It’s the countdown to Christmas. Time to decorate the house, finish all the gifts, watch all the movies, listen to all the music, and cook all the food. At least, that’s the plan.
The Christmas tub was stored on the porch through all weathers this year instead of making it back to storage where it belonged. A snowglobe exploded inside it, mildewing all the stockings and the cardboard box of ornaments. A good long soak in the washer saves the stockings, and most of the ornaments escaped damage, so after a few hours that crisis is averted.
The tree skirt finally bit the dust after twelve years of use, so a new one must be selected and ordered. I would make one, but my make list is already daunting. I suppose if the new one doesn’t make it on time we’ll just hide the lack with presents.
The lights wouldn’t fit in the tub last year, and no one can find them. Anywhere. We have exactly three short strands that I bought as emergency backup at the dollar store a week ago. Last year we had an entire flat. And I have sticker shock from a quick online search for replacements.
Every year we go as a family to pick out a live tree. It’s the most important tradition of our season. OCD has decided it doesn’t want to go this year, the rest of us should just go. We have until Friday to work that hiccup out. After which we still won’t have lights to put on it.
All the things will work themselves out. Adventures will be had in the solving of some of them. Children will go insane with excitement, parents will take many breaks outside in the cold to ensure they don’t lose their holiday joy, cookies and treats will fill the house with good cheer, and Christmas morning will arrive with all its usual magic and fanfare, just like every year before. And we will forget December 1st until it arrives once more to remind us that we are the magic.
As we enter the holiday season this year I feel the mood around me to be different than past years. Politics, economic uncertainty, and a persistently negative media presence seem to be doing their best to destroy our spirit and leach the joy from the season. It is one of Satan’s most effective tactics to play on our fears and uncertainties until they grow to drown out everything else. I refuse to let that spirit win, so here are my joys.
1) The prospect of rising food costs has provided incentive for learning forgotten ways of providing. This year my family is experiencing the old-fashioned togetherness of foraging for wild foods. My husband will be taking my son hunting for the first time and teaching him how to dress out his harvest for himself. Already we have found bounty and beauty that we never saw before though it lay right beneath our feet.
2) Locally grown resources abound around my home. There are dozens of farmers within driving distance, and small, local groceries stocking their produce are much promoted. Those same stores also sell locally produced canned goods like jelly and sauces. A local meat processor does enough business that it had to double its capacity this year. Our state has begun to drill its own water wells. Local sawmills have begun to pop up.
3) We have good neighbors. We look out for each other, trading needs without question or hesitation. Young or old, well off or not, everyone has something to share.
4) We are blessed to homeschool our children, to have them with us always, to know them in ways I never knew possible, to guide them in finding who God made them to be. We are blessed with amazing friends who share this blessing, whose children reflect their abiding connection with the God who made them. The relationships that have grown from our shared connection are a source of strength and joy through all challenges.
5) We have the knowledge, constantly increasing, of the provision God made for our mental and physical health. Because of this, we are capable of caring for ourselves in case of illness or injury, and of using God’s bounty to reduce the need for intervention.
6) We have a roof over our heads. It may not look like much to the world; it’s small and needs repairs. Our furniture shows definite signs of wear, and our decor is, well, functional. Despite its perceived shortcomings, it is a home that we are blessed to fill with life and love.
7) We will spend this holiday with family, as we have every year of our marriage without interruption. We will carry our bounty of food to their home, where my nephew will rush to the door to greet “his kids” and my daughters will daub themselves with ingredients in their eagerness to participate in producing the feast. We will join hearts in prayers of gratitude and joy and chatter excitedly about Christmas plans.
8) God’s creation has screamed His name from every corner this season. I don’t remember such a vibrant fall in our part of the country as this has been. Brilliant colors, the sounds of well-fed wild things, and crisp weather surround us, filling us with contentment.
9) I am blessed with an unshakeable marriage. That isn’t an accident, and I will never take it for granted. Our relationship has been forged by the fires of loss, childbirth, health challenges, financial uncertainty, and miscommunications, all of which we fought through together to know each other as intimately as ourselves. We are two halves of a whole, and I pity anyone who may try to break our bond.
10) I am safe in the arms of my Savior. He left infinity to wear our finite form, to become like me, to struggle like me. He experienced life like me from birth to death, a death more horrific and humiliating than any I am likely to meet. And He did it to show me who I could be, to show me a life I could never have imagined otherwise. Because He did, nothing on this earth can touch me, no matter how hard life gets or what is done to me. I am eternal with my Father and my Redeemer.
When people talk about parenting challenges, they usually talk about toddlers or teenagers. No one really addresses the middle years, the years of learning, discovery, and character shaping. My ten year old son is right smack in the middle of those years.
For several months now his behavior has been, well, challenging. We’ve been unable to curb a tendency to bully, and chores have been more miss than hit. We won’t even mention the lack of respect shown toward us as parents. Fortunately, my husband had a clue.
Last week he relinquished ownership of one ax to our son. Instead of taking a turn at things like dishes and laundry, our son is now responsible for making sure we don’t freeze this winter. We have wood heat, so my husband cuts and hauls all our wood himself. This year, he will run the chain saw and our ten year old will split and haul, as well as help keep the heater full.
The change in his attitude was immediate. No more bullying, no more disrespect. He is proud of that ax, and proud that he cuts a little deeper every time he swings as his strength grows. He even wakes up in the middle of the night to check the heater! He’s still a little boy with a lot to learn, and it will be a while before he can perform this job perfectly and without any help, but he stands taller already.
You see, every human being needs purpose. Not just any purpose, but the one God created for them to own. Skills like washing dishes or laundry, while necessary for all humans to know, chafe at a boy seeking to direct his developing testosterone and strength. He is made to work hard, to challenge his limits, to protect and provide for those upon whom he bestows emotional attachment. Keeping the fire going may seem like a small thing, but for a ten year old it becomes purpose.
We’ve talked often in our home about work, but as we have recently admitted, our culture has stripped much of our true purpose out of work. Women, who once spent their days keeping the family fed, clothed, and nurtured with the direct labor of her hands and heart now chafes with time on her hands and her labor replaced by technology and machines. Men, who once tested their endurance against the elements to house their families and prepare the ground to produce food, who once set their minds to outwitting the instincts of animals in order to harness their power or harvest their meat, now chafe at desks and try to bury their frustration in virtual combat. Children, who once filled critical roles as assistants in house and barn, now seek endless stimulation and chafe at chores artificially assigned by parents desperate to teach some semblance of responsibility in a world that requires none.
I appreciate so much of the convenience we experience in our modern culture. We have so many blessings that the denizens of yesteryear never imagined. But unless we in some way return immediate and created purpose to our work, for both ourselves and our children, those same blessings feed the endless misery of an empty life.
Yesterday my kids held their annual pumpkin carving session. Because buying a pumpkin for every family member in a household of seven puts something of a strain on the already holiday stretched budget, they team up. Boys get one pumpkin, girls get the other. As you can imagine, this is not a situation that leads to peace.
What pictures will we carve? Everyone has a different idea. Something scary! No, something silly. An elaborate design far too advanced for childish hands. Can’t we just use something from the book? And the squabbling begins. Who gets to carve which part? Who has to scoop out the seeds? Mom confiscates the knife and removes the stem herself to prevent accidental stabbings.
The results are… interesting. What is it? No one knows. No one cares. Destruction and creation went hand in hand, the dream come true of every kid. Whatever it is that was created, it is unique, holding a piece of each young participant in its creation.
Like life. There is no cookie cutter life. Each individual adds a piece of themselves to each day, a slice here, a scrape there. Sometimes the bits overlap, sometimes they fail to intersect at all. Sometimes the contributions seem to clash, making no sense together, because the contributors could not agree. Each wants a different design for life, and each sees a different outcome. The result cannot be identified with certainty, leaving an unbeautiful “whatever it is” to reveal the glow within its heart.
In the end it doesn’t matter. Despite the squabbling and the chaos, not one kid was disappointed with the end results. They couldn’t wait to light them up and show the world their delight. Our squabbles and our chaos bind us together, carving something out of this crazy “whatever it is” life we can only appreciate when we step away and let the light shine through.
My five year old and I butt heads. Frequently. As in, all day every day. She has extremely strong ideas of her own, and the determination to pursue them against all odds. If she doesn’t want to do something, it isn’t happening without some serious and repeated consequences.
Yesterday it was her turn to run errands with me, her first time to experience a day out with mom like the older kids. She was so excited that she did almost everything I required of her beforehand without lip (let’s face it, perfection would be a little much to ask of anyone), and the whole time we were out she was the model of an obedient child.
We had philosophical conversations, experienced our first lesson in the Dewey Decimal System at the library, picked out books for the whole family, discussed ingredients we needed for freezer lunches, and bought a water spigot for the yard. She asked a million pertinent questions, and volunteered her services for several helping jobs. We have never had such a pleasant time together, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the reasons.
You see, at home there are five. Five voices clamoring for attention. Five bodies filling up my immediate space. Five minds to be filled and trained. Five hearts to be molded and fulfilled. (And that’s just the kids.) A lot for a mama to process and accomplish. A lot for one small girl to feel in competition with for recognition and approval.
Yesterday she had no competition. She could say anything she wanted, help with whatever she wanted, express whatever she felt without delay, etc. I could focus on her every word and action and provide positive feedback rather than the rushed and stressed responses so often prevalent in the mayhem of home.
I was reminded of a principle that I know, but often fail to apply when it comes to my children. Although we as humans do need correction when appropriate, what we crave more than anything is approval. When we receive positive attention, we will do just about anything to keep it. If positive attention is rare, we will demand attention in whatever way produces it, even if the result is negative. In turn, the negative response feeds the need for approval which translates into more negative behaviors.
I sat down with all my kids this morning and apologized. We started over. It was very hard for me to hold my tongue when a math lesson consisting of three problems took an hour and a half. It was hard for me not to express frustration when someone’s undone chore interfered with my own task. It was hard not to complain when for the third day in a row all the kids played in the mud, this time in a pouring rainstorm, creating more laundry on the already heaping pile needing to be addressed.
But I made sure to praise for the understood math lesson at the end of the time. I did the dishes myself. I laughed at their antics in the rain. I tried to give full attention one at a time. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was productive, and it was a beginning.
A baby is born. Immediately he is whisked away to be poked, prodded, chilled, blinded, and confused by strangers. He is wrapped in a thin blanket and placed alone in a plastic bed. When he squalls he has a strange plastic thing shoved into his mouth out of which comes far too much food for his tiny stomach in hopes that he will remain contentedly alone for longer. He is strapped into a hard, fabric covered device for transport to a new location, where his parents, exhausted and confused, continue administering far too much food at a time, placing him alone in a large empty space for long periods of time, strapping him into various moving and noisy devices, and isolating him from all outside contact. On occasions when his parents find it necessary to take him in public, he is strapped and covered so that no one can possibly engage. He cries with confusion. The parents weep for lack of sleep, struggle to maintain the normalcy even of cooking and cleaning, plan daycare arrangements, and spend their workdays pumping coffee and feeling only overwhelmed loneliness.
A baby is born. He is immediately placed on his mother’s chest where her arms encircle him and her lips touch his forehead. Grandmothers and aunts wrap both in warm blankets and create a cozy nest for snuggling. A tantalizing smell draws him to suckle the first taste of his mother’s warm milk, just enough to soothe his newly hungry body and send him to sleep in his mother’s arms. They rest together while sisters and friends cook nourishing meals and put the house in order. When he wakes he suckles again, then is carried in the arms of a grandmother to be cleaned up, rocked, and sung too while his mother rests. When not suckling or sleeping by his mother’s side, his heart rate and temperature regulated by her warm, steady beat, he is held and kissed by aunts and friends who take turns ensuring his mother rests, eats, and heals. His father hovers nearby whenever possible, taking frequent turns at tending his newborn child and imparting whispered promises of the future. When the time of healing and bonding is complete, he is carried in soft folds of fabric against his mother’s chest as she goes about her daily tasks, rested and strong. Her voice sings softly to him and her lips continually find his cheeks. When she is tired a sister takes her turn at carrying, cooing, singing, and kissing. He rarely cries.
A woman is dying. She long since ceased to be able care for herself. Her children, caught up in the business of their own lives, found themselves unable to fill the gap. They lived too far away and lacked the time and resources to provide for her increasing needs. Her house with all its memories had been sold, and she lies in a colorless room beneath the handful of treasures the nurses half-heartedly leaned on the lip of her plastic headboard. Electronic beeping is the only sound in the room. A nurse just checked her vitals and won’t be back for an hour; she has too many others lying in similar rooms to spend much time here. Her children have trickled in and out all week, having driven hours to pay their last respects. Their visits were brief and devoid of contact because policy cannot allow any possible contamination. A long ragged breath leaves her and the beeping lengthens into one endless note.
A woman is dying. The quilt she made for her granddaughter is tucked under her wasted arms although she no longer feels its warmth. Her son’s hand strokes hers and he sings softly, the lullaby with which she so often sang him to sleep so many years ago. Great-grandchildren play in the next room, unsure why the adults wipe quiet tears but happy to see cousins. A neighbor drops in with a pot of soup and prays with the family before slipping away next door. Friends come with hugs and memories to share that trigger tearfilled laughter. Her daughter gently slides a faded gray wedding photograph under a limp hand as a long ragged breath stills every other sound.
Last week was long. My husband and I had so many responsibilities and obligations that our days began to blur together. There wasn’t enough time for daily chores or time with kids, and certainly not enough time for fun.
We ended the week with a wedding. My husband officiated, my five year old participated, I monitored kids, and the kids were stuck tagging along with nothing much to do. By the end of the day we were too tired to do much more than sit and stare. But there was the polaroid photo booth.
Such a simple thing. A few old hats and old fashioned handbags. Costume jewelry. Thrift store elbow gloves. A little attitude. And a moment of fun so desperately needed.
The polaroid photo looks a little bit like our busy week. It’s blurry, scarred, and has glaring spots where the exposure was too high. It’s the perfect vessel to capture that simple, silly, crazy, exhausted moment. It’s perfect for our life. Here’s to more polaroid moments.
We all have them. The days that you know you should have just stayed in bed. Instead you dragged yourself out of the comfy covers and made your sleepy, grumpy kids follow suit.
The day that your morning prayer with the kids is an exercise in desperation because in the ten minutes you’ve been awake you’ve already fielded ten fights. The day that not even prayer lifts anyone’s mood. The day that the simplest of breakfasts takes half an hour to prepare because mood.
The day that someone didn’t turn the dryer on bit washed another load so wet laundry sat in both washer and dryer all night. The day that you used every pot and pan in the house to make last night’s dinner but you don’t own a dishwasher so you have to wash them all by hand. The day that you have to remind the kids a hundred times to do the most basic of chores.
The day that it’s ninety by mid-morning and the kids, who begged to go outside, won’t stop running in and out because they’re hot. The day that ocd rules and adhd rages. The day that someone pulls a dozen books at once out of your freshly straightened bookshelf.
The day that you decide to paint your kids’ bedroom because you spent two days making sure it was spotless, only to find that you might as well have saved yourself the two days. The day that you realize you can’t paint a straight line after committing to stripe the room in three different colors. The day that an inexplicable puncture appears in the bottom of your paint can while you are standing on a chair holding it several feet off the ground painting the top of a wall.
The day you finally give up and plop on the couch to watch people on TV have bad days. The day you decide to wait for a new day to clean up after this one. The day you decide to blog about your troubles because really what else was there to talk about? Yep, we all have those days.
Homeschooling is such a fluid undertaking. Unlike in a traditional classroom, where teachers repeat roughly the same lesson plans and teach the same skills year after year, homeschooling goalposts shift constantly as children develop and learn. Although some families maintain special “schoolrooms,” most of us don’t have the space in our homes for such a thing, and with the deeper understanding of our children’s learning styles that comes from the time we are able to spend with them, many families like mine would find that confining learning to a single room would be difficult.
Instead, our homes fill up with random collections of paper, art tools, science kits, memory tools, and of course books. Where others cover their walls with carefully chosen decor, ours are hidden behind bookshelves and child-made art. The household linens share space in the hall closet with school supplies.
The bookshelf situation will be a project for another day, but today our school closet got a makeover. With middle school approaching and STEAM taking over the house, the supplies needed to be updated and reorganized. Paper needs are hovering in a weird transition between construction paper and graph paper. Crayons and markers grudgingly yield space to colored pencils and paintbrushes. Coloring books were purged to make way for an entirely new category of supplies, a box full of microscope, chemistry, and magnets.
And yes, we count board games as school. Don’t you?
My youngest turned five this week. It’s an odd feeling to realize my last baby is now officially school-age. I thought about trying to throw a big bash to mark such a momentous occasion, but with all the fullness of life we have going on right now that just wasn’t gong to happen. Fortunately she had other ideas.
Birthday traditions in our family are pretty simple. At first it was a matter of being newly married and poor, then having small children and poor. But then it became something so powerful and precious that we could not change it. At first it was a box mix cake decorated the best this unartistic mama could manage in the birthday kid’s favorite theme of the year. Five dollars worth of tablecloth and paper plates to match the cake. Family only. As the kids got older they started wanting to help with the cake, and the tradition evolved into me doing the baking and providing materials for a cake topper while they decorated the way they wanted. However the cakes might have looked to outsiders, to the kids they were birthday masterpieces.
This past December our tradition underwent a new evolution, one that is proving to be the most precious of all. My oldest learned to bake, and with that knowledge begged to make her younger sister’s cake from scratch. She baked, the birthday girl decorated. Today we had the third birthday since this new development. Our days of boxed cakes are over for good. My days of creating the magic are over; I’ve been relegated to the rank of supplier. Instead, I watch my children excitedly creating their own magic, working together to produce a vision of their own imagination. I get to watch them make unforgettable memories.
The Word Worker 
