Favorite Christmas tradition: letting go...

Taz, our Yorkshire terrier, yanked his leash out of our younger daughter's hand last Saturday evening as I was finally decorating our home with nutcrackers and their snowman friends and my husband and oldest son were stringing lights on our roof. Our dog tore after a cat, but when the cat jumped our neighbor's low wall, Taz instead slid full force into it, causing a debilitating fracture or serious neurological damage (the specialists could not tell for sure).

My daughters were near hysterical. I was terrified for the poor creature, and my husband asked no one in particular, "What did you do to this dog?", when he saw Taz's immobilized state.

That is how our last week of Advent began, with a trip to the emergency vet where my husband and son waited five hours on a Sunday with little information.

We do know his left leg is lame, and our normally energetic fella gets to spend weeks in the kennel or a small room on strict bed rest.

Thank God, the days have improved since that unfortunate event, though I'm certain this Christmas will be remembered for it. After the initial tears and fear that our poor terrier might never be the same, we petted and loved him, forced him to take his medicine and more water than he freely imbibed, and I wiped his little tush as if he were my fifth baby. We nursed our pet while watching Christmas movies, threading a popcorn garland, playing games, making construction paper adornments and during breaks from shaping and baking cookies and stirring fudge.

We made do, putting on Christmas cheer after temporarily despairing of its arrival this year (at least for my part).

So I - and I hope my whole family - will have good memories of honored family traditions along with the bad ones of unexpected injury and its trials.

Every year I learn anew to choose which traditions to reign in, which ones to let go, and what new ones we can attempt to establish amid the chaos.

And you know what? This is what I've learned this year:

It's okay to try to choose the perfect gifts for relatives, but then realize you don't know what they are or where they can be found and just send something you hope they like (because you like it)..

It's okay to eat frozen pizza on Christmas Eve, because you waited too long to order tamales from a fine Mexican restaurant or farmer's market in town.

It's okay to begin baking and decorating just a week before Christmas.

And it's certainly alright not to hang up every last ornament to save yourself some time after the Christmas season has passed.

It's okay not to send Christmas cards again this year to childhood friends and distant relatives, even though you really wish you had.

And realizing that, since you are a Catholic, the Christmas season does not truly end for you until a few weeks from now at the celebration of the Baptism of our Lord, it's fine to send your big sister's family, also Catholic, their Christmas gifts in January.

It's all okay. Traditions should not be burdensome even though sometimes they are burdens we carry with love, no matter how exhausted or out of sorts we may be.

So here's to another Christmas Eve, my friends, anticipating Santa and celebrating our beautiful Jesus by going to Mass or another lovely church service.

May God bless us, everyone, and a very Merry Christmas to you all!

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I know some other Wise Men (and Women)

Happy Three Kings' Day!

Did you know that in Puerto Rico they get this feast day off? It's a national holiday. They know the holidays to celebrate, in my opinion. I wish we Americans would catch on.

I love the Three Kings or Three Wise Men, as you may know them. It's a celebration for Gentiles; Christ is for us, too. I have nutcrackers and wooden statues and even a tapestry depicting them and their journey and gifts. And around this time of year I stuff myself with figs, dates and apricots and make exotic homemade breads spiced with saffron and cardamom for my family and sometimes camel gingerbread cookies, too.

Speaking of important gifts, last year I wished to write a Thanksgiving post and then, when that failed to happen, a New Year's Eve post thanking people for the gifts they gave me in that good old 2015 of yesteryear. Obviously the post never got written, and so here I am in 2016 making a correlation between the gifts of the Magi and the gifts others brought to me when I needed them.

On this theme I must thank my dad for writing a Three Wise Men post. He knows how much I love the Wise Men, how I make a point to mark this holiday each year, fascinated as I am by their journey and their commitment and their grace (though, honestly, I really don't know why I love them so much). I am also enthralled by Dad's journey, and it is a great treasure to me that an important part of it is now written here. But, really, I think he wrote it to cheer me up, a gift! A great gift of the Magi.

My lovely mother

And, Mama, thank you for that long talk on the phone when you let your youngest girl pour out all her fears and insecurities, patiently listened to me and then responded with encouragement and wisdom and love. You pulled me back with all your might from a mental and emotional black hole. I wish I lived closer to you, so that we could have those conversations over coffee or tea in some quaint little shop, but I'm grateful for what you have given me, and your loving and calming presence could touch anyone across thousands of miles.

And, hey, sisters! I haven't forgotten you. Vinca, Annie and Natalie, thank you. Thank you for reaching out to me over the phone and online when you found I was struggling with myself.

Readers, my sister Vinca has a very demanding job, but she still gave her time to me, investing in a long conversation where she gently but firmly corrected some harsh opinions I was harboring in my angst. My sister Annie was working two jobs last year but still made the time to come see me for a weekend and to call late one night - when she had plenty of paperwork that begged for her attention after a grueling day - to stand by me, so to speak, and make sure I was making progress in my OCdemon adventures. Natalie has two twin baby boys, but she contacted me via Facebook from across the pond and seemed to understand just exactly where I was at and how I was floundering as we messaged back and forth. Wow. I love you all immensely.

Big bro Nate in the British Museum

Natie, thanks for being my big brother and for all the great memories I carried back with me from the UK. Boy, I miss you, but that overdue visit was such a gift that I don't feel as far from you as I did before. I cannot wait to meet your sons!

Last but certainly never least, I thank my husband for standing by me throughout...everything, and for allowing me to chase wild horses in my writing, for shipping me off to London on a grand adventure for 10 days and, most importantly, for supporting me all these years at home with our children. It was a great gift to them and to me to have that time.

And thanks, kids, for all that you are.

Even when it drives me bonkers.

Because family, faith and love really are everything, the most powerful and enduring treasures we can enjoy and share.

So, now that I have given thanks at long last, let me conclude by wishing a very Happy Three Kings' Day to all of you reading. If you don't know much about this feast, well eat some chocolate cake! That's always a good plan. And may God bless you this new year.

Help me prepare, Lord

And Mary said:
"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my savior.
For he has looked upon his handmaid's lowliness;
behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.
The Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name." Luke 1:46-49 (NAB)

We sang this Scripture passage in church this morning, and I wept. Even as my youngest children squirmed and fussed beside me, I was caught up in this hymn after Communion. I heard a fellow parishioner near me singing the words with humble sincerity. It didn't matter whether he was or was not on pitch, because simplicity and honesty were there - a more perfect harmony.

If I could spend Advent in church, I would be far better off, I think. My emotions would not be vacillating so much between the merry yule-tide activities and the many stressful obligations performed with a silent, Bah! Humbug!

I want to look forward to Christmas, but I am too busy telling myself to just get through this and then that.

That's no way to live.

And it is not the way to spend Advent, I know: just waiting for Christmas only so it can be done with and over. All obligations performed. All things crossed off lists. All gifts bought and given. 

What about that first gift? Advent is a time of preparation for Him, Lord of lords. It is a time of expectation, of hope. It is supposed to be a time when we prepare to celebrate the Christmas season more joyfully, when we prepare our hearts and souls to proclaim the greatness of the Lord with humble sincerity. It's also the time when we look forward to Christ's second coming and our need to be always ready for him, our King of kings.

I know this about Advent, and I acknowledge that this season of preparation has changed Christmas for me, has penetrated the mystery and helped me to celebrate more joyfully, more fully, and has made me contemplate deep spiritual things in a time dominated by commercialism.

And yet here am I, grumpy and disillusioned already, beating myself up for not meeting my own gift-buying or making expectations, comparing my traditions and even my tree-decorating skills to those of others' on Facebook, tempted by inertia beneath the weight of fresh obligations and age-old chores.

Even the spiritual opportunities God has given me this Advent season, I have not appreciated as I should have, wanting to get through them, taking them off a growing list in my head. It is only through prayer and thus by His grace, guidance and inspiration that they turned out well for the children and adults with whom I worked, whom I tried to serve as best I could, because they belong to Jesus.

That's just it, though. That's the message I must embrace right now. Everything I do this Advent season, I must unite to Jesus. What a difference it might make if I read Scripture every morning and prayed longer before entering the holiday fray! I hate shopping sometimes - yes - but what if I shopped for others in a spirit of selflessness and sacrifice? What if I actually looked for opportunities to volunteer and in ways and places I never have before? What if I tried to make everything a prayer amid the hustle and bustle, smiling at grumpy fellow shoppers and frazzled cashiers all the way and being peaceful (no matter what) where peace is sorely needed?

What if every word and action was a proclamation of faith, because of the joy with which I spoke and acted this Advent?

"His mercy is from age to age
to those who fear him.
He has shown might with his arm,
dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart.
He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones
but lifted up the lowly.
The hungry he has filled with good things;
the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped Israel his servant,
remembering his mercy,
according to his promise to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever." Luke 1:50-55 (NAB)

Santa and St. Nick

My honor student/football player son Berto unabashedly asked his teacher before his fifth grade peers how on earth Santa was able to deliver presents in both the northern and southern hemispheres on the same night. From what he described to me later, his teacher fumbled the question and then tried valiantly to recover an appropriate answer. Kudos to her, she must have been completely taken aback that this spike-haired boy still believed, and with such confidence, that he would ask that question in school.

On one hand, it is completely charming that my 11-year-old believes. On the other hand, I wish to tell him the truth about the spirit of St. Nicholas for the purely selfish reason of relieving the pressure on his dad and me.

But then again...the other day I found myself contemplating certain gifts for my children, picturing them by the tree, and I thought, "That would be great! How clever of Santa; he always knows."

I'm one of him, and I believe. The bell still rings for me.

Berto had a debate with his friends about the big guy. They described all the fabulous, most outrageous gifts they'd received - XBoxes, IPads, televisions, computers - and stated that no big man in a reindeer-pulled sleigh had gotten them such treasures. No, parents were the benefactors (or culprits).

Berto said, "Yeah, right! Parents are getting you all those expensive things? They have thousands of dollars? No way!"

As Berto was recounting all this to me, I got a little tense at this point. Santa has never brought any of our kids a game system or high-priced electronic device, so I just had to ask:

"Why do you think Santa has never brought you those things, Berto?"

My son got quiet. My question had not raised this conundrum. It had been bothering him.

"I don't know." A pause and then, "Probably because he knows my little brother and sisters might mess with it...or because our house is small."

Yes, my kids know I don't buy many things, because I feel already the crushing weight of clutter in our home with which I wage a constant, losing battle.

"Well, that true." I had to tread carefully. "It's also not our values, too, right? Mama and Papa don't believe in asking Santa for a ton of expensive things; that's taking advantage, right? You guys get to ask him for three things at most."

"Yeah, but he still brings other kids all this crazy stuff - Wiis and tons of games to go with it, too."

"Well, I think your friends are right..." I took a big breath.

I could feel the energy change in the back seat. Just what was Mama about to say?

"I think some parents must be helping St. Nick out a little."

"By giving him money?"

"No - no! No one ever gives Santa money. No, that wouldn't be in the spirit of things. By adding gifts."

"Oh."

It wasn't correct, but what could I say?

A couple days ago we were listening to the true story of Santa Claus on CD - the one about a certain Bishop, now St. Nicolas, who became famous for helping the poor by secretly leaving gold and other gifts, giving away his whole inheritance. My eyes were watering at the story's end, and Berto said, "They made it sound like he died. And I don't like something they said at the beginning either."

The narrator said that the story was that of the original Santa Claus.

I was mute.

Yes, I want to tell my handsome boy about the generous spirit of St Nick kept alive by parents, church giving trees, the Salvation Army, Toys for Tots and so very much more. I want to tell him that he can be a Santa Claus, too, and honor his patron saint in so many ways, that he has already done so each year when choosing toys for children in struggling families. But, then, he will know...eventually.

I've told my husband I think we should tell him, but my husband responded that he was never told. Even when we went to his parents' house for Christmas the year we married, there were gifts from Santa. Some of my friends say they were never told, either, and they're glad.

Now many adults know the legend sprang from the actions of a boy bishop almost 1700 years ago - helped not a little by mythology and commercial opportunists. Yes, we know.

A little miracle is that somehow, in a small but precious way - even for those of us who eschew extravagance and elves - the child within us still believes.



Three Bears and a Box Full of Toys

Imagine St. Nick (warning: major spoiler)

Short, Mostly Unedited - Christmas

My thought is my gift - no rainchecks

They say it’s the thought that counts, and that’s lucky for me; my presentation is hideous – Christmas presents mangled up with string, cookies begrimed with runny frosting, and a signature so indecipherable, illegitimate even, I'd have to pay someone to autograph my work if I ever became famous.

But what if the thought is unshippable?

This morning I had an engagement present to send. I go to the United States Post Office to send such gifts of goodwill, because it's patriotic and philanthropic, considering the USPS deficit.

Today I hauled in bubble-wrapped wine, raspberry-habanero jam, and a few dozen plastic grocery bags to use as packing material and so free myself from their suffocating presence in my home while pawning them off on a relative. I stuffed them enthusiastically around wine and jam in a crisp, fresh box, hoping there were no dead insects to be discovered upon their arrival hundreds of miles away. I found a card that was perfect among the post office selection, and I had the cumbersome, official priority-tape dispenser on loan from a kind USPS employee.

"Take this - it's free," she said.

Free, yeah, but no instruction manual. I banged it against the counter top with a resounding crash while trying to wield it, caught my hand on its sharp cutter, and twisted the adhesive on itself, the dispenser and my fingers. Daniel, my preschooler, was yanking on the poor chained pens in an effort to free them and make Picassos of the Hold Mail cards as I tried to figure out which way the tape was supposed to face on its wheel. I taped myself, the plastic grocery bags, the table, and - with much difficulty and decidedly bad form - the box. I would have taped my son to the chained pens and their counter had he deigned to stay beside me.

Balls of discarded tape piled up on the counter. I thought, Free, my foot! They'll never let me have this tape again! Feeling self-conscious, I barely managed to repress a fit of laughter during my trials, pretending my broad, involuntary smile was provoked by my adorable, mischievous boy, but I grinned back at a middle-aged woman grinning at me as I slapped that tape on in folds and ripples across the seams of the box.

At last, a USPS employee called out, “Can I help someone?” And there was no one but me to help.

I trotted myself up there with my indecently-wrapped package. I’m surprised he didn’t say, “Well, it’s the thought that counts…” in the same wry way my son did when his birthday cupcakes wouldn’t dislodge from the pan, and I subsequently squished their crowns back on while trying to reshape their bruised bottoms.

"I have this package, and a card like this one that I put in it."

“Do you have anything liquid, breakable, perishable, and possibly hazardous in here?”

“Yes, I do,” I piped up. “Alcohol.”

“Can’t ship it,” he said, shaking his head and pursing lips.

“Really? You can’t?”

“No, I'm sorry. I could give you some shady advice, but..." He looked me over with sympathy or admiration. "Most people aren’t as honest as you are.”

“Well, I’ll pay for the box at least.” It was such a work of art, so much effort.

“The box is free, but you still owe me for the card.”

I laughed, and just then, Danny whispered urgently, “Mama, I need to go peepee!”

Of course. Well, it was truly time to bow out…gracefully, as I always do. I paid for the card, hurried home with my new found wine, and vowed to make the thought count another day - with better packaging.