Christmas Traditions

For the last few years, I have been tweaking our Christmas traditions - trying to modify existing ones and create new ones that truly invite the Spirit into our celebration.  Since I have also been getting older over the last few years, I find that memory is becoming important.  Not memory in the sense of "happy-Christmas-memories-we're-creating-for our children."  But the memory (mine) which is having a harder and harder time remembering each year what these newly-tweaked traditions are and exactly how they work.  So this is the year I've decided I need some documentation.  In no particular order, I will post some of the Christmas traditions we are trying to incorporate into our family culture - both the fun, frivolous ones and the ones that are (hopefully) more meaningful.  And if all goes well, next year when the holidays roll around, I won't be scratching my head quite so often, wondering if I've forgotten something...


Advent/12 Days of Service

Advent is an aspect of our Christmas celebration that is relatively new.  Probably three years ago I came across a document on the internet that briefly explained the significance of Advent in the Christian calendar and gave a simplified description of how it is observed.  I loved what I read about it - I loved the idea of setting aside time on the Sundays before Christmas to be still and think about and sing about the coming of our Savior into the world.  I also loved the emphasis on looking forward to Christ's second advent, or second coming - something I had never really connected with Christmas before.  I loved the symbolism of the different candles and I knew I wanted to incorporate Advent into our family's Christmas traditions.

What I came up with is, I'm sure, not exact in terms of strict observance of Advent. But for our family, it captures the beauty of Advent and combines it with another important aspect of Christmastime:  service.  So here is how this tradition looks in the Parker family.

Beginning on the fourth Sunday before Christmas, we gather around the kitchen table and light the advent candle for that week.  (Traditionally, the candles are placed on a wreath.  We have a candelabra that belonged to my grandmother which holds five candles, so we use that instead.)  The first candle represents hope; the second, love; the third, joy; and the fourth peace.   We sing a carol and read a scripture and brief message about the meaning of that weeks' candle.  We usually drink hot cocoa or spiced cider as well.  We also have a small gift bag for each of the Sundays.  Inside are three Christmas ornaments.  After singing and reading, the children pass the bag around and choose out an ornament.

Our advent candelabra and ornament bags

Inside each ornament is a piece of paper with a small act of service written on it.  We work on completing the acts of service in the coming week, and when we have completed one, the child who chose it out of the bag gets to hang their ornament on our bulletin board.  By the time we light the fifth candle - the white Christ candle - we have 12 ornaments on our bulletin board.  The white candle is usually lit on Christmas Eve, but since we are usually at grandparents' on Christmas Eve, we typically wait until Christmas day to light it.

All 12 ornaments on the bulletin board

This has become my favorite Christmas tradition.  I love watching the children as we work to complete our small acts of service.  I love gathering on Sunday evenings to enjoy quiet moments of reflection about the true gift:  Jesus Christ.  And I love how celebrating His first advent helps me look forward to and focus on preparing for His second advent. 

Our acts of service are not often big.  Some are just small little things.  Here are some of the things we have done:



2014:
Make and deliver rubber band bracelets to the sister missionaries at Temple Square on Christmas day
Put on a Christmas concert for friends and neighbors
Make 12 days of Christmas baskets for neighbors who might need cheering up
Give candy canes with a nice note to Christmas shoppers and say, "Merry Christmas"
Give a gift card for groceries to a family or person at the store
Pick a local charity and donate money to them
Put together Operation Christmas Child boxes
Go caroling to neighbor who can't get out much - take her flowers
Deliver homemade cards and bread to someone who might need it
Set up a "free" hot cocoa stand to raise money for quarters for Christmas

Delivering gifts to Sister Missionaries on Christmas

2013:
Go to a drive-up bank teller and send them a treat through the vacuum tube
Do a Christmas Concert for friends and neighbors
Give out candy canes with a note to people at the store
Give a treat to the garbage man
Go caroling
Take flowers to a hospital ward or rest home and leave them for someone who hasn't had any visitors 
Leave a Christmas gift basket on someone's porch
Donate money to Quarters for Christmas
Give gift cards to the librarians when you go to the library
Leave a note and money on people's windshields in the store parking lot
Deliver fleece scarves to sister missionaries at Temple Square on Christmas
Make a 12 days of Christmas dvd and deliver it to someone

Putting on Christmas concert for friends and neighbors

2012:
Take treats to nurses working in the NICU on Christmas
Hide money with a small note for shoppers at the store to find
Leave a treat in the mailbox for the mail lady
Give change to the Salvation Army bell ringer
Pay for someone else's meal when we're out to dinner
Sing a song and leave a treat for a widow
Send flowers to brighten someone's day
Leave a gift on the porch of a single mom 

Leave car wash tokens and a little note on the windshields of cars in the parking lot
Leave a Papa Murphey's Pizza for someone on their porch
Secretly put money with a little note in the shopping carts of other shoppers
Send a small gift (CD, Book, etc.) to someone who could use it

Christmas Stories

One of my very, very favorite things about Christmas is the stories.  I love Christmas stories.  There is just something about them - they always seem to bring the spirit of the season.  So one of our traditions has to do with stories.  After Thanksgiving, Craig and I wrap Christmas books and put them under the tree.  Then each evening, one of the children finds the book for that night (we number them), unwraps it, and we all sit by the tree and read it.  We have over 25 books now, so we a actually start at the end of November.  I love getting cozy and reading stories together. Definitely a favorite tradition.

Manger for Baby Jesus

Gazing at "Baby Jesus" on Christmas morning

This tradition is certainly not unique to our family, but it is one that helps us to invite the spirit of Christmas into our home.  When we put up the Christmas decorations, we put a small basket on our coffee table in the living room.  This is our "manger."  During  the month, whenever someone in the family does something nice for someone  else, they get to put a piece of straw in the manger.  We try to make the manger soft enough that it is ready to hold the baby Jesus.  When we come into the living room on Christmas morning, the first thing we do is check to see if Baby Jesus came to our manger.  The little ones especially look forward to this.

It Doesn't Get Better Than That

This is the last of the papers written for my classics class.  It seems an appropriate post as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday.  There is beauty in becoming... in change... and in gratitude.

William, a man born with muscular dystrophy and several mental diseases, including schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, had been admitted into the state mental hospital.  One day, a visiting friend routinely asked how he was doing.  “I can breathe,” was William’s reply.   He paused, then added:  “And it doesn’t get any better than that.”

The friend was surprised.  He was not expecting such a response.  Here was a man living in a situation that to most people would be unthinkable, unbearable.  Yet William’s answer was steeped in powerful humility, profound understanding, and deep gratitude.    I can breathe – and it doesn’t get any better than that.  The friend would never forget those words… nor the lesson that they imparted.*

I wake up, almost afraid to listen for the sounds of children stirring overhead.  Stirring children mean arguing children – at least that’s the way it feels sometimes.  Yes, there it is: the sound of little sister yelling at big brother to leave her pink piggy alone.  It has become a familiar refrain.  Surely my life is more difficult than anyone realizes or appreciates, I think in a burst of self-pity.  A shriek – someone has stubbed a toe.  A splash – someone has knocked over their water cup.  “Mommy, I missed the potty!”  I sigh.  When is that purple heart going to be delivered?  Surely I have earned it by now.  Weariness, frustration, anger – the familiar emotions hover on the periphery, waiting to be invited to enter the scene.  They are, after all, familiar guests.  But today I wonder what would happen if, instead of inviting them in and ushering them to the front row, I pause and take time to breathe.  Not just inhaling and exhaling – but breathing like William breathes.  Breathing while inviting gratitude with each inhalation, and exuding joy and thanksgiving with each exhalation.  Purposeful breathing.  Deep breathing.  If I focused – just for a moment – on that, perhaps amidst the chaos I could say, “It doesn’t get any better than this” – and really mean it.

Perhaps.  But I’m too tired to be convinced.  The thought will not be entirely dismissed, however.  I begin to wonder what would happen if I took a moment to substitute some verbs into William’s phrase.  Hmmm.  What about see, hear, walk, run, jump?  I can do all of those things.  What else?  I can read, touch, feel, listen, smell, hug, kiss.  I can laugh, and smile, and cry.  I can do all of those things. And, when it comes right down to it, it doesn’t get any better than that, does it?  So why is it that on mornings like today, I find myself feeling, more often than not, like a martyr rather than a mother?

Another verb comes to mind: change.  Change.  “Yes,” I think. “I can change – and it doesn’t get better than that.”  I feel hope entering my heart.  I can change.  So even if I get to the end of today thinking, “Well, we all survived today.  I can be grateful for that” – it doesn’t mean that every day has to end that way.  Perhaps tomorrow will find me thinking, “I can breathe and it doesn’t get any better than that.”  Perhaps the next day will, too.  And maybe those days will become the rule, rather than the exception.  And then maybe, just maybe, I will get to the end of each day, and be able to say, in all honesty, “I can breathe.  I can see.  I can feel – and love and listen and touch and cry and laugh.  I am alive.  I am a mother.  And it doesn’t get better than that.”

*From a story cited in The Soft-Spoken Parent  by H. Wallace Goddard.

Image by Nicole

Eyes that See

Here is another paper that I am posting - mostly because I will know where to find it again some day.  But I do hope one day to become someone whose eyes truly see.

The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul.  Are they also, then, the soul’s window to the world?  If so, just what is it that my soul is seeing?  Is it seeing things clearly – things as they really are?  Or is it seeing things darkly – as through a window that needs to be cleaned?

We know that we are composite beings.  We are not merely body or spirit.  We are both: body and spirit joined together; living souls.  We came to earth to continue a war which began in the premortal realms – a war of good and evil, light and darkness, truth and error, natural and divine.  Sometimes this war requires combat with external forces.  But often the war is an internal struggle, fought in the silent chambers of the heart and mind.  The war, for each of us, is largely a personal battle of the spiritual against the physical; of the man of God against the natural man.  Certainly it would seem that our eyes would be one of our greatest assets in this fight – for if we see danger we can avoid it.  Yet, just as our natures are dualistic, our vision can be, too.  We can look with natural eyes, or we can look with spiritual ones.  And the information sent to our soul from each kind of looking is very different. 

Natural eyes see flaws and search for weaknesses in others.  They see others as competitors or enemies.  They lead us to unrighteous judgment, materialism, pride, and poor self-image.  They are easily fixed on the superficial.  They see our beauty or lack thereof.  They see the size of our house, the size of our wallet, the size of our waist.  They see in labels: liberal, conservative, Jew, Gentile, gentry, peasant.  They see others more as objects than children of God.  They look at the short-term and temporary, focusing on wants rather than needs.  They see all that is wrong and unfair.  Natural eyes are eyes that seeing, see not. 

In opposition to natural eyes, spiritual eyes look beyond the superficial.  They are discerning and help us to avoid places where we will be left to ourselves, and, consequently, left vulnerable and weak.  They see suffering as an opportunity to help others.  They look through and into other’s eyes – into the portals of their soul.  They are eyes that seek to understand and empathize.  They are eyes that see through flaws and imperfections to the potential behind.  They are eyes that “look not on the outward appearance” but on the heart. They are eyes that recognize the beauties and blessings in everything.  They lead us to humility, gratitude, and love.  

In our daily battles, things are not always black or white.  We don’t usually see solely with natural eyes or purely with spiritual ones.  Each day, our eyes are waging war just as surely as our souls.  Our natural eyes fight to keep our focus on the milk that has been spilled, while our spiritual eyes try to direct us to the frightened little spirit looking up at us, hoping that they will be assured instead of reprimanded.  Each day, in all that we see, we are striving to subdue the tendencies of the natural man – to let it be mastered and tempered by the divinity within.  We are striving to see with our spiritual eyes - eyes that see with forgiveness and compassion; eyes that see the good; and, above all, eyes that seek to do God’s will.  Well might we plead with the poet that the Lord will “touch our eyes that we may see.”  For as we begin to see spiritually, our hearts and souls are purified.  As our hearts and souls are purified, we see more purely.  We are filled with light and begin to see as God sees. 

We read in the book of Matthew that the pure in heart are blessed, for they will see the face of God.  As we strive to see with spiritual eyes, we will find that this promise is not only the promise of some future day.  We will find that we can see the face of God every day – for we will see it in every face we encounter.  The light that radiates from us will color all we look upon with a beauty both eternal and divine.  We will see in others the seeds of Godhood – seeds which were always there, but seeds to which our eyes once were blind. 

Image by Riccardo Cuppini

Looking on the Heart

I thought I would include another paper written for my classics class - a paper on Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables" (oh, how I love that book!).  Not only will this make it easier for me to find these essays (organization is not my strong point!), but the piece also discusses one of the things I am working to become: a person who looks on the heart. 

“In the country near D—, there was a man who lived alone.  This man, to state the startling fact without preface, had been a member of the National Convention.  His name was G—.  The little circle of D— spoke of the conventionist with a certain sort of horror.  A conventionist, think of it…This man came very near being a monster.” 

So writes Victor Hugo, setting the stage for one of the most powerful and poignant scenes in his novel, Les Miserables.  The reader has already become acquainted with the Bishop Bienvenu-Myriel: his goodness, his compassion, his humility, his love.  He is the best of men – a saint.  Thus, when he journeys to visit G—, a man whom he views “as an outlaw, even beyond the law of charity,” there is no reason to suspect that the conventionist could be anything otherwise.  The scene unfolds.  The bishop – and the reader – come to realize that they have been mistaken.  And with this realization, a lesson of eternal import is taught:  men – all men, even the best of men – are subject to look upon the “outward appearance” only and to wrongfully judge others.  That is why it is not given to men to judge others; it is given to them instead to learn to love.

When the bishop arrives at the residence of G— it is with reluctance and revulsion.  He introduces himself coolly; his tone is one of accusation and austerity.  G— responds with unruffled dignity.  He does not excuse or justify, but he speaks of hidden things – his motives, his hopes, his ideals.  The bishop feels as if “something in him ha[s] been struck.”  Once so confident in his condemnation, he finds himself becoming uncomfortably unsure about his assessment of the man.  He learns that, at the root, the tree of this man’s feelings and desires is the same as his own.  The fruit may look different, but the root is of the same stock.  This “monster,” this “conventionist,” seeks what he, himself, is seeking:  succor for the weak and downtrodden, compassion for the poor and lowly, justice for the defenseless and abused.  Though his actions appear frightening and terrible, they stem from a love and courage and sense of duty both ennobling and sanctifying.  As G— passes on to the “selfhood of the infinite,” the bishop asks for his blessing and pardon, and is left astonished, humbled, and changed…and one step nearer “his approach to perfection.”

The reader is also left astonished and changed.  If such a man as the bishop could have been so mistaken in his assessment of another, how often do those less-near perfection make the same mistake?  Men go about their lives almost mechanically passing judgment on those around them.  They are usually confident that their estimations are accurate.  But, if the truth were known, would they find these assumptions had been based on the outward appearance alone?  Would the heart of the matter, if it could be discerned, reflect something entirely different?  These questions are forced upon the reader at the passing of G— .   They resurface throughout the novel.  And each time they do, they demand thoughtful reflection. Hugo seems to be pleading with man – every man – to relinquish the role of judge to the only one who has a legitimate claim to that title, and instead strive to understand and extend mercy.  He seems to join with the poet in his plea: 

Therefore look gently on men, and even more gently on women.

Although they may go a little wrong, do not condemn them.

Above all consider not merely what they have done, but why.

God alone has the power to look into a human heart,

To judge actions and motives and regrets.

He alone knows not only what one has done and why,

But what one has resisted doing and why–

Man's responsibility is to forgive:

Only God has the authority to judge.              --Robert Burns--

The bishop leaves the presence of G— with a determination to redouble “his tenderness and brotherly love for the weak and the suffering.”  He also seems to silently entreat each reader to remember the lesson he has learned: that only God has the authority to judge.  Man’s responsibility is to forgive, to pity, to minister, to succor, to lift, to heal, to love...

to look on the heart.

Image by Leland Francisco

Well, here we go...

This whole "blog" thing is entirely foreign to me.  I am about as "un"-tech savvy as you can get.  When the thought that I needed to start a blog entered my head, I quickly pushed it out again.  But the thought had this way of returning again and again.  And so I am "taking the plunge" - moving forward in faith, hoping that some good will come of these wanderings in spaces outside of my comfort zone.  

As I delved into the world of blogger - choosing layouts and creating headers - I thought, "Hey, this isn't so bad."  But the thought of actually posting something?  Well, that was a different kettle of fish.  It kind of turned my stomach.  So, in order to help myself ease into this sea of "blogging," I decided that I would use something for my first post that I had already written.  I did this little thought piece for a class I participated in with other homeschooling moms - a class where we read and discussed great classics of literature.  We had just finished Laddie by Gene Stratton-Porter, and this is the paper I wrote about it.  I titled it The Call of the Classic.

Though it was written well before any idea of a blog entered my universe, it does express what I am hoping to communicate through this little blog of mine - that God wants us to become the very best we can - to become like Him... and that we find our greatest joy in that process of becoming.

Image by Adarsh Antony

The Call of the Classic

I always felt that I was born at the wrong time.  Not the wrong time of day or even the wrong month.  I was pretty sure I was born in the wrong century.  I first suspected this when, as a child, I finished reading Little House in the Big Woods.  My suspicions grew after I completed Anne of Green Gables.  The night I stayed up till 2 am so I could get to the end of Jane Eyre, I was practically certain.  And when I finished Pride and Prejudice, there was no doubt left in my mind.  There had been some sort of mistake.  I should be living in Jane Austen’ England, or Laura Ingalls’ frontier America – I was sure of it.  I wasn’t sure how the gross error had come to pass – that was a matter entirely too complicated for my young mind.  But I knew there had, indeed, been an error.  Why else would I feel the way I felt when I finished those books?  Why would I experience a longing in my heart that was so powerful it was almost painful?  Why would I slowly close those books, hold them to my chest, enfold them in my arms, and try to somehow push myself into the stories?  Everything in those books spoke to my soul and touched some secret recess deep inside of me in a way that I could not verbalize – only feel.  Surely that meant I was supposed to be born back then, not now…

I hold Laddie, by Gene Stratton-Porter, in my hands.  I close the book and my eyes.  Slowly, I draw it to my chest and enfold it in my arms.  That now-so-familiar feeling fills my chest – that almost painful longing deep inside.  It has been years since I closed the cover on Little House in the Big Woods, but the feeling remains largely unchanged.  Could it really be that I was born at the wrong time?  Perhaps.  But the thought comes that this yearning might be something entirely different.  Perhaps it is a yearning for place rather than time – a place where there is, in fact, no time.  Perhaps this yearning is really an awareness that the timeless principles portrayed in the story are familiar to me; that they were part of those first lessons learned in a heavenly home now-forgotten.  Perhaps this yearning is a sense that I need to continue those lessons – to become more like the people I read about - in order to be ready to return to that home. Perhaps what I always thought was a longing to live in a time when I could roam through pristine meadows and orchards is really a longing to be more aware of and grateful for God’s magnificent creations.  Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live a hundred years ago is really a longing to be a woman who faces personal frontiers with courage and determination.  Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live in the days before the information age is really a longing to live with more purpose, more simplicity, and more focus on things of lasting value.  Perhaps the longing that I feel, and have always felt, is simply a reminder that I am a wanderer in a strange land.  My soul was born in another place, and it longs to be there again.  Perhaps the longing I feel is really an acknowledgement of the need to mirror in my life the lessons of light and truth I find in written pages so that I will become who I was meant to be.  Perhaps it is a longing for a day – not in the past – but a day yet to come, when I will return to my former home, having made of my life, not something merely classic, but something gloriously divine.

 Image by Abhi Sharma