No matter what other traditions people may have around the holidays, food is always a key factor. Every family has their favorite recipes, associates certain flavors and smells with family and good times. My favorite holiday memories from childhood involve baking with my grandmother. We made piles and piles of candy, cookies, and pies.
Although most of the time I rather hate the perfectionist and time-consuming nature of baking, for a few days in December I throw myself into the process with joy. My children wait impatiently for the announcement of “baking day,” and all have their special requests. This year they were all old enough to participate independently, and my thirteen-year-old has fully co-opted her particular preference: sugar cookies.
Made of little more than flour, sugar, and butter, those economical little cookies are the perfect family activity. Everyone’s fingers and noses (and probably clothes) are floured as much as the cutting board. Reindeer, trees, snowflakes, and “gingerbread men” take shape under cutters pressed by small hands. The oven is impatiently watched between turns to “cut,” and golden cookies cover every surface while voices clamor for “just one.”
Other easy recipes soon join the marching shapes. Pretzel and cracker dips splatter chocolate in remote corners. Oatmeal cookies redolent of cinnamon fill the house with their comforting aroma. Gingerbread puffs delightfully in muffin tins. Homemade eggnog whips in the mixer.
When all the beautiful food is finished, it’s time to package it up. You see, while we do enjoy eating some of our goodies ourselves, we bake with another purpose. The time spent together is our gift to each other as a family, and the results are our gift to friends. A little of everything is packed into little bags with holiday notes attached, and on the Sunday before Christmas the kids get to hand deliver every package with an excited hug and a Merry Christmas. These gifts, made in an atmosphere of love and by the labor of their own hands, unconsciously reinforce the meaning of giving in their hearts.
Only when the gifts are ready and the mess cleared away do we taste the fruits of our labors. With a holiday movie on the screen, a fire crackling in the heater, and lights twinkling on our rather Seussical tree, we savor the taste of love.
For many years our family has been extraordinarily materially blessed around the holidays. Both parents and kids felt the magic of love (perhaps parents more than kids by knowing the sources of those blessings). This year, however, few have been unaffected by economic trials, and holidays must adjust accordingly. Instead of being stressed out or upset about this fact, our family decided to embrace the situation and make a different kind of magic.
One of my favorite holiday entertainments is looking at Christmas decorations. Beautifully coiffed trees, houses bedecked with twinkling lights, and outdoor displays that inspire awe capture my imagination every year. Not so very long ago, none of the materials for those displays existed. Instead, people used plants to dye fabric and ribbon into bright colors, and wove vines and branches into garlands to turn their homes into fragrant, cheerful, peaceful wonderlands. While fake plants did exist, materials were expensive and such things were hard to find even for the wealthy.
Instead of buying more decorations this year, we decided to emulate our ancestors and make our own. The woods are full of beautiful materials that cost nothing but the time taken to gather and arrange them. Moss, pinecone, and bark become a forest mountainside. Bare twigs in a painted bottle become winter ambience. A wild grapevine becomes a perfectly twisted wreath in my husband’s skilled hands. Adding a little saved ribbon and a few well-placed bits of bright paint creates a festive air.
The best part of it all is something that can’t be found in a store or on a website, something that can’t be bought for any money. The whole family went to the woods together, kids shouting with excitement over the perfect pinecone or insisting that a brightly colored freshly fallen leaf should take center stage in our table centerpiece. Eyes and minds focus on what God created, lungs breathe in clean air beneath the trees. Imaginations soar with possibilities. Innocent joy is shared. The world around us – filled with angst, selfishness, and materialism – is shut out. Pressures of work and school and our own differences melt away for a little while and we are just together.
“Saul, wait!” Lily laughed breathlessly as her bare feet slung sand behind her. “I lost my sandals and the sand is on fire!”
“Not as hot as the boardwalk,” her brother yelped, dancing on his toes from sand to board and back again. “Hurry up, it’s too hot to be out of the water!”
“Well, you’re the one who just had to come all the way down here,” Lily grumbled. “We could have just swum in the pool, you know.”
“Yeah, but who wants to do that when the whole big ocean is waiting?” Saul reached the shade of the dock and jumped to swing from the beams. “Just look at it! Have you ever seen color like that?”
“Yeah, yesterday, when we came for swim.” Lily sniffed and attempted to imitate a flamingo while examining the soles of her feet. “Now that we’re here at the ‘whole big ocean’, are you getting in or not?”
“Come on, Lily, I thought girls were supposed to be romantic.” He dropped to the weathered boards and perched on the railing beside the steps she was about to descend. “It glows on its own, don’t you think? There’s magic in it! Maybe it’ll turn us into denizens of the deep, doomed to ride the waves for all eternity.” He struck a dramatic pose.
Lily rolled her eyes. “Waves aren’t in the deep, idiot.” She shoved him so that his balance on the railing failed and darted down the steps into the brilliant water. “Catch me if you can, you big sea monster!”
We have officially started our homeschool summer. No more assignments. No more schedules. No more educational obligations. It’s wonderful and relaxing, and we are having so much fun!
When chores are finished the kids drag out my old violin lesson music and open the organ to pick out the little simple songs on the keyboard. Twinkle Little Star, Happy Birthday, and Frere Jacques ring from the walls in various key mixtures as they practice reading a staff and figure out which notes match which keys. But it isn’t a school day.
Legos and paper cover the floors in several rooms as parades of weapons, fantastic creatures, and marvels of engineering pass my workspace. The geometry of biology and architecture shape paper and form moving lego joints through the process of experiment and failure. Scenes and characters from books and history come alive in inspired creations from the tools of childhood. But it isn’t a school day.
My six year old clamors, “Read this book to me,” and I propose she help me read it instead. She sounds out every word on the first page, four whole lines full of syllables and digraphs and challenges. We high five at each hard word conquered, then I read the rest of the story about a hard working garden spider. One page has a picture of a moth, and she wants to know how moths eat, so we look it up. Two YouTube videos and twenty minutes later, we know not only how but what they eat, and can identify a full dozen different species of moths. But it isn’t a school day.
We record a regular podcast reading famous stories aloud, stories that exist in the public domain but are no longer favorites for entertainment. Today we neared the climax in a gripping tale of aliens, suspense, and danger, a story written in a time and culture long forgotten. They laughed, exclaimed, squealed, and held their breath, completely absorbed in a world they have never experienced. But it isn’t a school day.
The tantalizing smell of sausage and eggs wafts from the kitchen, where my daughter works blissfully alone. Eggs, milk, and cinnamon have been whisked to perfection for soaking soft bread to be browned. Meat had to be thawed and shaped, and the the pan kept to the perfect temperature for even cooking. Ingredients had to be measured and counted to ensure enough food for seven hungry stomachs. A platter fills with golden-brown slices of French toast beside perfect gray circles of sausage. But it isn’t a school day.
My seven year old is exploring the yard. A storm is blowing in, so he watches the cloud movements and waits for the first drops to fall. He scours the treeline for mushrooms and edible wild greens, bringing me handfuls that Daddy will need to identify when he gets home just in case he got it wrong. He picks a handful of bright flowers to put in water, delighted when I tell him their name and musing about what they remind him of. But it isn’t a school day.
Tonight as they drift to sleep we will read a chapter of The Fellowship of the Ring. The poetry of joyful hearts will create music to soothe them to sleep. Pictures of courage, love, and goodness will form the framework of their dreams. The simplicity of the triumph of good over evil will shape their souls to seek good things. But it isn’t a school day.
Tomorrow we will still be on summer break. We will have no assignments, schedules, or obligations. I wonder what we will learn; it’s sure to be exciting.
The world is full of wars, conflicts, political arguments, societal inequities, and many other unpleasant things we humans deem important. We fixate on everything that is wrong, twisting ourselves into knots trying to figure out who we are supposed to hate, who or what is the enemy. We bury our noses in news, gossip, and arguments while life goes on around us. This week has brought a particularly negative onslaught, but as loud as it has been, it’s really a very small part of life around the globe. Many seemingly tiny, insignificant events occurred to bring joy.
My last baby turned six years old. As mommy, every birthday observed is a little bittersweet, as pieces of myself grow to be more and more independent of me. For my big girl, every birthday is exhilarating. It means she is one year older, with new privileges and skills on the horizon. It means cake and decorations that she has chosen to reflect who she is in this moment. It means people she loves gathered around her focused entirely on her for at least a little while, a privilege often craved by a child in a large and busy family. For my little diva, one short party is just not enough, she’d like a few days! It means presents, all of which from ponytail holders and handmade pictures to a new doll are equally delightful. Because of all the joy it brings, my baby turning six was one of the most important events happening in the world.
My ten year old son lost his first molar. The tooth fairy has not had occasion to visit our house in some time, although several teeth are being subtly encouraged to invite her, so this was quite an event. We had to take pictures and make sure every family member knew about this momentous milestone. Notes had to be written with dubious spelling but painstaking care so that the tooth fairy would leave the tooth for the treasure box that every little boy stashes somewhere. The prize left alongside the hoarded tooth, a simple rubber chicken target game, brought hours of side-splitting entertainment for every kid in the house, since the chicken darts managed to stick and dangle from the oddest places though never from the intended target. Because of all its simple joy, my son’s lost tooth was one of the most important events happening in the world.
We live in the country and rarely mow our yard until well into spring. Every year it becomes a carpet and then a prairie of wild-growing things filled with happy pollinators. This year the clover has been especially abundant, and my little Irish-blooded crew loves to hunt treasure in the leaves. The finding of three four-leaf clovers in the space of half an hour caused an uproar to rival election day victory. These precious gems were displayed with aplomb and recorded on screen for the benefit of anyone not immediately present. All three have been carefully pressed in the big dictionary for posterity, in case such a rare find is never repeated, while the heralded searchers rest on their laurels. Because of the innocent joy it inspired, finding clover treasure was one of the most important events happening in the world.
These critical events of my everyday life leaves little room for me to worry about the hazards of politics and war. They leave me with little desire to fight over disagreements and hate my fellowman. I pity any who cannot bring their focus to even the simplest of blessings or appreciate even the smallest of celebrations. Where else can we find a way up and out of misery? Where else can we find the ingredients of peace? What could possibly be more important?
“Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is”
“not abandoning our own meeting together, as is the habit of some people”
“not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing”
“not neglecting to gather together, as some are in the habit of doing”
This passage may be one of the most memorized in scripture, at least among people I grew up listening to. It is whipped out like a hammer after a loose nail every time someone isn’t seen at the church building on a Sunday or Wednesday. “Don’t forsake the assembly!” is our usual misquote, with a capital A.
As the people of the Roman empire absorbed the implications of the death and resurrection of Jesus, they experienced a change so great within themselves that they could not identify with the lives they had previously led. They had been empty and became full. They had been meaningless and suddenly had a great purpose. They craved contact with those who shared the unfathomable joy of that revolution, and so they spent every possible moment in each other’s company.
Most of them worked long hours for a meager existence, and many had little to call their own, but what that had they shared. They spent the evening meal in each other’s homes, no matter how plain or poor the surroundings or the food. They socialized with each other on market days in the town square. They gathered informally in public forums or synagogues to read the scrolls available to them and help each other discover the identity of faith.
These transformed people were not a corporation with designated hours to assemble for work. They were a family, and they fed each other’s faith through their shared joy and unrelenting enthusiasm. Unfortunately, as the change they experienced shook the world around them, maintaining such intimate relationship became more and more difficult. Suspected of political revolution, some were imprisoned or killed. Religious jealousy impacted livelihoods and threatened the health and safety of the faithful. Fear began to taint the longing for fellowship, and some began to avoid what they had craved in hopes of escaping notice. The resulting loneliness only exacerbated their fears, putting faith itself in jeopardy.
The writer of the letter to some of the formerly Jewish Christians addresses this problem directly. He reminded them that they had entered a sacred space by becoming a part of God’s family. This sanctuary of the faithful was their protection against the hopelessness around them, the hopelessness and fear that caused others to torment them. If they abandoned that family relationship they became again what they had been before, and the conviction that had been safety within would become doom without.
As millennia have passed and some cultures have made the story of Jesus a familiar thing, we have forgotten the transformation that shook the entire world. Our familiarity has bred entitlement, arrogance, and indifference to the incredible gift our Savior bestowed. Rather than crave the company of like hearts, we relegate our contact to formal designated conferences, and suspiciously guard our inner selves from the knowledge of others. We are not family and our emotional ties are stunted because we either were never changed or drew back from the cost. We may show up when required without fail, but we have forsaken the assembly.
Hebrews 10:19–25 (CSB): Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have boldness to enter the sanctuary through the blood of Jesus— he has inaugurated for us a new and living way through the curtain (that is, through his flesh)— and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed in pure water. Let us hold on to the confession of our hope without wavering, since he who promised is faithful. And let us consider one another in order to provoke love and good works, not neglecting to gather together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging each other, and all the more as you see the day approaching.
There’s a running joke that the day after Christmas all the moms blow their stacks. Let’s face it, we all know the feeling of waking up to the piles of empty boxes, wrapping paper, and new toys that don’t fit anywhere. That’s why this year I can’t wait for Trash Day.
I don’t mean the day the trash can gets picked up, although that’s pretty important. Actual Trash Day requires an empty can ready to be filled. Before all the empty boxes get thrown out, the house gets purged of all the old clutter. The kids will sort through their rooms for unappreciated or broken toys and “treasures” that no longer hold value to them. Mom and Dad will declutter closets and corners that hold unnecessary collections.
This year the clutter seems worse than ever. Perhaps less space is available as the kids grow; clothes do take up more and more room. Perhaps we’ve simply hit several developmental leaps at once as we leave preschool for good, discover hidden talents, and surge inexorably toward adolescence. I’m leaning toward the latter, as most of the piles seem to be supplies for various growing interests.
As much attention as I am paying to physically cleaning out old things, the things represent something much more to me. The last few years have delivered many struggles along with the lessons to be learned from each. As a result our lives seem to be cramped and overflowing inside trappings and constructs that we have outgrown. As we physically fill our trash can with discarded things, we mentally shed our old selves in order to make room in our lives for new ideas and new beginnings.
Many people make New Year Resolutions in an effort to set their lives on track. Most find themselves unable to keep such contextless promises to themselves because they have no room. We make no special resolutions here; instead, in Trash Day we experience a completely fresh start.
(I’d like to thank my kids for their contributions to this week’s prompted flash fiction. Sometimes the real life conversations are far funnier than any story I can come up with.”
“Hey, kids, y’all wanna give me story ideas? They have to connect to this lighthouse picture.”
“Me, me, me! Let me see the picture! How about the Lighthouse Girl? A girl was travelling, trying to find a magical world that doesn’t exist. Instead she found the lighthouse, and lived in the lighthouse and made friends in the little town.”
“But what does the lighthouse have to do with a magical world? You can’t just throw things together that don’t connect and call them a story.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, I have an idea! It has a lot of rooms, and people are fighting inside!”
“Why were they fighting inside?”
“Because it was raining. When the rain stopped they ran down all the stairs to the bottom, but the door was locked and the key was lost! It was a dark house! And there was a little girl running like Sonic to find the lighthouse, but she found the dark house instead, and there was a Shadowman!”
“My turn! There was a town with a lighthouse. The lighthouse had always made people feel safe. One day a woman became the principle of the local school, Lighthouse Public School, but she was really mean. She gradually took over the town and named herself queen, making everyone in the town her miserable slaves. She decided she needed an army to conquer the world, so gathered all the townspeople…”
“What does the lighthouse have to do with all this?”
“She had shut down the lighthouse. When she was about to march and conquer all of Mississippi, the lighthouse suddenly came to light, brighter than ever before. The woman was revealed to be a demon and faded away.”
“Ummm… Once upon a time there was a little girl and a lighthouse. She and her father owned the lighthouse and kept it running until one day it broke down. They tried to fix it but they couldn’t, so her father threw the keys in the trash. The little girl was very sad and did everything in her ppwer to get the lighthouse running again.”
“Did she succeed?”
“Um, it took her a few months but she did succeed. Everyone in the town was very happy. The end.”
“Hmm, something about Christmas.”
“In a lighthouse? On a summer day?!”
“Once upon a time it was Christmas Eve. This little girl and boy and their dad went to cut down a Christmas tree. They found the perfect one and cut it down, and brought it into their house.”
“Hold on, what does this have to do with a lighthouse?”
“The lighthouse is their home. They decorated their tree, but the star was missing. They bought one and it arrived that day.”
“Is that the end?”
“No. Hmm. They opened the box, got a ladder, and put the star on top. Also they built a fire, and beds, blankets, and pillows. And they were comfortable happy ever after. The end.”
The Word Worker 
