3 Reasons I’m Not a Petrie or a Cleaver

3 Reasons I’m Not a Petrie or a Cleaver

I love to watch old sitcoms like The Dick VanDyke Show, Leave it to Beaver, and The Andy Griffith Show. They are relaxing to watch, as the characters’ problems, always wrapped up neatly in half an hour, would earn a #FirstWorldProblems hashtag in today’s world. Everyone is well behaved, no one cusses or drinks too much and Ward wouldn’t think of cheating on June. It’s all so … nice.

Though I enjoy my share of nostalgia, I’m not sure those days were really better, in spite of the Facebook posts I see regularly bemoaning the state of today’s society. Do you notice something about Andy, Barney, Ward, June, Rob and Laura? They are white, affluent, well-educated, clean cut, middle- to upper-middle class people, for whom those days were serene. With their socio-economic status and respectable professions came the perception that they were good people. They represented the propriety of the day and fit the mold.

Three reasons I wouldn’t have wanted to live in that era:

  1. What if you were different? What if you broke the mold?  I suspect life wasn’t quite so grand. I believe much of our longing for the way things used to be is a longing for the days when our beliefs and opinions about the way things should be weren’t challenged. Polite people shared the same views and if you didn’t you wouldn’t dare admit it. Ask a non-white person how great those days were. I’ll bet you’ll get a different answer. Racism was accepted and persons of color were second-class citizens. I don’t want to go back to that. Do you?
  2. Marriages were forever. They had to be. Well, most of them. Divorce, whatever the reason, brought shame and social isolation. Women in destructive or abusive marriages had no way out. Assuming anyone would have believed them, they faced the prospect of being social outcasts if they left, not to mention how to provide for children. A 50-year anniversary of misery isn’t a great thing to celebrate. So, yeah, people stayed married, but maybe that wasn’t always a good thing.
  3. I’d be dead. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1998. Had it been 1958, the early diagnosis that saved my life and the treatment that followed wouldn’t have been possible. My two young girls would have grown up without their mother.

People don’t change. The Bible says, ” … There is nothing new under the sun. “(Ecclesiastes 1:9) There has always been rape, murder, incest and every form of awful, creepy behavior. If you don’t believe me, read the Old Testament. You don’t have to read too far into Genesis to see one brother kill another. Child abuse, violence, adultery, lying and deception aren’t new ideas.

The difference today is that we know about it. Media outlets compete for our eyeballs by serving up stories more frightening and sensational than the competition. We long to be Andy and Barney  on the front porch strumming the guitar and singing hymns or Laura Petrie making dinner in utopian suburbia. I’m not sure whether we are truly worse, or just better informed.

I’m glad I live in this generation. As pretty as the Cleaver life may look on the outside, I’m grateful that, thanks to God and modern medicine, I’ve lived long enough to enjoy my children as adults. I’m happy my girls are free to follow their dreams and aspirations, wherever they may lead. I love that my friends of every ethnicity enjoy the same rights that I do,  and that prejudice against them has fallen far out of fashion. And most of all, I am thankful that I was empowered to leave an abusive first marriage, rather than being trapped by society’s expectations. That freedom gave me the chance to enjoy the blessed life I live today.

The good days are now, y’all. Enjoy.

Why What I Don’t Know is Totally OK

Why What I Don’t Know is Totally OK

Y’all are going to think there is something wrong with me.

So a few caveats are in order before I tell this story:

  1. I’m an intelligent, educated woman, and have, in the past, supported myself quite well.
  2. I am not a backwards ninny who has to ask her husband’s permission to do things.
  3. Jim and I are equal partners and everything is an open book. Passwords, text messages, email and all the analog stuff.

When Jim was RIF’d* a couple of weeks ago, he was handed a large envelope just before he was escorted out of the building. In the envelope (and I’m speculating here) were some papers he had to sign, insurance information, and an outline of the severance package.

Of course, I was eager to know about the severance, and that’s one of the first things I asked him when he got home that day. He told me he hadn’t looked at it, and wasn’t ready to. I respected that and decided I’d let him just do that on his own time.

A couple of days passed, and he hadn’t mentioned the envelope, so I didn’t either. I wanted to know about the severance package, but still wanted to respect his timing. After a few days, when he didn’t bring it up, I started to ask him, then realized something.

It doesn’t matter.

Our security is not in the number on that check. There is nothing in our lives that really matters that can be taken away by anything that’s on — or not on — that check.

Jim knows the number and, more importantly, God knows the number.

In this post, I talked about how I think it’s cool that this happened during Lent. So I decided to give up my need to know about the money for Lent. Not just my need to know, but my need to try to control, to get things done under my own steam. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in la-la-la denial land. We’re not spending a penny on anything other than necessities and I’m working as hard as I can and have several freelance projects lined up in addition to my job. Jim is doing his networking ninja thing that he does ridiculously well.

What I will not do is stress and worry about it.

Because all we can do is all we can do. The rest we cannot control. It is in the hands of the Wise One.

So I still have no idea what the severance package is. I know that I can ask Jim any time and he’ll tell me, but I’m not going to. I’m going to remind myself that:

  • Who we are, how we are and where our hearts are have nothing to do with dollars.
  • Though we don’t know how and we don’t know when, God knows every detail of the next opportunity. He’ll tell us when it’s time. So not asking Jim about the check is practice for waiting on God, which my often-impatient self surely needs.
  • Wherever He takes us, we won’t be alone. If it’s a great new job, He’ll be with us. If it’s … not, He’ll be with us there, too and wherever He leads us, there will be goodness. His goodness, not necessarily human goodness.

Now, that does not mean we can’t use your prayers, and we certainly appreciate a heads-up on any opportunities you may know of, or folks he should talk to.

But if you think we’re smiling more than we should be, it’s not because we’re faking it, or just too dumb to know better.

It’s because God is very, very real and He knows far better.

*Remember, that’s an acronymn for reduction in force, as the kids are calling layoffs these days.

Bad News and Good News

Bad News and Good News

good-news-bad-news

We’re about two weeks into the unemployment and, of course, there are big changes around here. Some good, some not so good. I wrote about it last week. 

Bad news first:

  • We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. That means no extras; no restaurants, no clothes shopping and no hair appointments. Very first-world-problems. I know. Almost ridiculously so. In fact, I’m a little ashamed.

Good news:

  • The smell of coffee in the house in the mornings. I love the smell of coffee — just don’t make me drink the stuff. Jim loves coffee and does the whole bean grinding thing and it smells heavenly.
  • More time together. It’s kind of nice having him around more. We have more time to just sit and talk. He’s available to do things like come with me to hear me speak to a class about my work.
  • We get to work together. There’s really not much I can do to help him, except use my gifts and abilities to do things that enhance his networking abilities. Which includes helping him write a cover letter, and putting up this website to highlight his experience and qualifications. And I’ve taught him about things like Dropbox and Google Drive, which is kinda fun.
  • The next opportunity is going to rock. We’ve been through this before and ended up with a much better position with much better pay. We’re confident that this time it’ll work out for the best as well.
  • We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. Yeah, that’s also good news. It’s not a negative thing, especially during Lent, to contemplate what we truly need, rather than what we want. I wish I could say that by our own choice, we’ve stepped back from the daily luxuries we enjoy, but we needed some … encouragement.

Notice there’s only really one bit of bad news, among so much good. And that bad news is also good news. The positive outweighs the negative, and when you strip away the extras, what’s left are the things of true value — people, relationships, time together and all that we will learn from this experience.

We really do believe Romans 8:28:

We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose.

We believe that means all things; not just the ones we think are good things, but all things.

This is going to be fun to watch.

 

Rethinking Necessity

Rethinking Necessity

peaceful-lake

Taken on Greers Ferry Lake. A place that always feels peaceful.

Early this morning as I got ready for work, I tweeted this:

Irritated at myself for flooding the bathroom floor, I mopped up the standing water with towels from the hamper and hoped that it wasn’t raining downstairs.

As I ate my oatmeal, checked Twitter, Facebook and Google Plus, and packed my bag for work, I got a phone call that made the bathroom floor irrelevant.

It was Jim. His job had been eliminated. As of … now. Just so you know, official 2013 corporatespeak for this is reduction in force (RIF). It apparently even has its own hashtag. There were about 16 other folks at Jim’s company who met with the same fate.

Nothing like a huge punch in the gut to make you wish for a minor irritation like a wet bathroom floor.

It’s tough when your perspective is adjusted. Even tougher when it happens in an instant. Whiplash.

Time to rethink the word necessary.

We love dinners out and lunch after church. But for now, dinners will be in and Sunday lunches will be hot dogs on the grill or a picnic with homemade sandwiches instead of Central’s BBQ nachos. My gray roots will be covered by me instead of my ridiculously cool and talented master colorist who gives me these highlights. More evenings in, fewer nights out. Alter the jeans I already have rather than buying new ones.

Rethink necessity during Lent? Not a new idea.

This year, I think we’ll observe Lent in a whole new way. Not by giving up chocolate or Facebook, or Muddy’s cupcakes, but by really thinking about living simply and sacrificially. I wish we were disciplined enough that we might live this way on our own, but we’re apparently not. Now that we’ve been somewhat forced into it, I think we’ll embrace the discipline and be thankful for what it teaches us.

So, for those who would ask how we are, I’d say we are good overall. Still reeling a little — shocked, anxious, a little pissed if we’re honest. But beneath it all is peace.

This peace is born not of our strength, but of our faith. Our faith in a God, the evidence of whom is as real in our lives as the problems we face — and infinitely more powerful.

We’ve been here before and God has been faithful. So, even though I wrote these words in 2006, they are still true today just like He is.

That’s the story. The fire is hot, but we’re not alone.

Pray for us, send positive thoughts, let us know of any awesome opportunities. Worry about us? Don’t even think of it.

The View From 54

The View From 54

I never try to hide my age; I’m proud of each and every year. I always say, no cancer survivor complains about growing older. I cherish and revel in my birthdays, because each one is another little triumph over the big C.

For those of you who dread getting older, you’re just too young and foolish to know what you’re missing.

This summer, on one of our St. Louis trips, we had pre-game drinks at this great bar called 360, that’s on the 26th floor of the Hyatt at the Ballpark, right across from Busch Stadium. It’s our favorite hotel in St. Louis. The view is spectacular, and, of couse, we loved looking down on the stadium as the Cardinals took batting practice (sadly, closed to the public). We may or may not have creeped on them with the big telephoto lens.

From the top, we could see the buildings, the graceful ones and the eyesores, but we couldn’t see the peeling paint, the cracks in the sidewalk, the litter, graffiti, or any other marks of a downtown urban neightborhood. Busch Stadium, the Gateway Arch, and the beautiful City Hall were easy to pick out, and we enjoyed the overview of a city with which we are only slightly familiar.

Aging is a little like that view from 26 floors up. You see the traffic jams, the road construction, and if you could yell loudly enough, you could tell the drivers below to avoid those streets. Instead, you watch them unwittingly strand themselves in traffic. The higher you climb, the farther out you can see, and the smaller the people and problems on the ground appear.

I love the view from 54. It’s hard to believe how much I dreaded the empty nest; I could not have been more wrong. I love the luxury of eating popcorn for dinner if we want to; making spontaneous plans and running off for weekend getaways with only the dogs to worry about.

But most of all, I love what I know. That money, clothes, houses, cars and other material things are not where it’s at. It’s about the experiences, the memories, and mostly the people.

I remember many moments from my younger days. With the exception of my wedding day, I don’t remember what I was wearing, how much I weighed, or what kind of car got me to my destination.

I remember faces. Voices. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Love.

Life is short. Make memories.


It was about 104 degrees when I took the photo above. I hate that the sky is so blown out, but I was on the 26th floor, outside, shooting into — and rapidly wilting in — the late-afternoon sun. Jim would’ve shot it much better, but I like to hold the camera sometimes too.

Post-Election Thoughts: Sportsmanship Award or Penalty?

Post-Election Thoughts: Sportsmanship Award or Penalty?

Thank goodness this election is over. Never in all my years of voting (and that’s quite a few) have I seen such divisiveness and bitterness.

I’ve seen rifts between friends over who is voting for whom. Over the past few months, many of my Facebook friends have talked about unfriending others or being unfriended due to politics. On Twitter, it’s simpler — just unfollow.

Nothing is sadder to me than to see politics outweigh relationships, a friendship (virtual or otherwise) lost because of disagreement on issues.

Yes, the issues are important. But they always are.

So I have a few suggestions for how we can begin to move on and maybe even repair some of the rifts:

  • If your guy won, avoid excessive celebration. Y’all know how little I know about football, but last week Jim was watching a game and I noticed a guy got a penalty for excessive celebration. In baseball, there are (unwritten) rules about showing up your opponent when you win. Don’t be a jerk about it. Be a good sport.
  • If your guy lost, no doomsday predictions about how this country is going to hell in a handbasket. Every four years, someone’s guy loses. And, though we’re not without problems, we’re all still standing. Don’t be a jerk about it. Be a good sport.
  • Back to sports. No team ever wins when they are at odds with one another; if you cannot play as a team you’re pretty much screwed. Winning requires a team spirit of unity and the ability to work together for the common good. Let’s put aside the political posturing and rhetoric and move on. And maybe even fix some things.

We teach our kids to be gracious in win or loss; but how do we model that grace today?

Ask yourself: If your kid won/lost a game and behaved as you are today, would he/she win a sportsmanship award or a penalty?

Godspeed, Srannie

Godspeed, Srannie

sran-pr

I’ve felt unusually emotional the past couple of days, without really knowing why. It hit me sometime yesterday while I was trying to think through something at work. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but now I think I know.

If you’re a mom, you feel what your children feel. When they are tiny and they have colic and cry, you’re at least as miserable as they are.

When they’re a little older and it’s chickenpox, ear infections, strep or a broken bone, you hurt too.

When they go to junior high and they feel like they don’t fit in, or the kids are mean, you remember when you felt the same way and you feel it all over again, but this time it’s worse because it’s your child.

The first time they fall in love and their heart breaks, yours breaks too.

You’re excited with and for them as they leave the nest, even though there’s an empty room in your home and a place in your heart that aches for them just a tiny bit.

As you watch them build their own lives and follow their dreams, their dreams become just a little bit yours, too.

I think that explains why, when I watched my oldest, Elizabeth, cross the finish line for her first marathon, I could not stop the tears. Thinking about the commitment, sacrifice and dedication it takes to complete 26.2 miles amazed me, but thinking about what that finish line meant to her brought the lump to my throat.

And maybe it explains why there may be a tear or two in a few hours when I see my youngest, Sara Ann, off to Zambia for a mission trip, which she has dreamed of since middle school. The fact that what she’s wanted for this long is to go to Africa and serve humbles me and fills me with admiration.

I don’t live through them, but being part of their adult lives is fulfilling in a way I never anticipated when they were small and I didn’t want them to grow up.

I’m so glad they didn’t listen.

Godspeed, Srannie.

The Last of Life For Which the First Was Made

The Last of Life For Which the First Was Made

25 Years of Marriage

Twenty-five years ago this moment I was doing my nails and fluffing up my 80s hair in preparation for my wedding.

The Back Story

Jim and I dated in high school. I was two years older, so I had to drive on all of our dates. He had a shiny new Toyota in the garage that he couldn’t drive until his 16th birthday. I looked forward to riding in it, but, alas, our relationship did not survive that long.

wedding photoYears later, I was finishing my graduate audiology program at University of Memphis and Jim was fresh out of Rhodes College (he would want me to point out that he actually graduated from Southwestern at Memphis), working here in Memphis at his first job, writing credit union software. During the Thanksgiving holiday in 1983, he made an unexpected drop-in visit to my family home in Jonesboro. We chatted for an hour or two and agreed to meet for a drink at some undetermined time. A few weeks later, in need of a break from thesis writing and preparing for comprehensive exams, I spontaneously called him to take him up on that drink. We stayed for dinner, arranged a second date, a third, a fourth … and in June of 1986, in the driveway of my family’s lake house, he proposed. We were married on November 30, 1986 in a small chapel at Christ United Methodist Church. The chapel’s capacity was 75. We invited 150 people. So even though our wedding was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the place was packed.

The Last 25 Years

These years have been filled with moments of uncontained joy, raucous laughter, inside jokes, crazy dreams and common goals. We’ve shared a chronically-messy home, countless tubes of toothpaste, 25 Christmas trees and what I estimate to be more than 20,000 meals. The peaks have been lofty, the valleys deep: the loss of our brand-new weddings rings in an armed robbery, career ups and downs, deaths of friends and family members, my diagnosis of breast cancer, unemployment and countless others that time and perspective have made less tragedy than minor setback.

When we were first married, Jim gave me a plaque with the following lines from a poem by Robert Browning.

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”

Most people quote the first two lines, but my favorite is, the last of life for which the first was made … This makes me think of a fine wine. For some of the finest wines, maturity brings a richer, more complex and multilayered flavor. The distinguishing tones — fruit, floral, earthy — become more noticeable even as they meld together to form a smooth, rich wine worthy of savoring.

Much like us. Rather than longing for youth, we choose to revel in the richness of these days. Of adult children who challenge and inspire as they become more friend than responsibility; of wisdom and perspective to treasure and appreciate more deeply the blessings entrusted to us. We’re fuller and richer for the struggles, the tears, the sacrifices — and for all of the moments of both the first and the last of life.

Slow Down: One Week Post-Op — A Personal Update

Slow Down: One Week Post-Op — A Personal Update

Yesterday marked the one-week point since the hysterectomy. I’ve always believed that there is good to be found in any situation. Here are a few thoughts after one week:

  • A good support system is a must. But it’s crucial to actually let them help. I don’t like being physically dependent on others and I feel guilty imposing. But family, friendship and community mean that sometimes we carry one another for a while and sometimes we let our loved ones carry us.
  • Mental rest is important too. My body is aching, tired and hurting. And my mind is as well. I had great ambitions for all the reading I’d do, but it’s hard to concentrate. Maybe it’s the anesthesia, the pain, the disruption in my schedule, but it’s hard to focus. I’m so glad that few people have need for anything my addled brain cells can put together right now.
  • Whatever you do, never Google a health issue. A couple of nights ago, I felt chilled and achy and started poking around on the Internet to see if that’s normal. Next thing I knew I was sure a trip back to the hospital was imminent and pictured myself in a post-op-complication-induced coma. Chances are if I’d read the instructions from the doctor I’d have been less freaked out. (Update: I’m ok. Probably just tired.)
Photo shared on Instagram
  • Time. It does just take time for body and mind to heal. It’s funny how speed-obsessed we get. My DVR-addicted mind gets restless during a 30-second ad on Hulu or a TV commercial. I want my Web pages to load fast or I’m gone. Click. But beyond the common-sense things I can do to speed recovery, there’s no fast-forward button. Time to work on patience.
  • Stay connected. A lot of folks would probably tell me this is a good time to unplug. And honestly, I have to some extent. But I’d have missed so many sweet words and thoughts from friends that have given me needed encouragement and support. Letting go of connections now would be isolating and depressing for me. And the asynchronous nature of social media allows me to take it what I can handle and ignore the rest.
  • Freshen up. Find new interests. I’ve recently rediscovered my affinity for photography. Don’t ask me about F-stops and shutter speeds. I’ll relearn what I used to know about that stuff soon. For now, I’ve subscribed to some new sites with interesting and artistic photos and have been paying more attention to Instagram on the iPhone (where my user name is bethgsanders). Even a new TV show or two can be a breath of fresh air for the mind.

No doubt about it, I am getting better every day. I just wish I were getting more patient.

Surgery and Romans 8:28

Surgery and Romans 8:28

I’m having major surgery this coming Monday. A hysterectomy, to be exact.

Not too long ago, I had a minor procedure that involved a biopsy and they found some abnormal cells. Not cancer, but precancerous. For any cancer survivor, the word precancerous is actually code for Cut. It. Out. Of. Me. Now.

So I may not be blogging, writing, geeking out, tweeting, Plussing (is that what we’re calling it?) or Facebooking for a week or so. Or I might. It depends on which is more painful: the pressure of an electronic device on a fresh abdominal incision or the horrifying prospect of tech withdrawal (I’m predicting the latter).

My phone and iPad will go with me to the hospital, as they did last time. After all, it’s difficult to freak out when your mind is focused on 38 Down in The New York Times Thursday crossword puzzle. Or level 5-7 of Angry Birds, which I still can’t beat, dangit. And I think there’s wifi, which means there will probably also be tweets. At least until they take my phone away. This is cool because it gives my family something to laugh at me about so they won’t worry so much.

I won’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not really scared either. I’m anxious in the same way we all are when we get a shot — you know that moment just before the nurse jabs the needle in? That, but worse — this is going to freakin’ hurt a lot. And I really don’t like pain meds because they make me itch.

I know I’ll be frustrated at all the things I can’t do. I’ll miss going to church. And tech coffee. And driving for a couple of weeks.

Even so, I’m blessed far beyond what I deserve by a community of awesome friends and family. I know right now that there will be people praying for me Monday morning and four very dear colleagues have already offered to bring me dinner in the coming weeks. I have an incredible online community as well, made up of folks I’d never have met without these here Interwebs.

I’m convinced that something good will come of this, as one of my favorite Bible verses promises:

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 (NIV)

Emphasis mine. In all things. Not just good things and fun things, but painful things too. Surgery will hurt in the short term but it will make me healthier in the long run. So it’s all good.

For those of you who are so inclined, please pray for me and for my family. If you’re not the praying sort, your good thoughts will do nicely, thanks.

Catch ya on the flip side.

Words and Memories

Words and Memories

As much as I love writing, there is writing, and there is … writing. I was asked to write an obituary for my beloved 95-year-old grandmother, who passed away a few days ago. I consider it an honor to have known her, to have loved her and to offer this final tribute.

I wish I’d had more time to find the words that would do justice to her memory, but words aren’t enough anyway. Here’s my effort:

Virginia R. Dohogne, 95, of Jonesboro, died Friday morning, January 28, 2011, at NEA Baptist Hospital in Jonesboro. She died peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, who celebrate a long life well-lived and a legacy of love, grace and dignity.

Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Mrs. Dohogne lived much of her life in Paragould before moving to St. Bernards Village in Jonesboro 11 years ago. She was a homemaker and a member of Blessed Sacrament Church. Mrs. Dohogne was a member of the Arkansas Methodist Hospital Auxiliary while living in Paragould.

She was preceded in death by her husband, Linus E. Dohogne, her brother, Robert C. Ranney, and by her son-in-law, Dr. James Gramling.

Survivors include one daughter, Martha Gramling of Jonesboro; one daughter-in-law and son, Sallie and Ranney and Dohogne of St. Louis; five grandchildren, Beth Sanders, Sara VanScoy, James F. Gramling, Jr., Carrie Croy and Greg Dohogne; and seven great-grandchildren: Elizabeth Sanders, Will VanScoy, Sara Ann Sanders, Joseph VanScoy, Sam Vancoy and twins Madeline and Annabel Gramling.

She was wise through age and experience, yet blessed with a youthful spirit that resisted the indignities of advancing years. An expert bridge player with a colorful, coordinated fashion sense well into her nineties, her sharp mind, sense of humor and compassionate concern for others made her a blessing to all. She led a full and active earthly life filled with loving friends and family who miss her profoundly, yet are comforted in the confidence of eternal life.

Merry Christmas and Hallelujah!

Merry Christmas and Hallelujah!

I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.

  • Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
  • Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
  • The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
  • Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
  • Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
  • My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.

Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.

When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.

I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.

But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.

Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.

The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!