And Other Reindeer Too

This year, I’ve misplaced my Christmas gusto.

I have a box of Christmas decorations missing somewhere in this Bob Cratchit-sized house and the few decorations that have been taken out are missing some of their crucial parts.

On the back of my kitchen sink stands an action figure of Darren McGavin with his hands outstretched and eyebrows furrowed.  I can’t help him.  Our cats have taken off with the leg portion of his lamp.

Though sadly lagging in our pursuit of holiday light displays, we have (for the first time in over a decade) caught up with the big guy himself.  Without plan or promise we found ourselves third in line for a Claus consult.  Five of the six Thompsons were able to visit with the Ed Asner of Lorain County’s finest. 

“Are you guys good to each other?” he had asked from behind his elastic banded beard.

“No,” they all but Max responded.

“That’s what I thought,” he flatly replied before sending them off with a coloring book and candy cane.  Had he pushed him off with the sole of his black boot, I would have merrily skipped with him all the way back to the North Pole.

Since his sighting, three-year-old Max has developed a consuming fixation with a fold out version of Twas the Night Before Christmas.  Almost daily I find him rolling between the pages as he earnestly tries to implant himself within the magic.  The gingerbread house counting book has the same effect. Either the kid really loves Christmas or he just needs a break from us.

And Kenny, for as hard as he tries, he just can’t seem to get all of his Christmas facts right.  With his trademark lisp, he sings and hums most Christmas songs from the back of the van.

He’s also convinced Santa’s seventh reindeer is Donger.

The tree has been cut, the presents have been purchased, and the stockings have been hung.  Most important, my sanity remains marginal.  For now, I’m reminding myself to “stay here” and not think about just how long January is going to feel.  Like the Ingalls, I fear we will experience our own version of The Long Winter.  I hope Santa brings me ample cookbooks on both egg and hen preparation, regardless of what comes first.  Our funds may be low, but in poultry we are flush.

Outside the snow is falling and the presents are wrapped. And though the halls may not be fully decked, experience tells me Christmas will come regardless.  The optimist in me can acknowledge this past year was much like our July vacation—a few rough patches peppered with a little of “this doesn’t suck too much.”  For 2013, I cautiously hope for much of the same. 

May all your Christmases surpass all expectation. 

God Bless the Coward

I am an ostrich with one ear in the sand and the other eye closed. 

I watch the news, but with the sound off. 

I scan headlines, but I don’t read.

This is my view of the world. 

I am a coward in a world of unknown heroes, angels, and monsters. 

My children, the ones that will let me, I hold close.

And the smaller ones, whose hands I hold, tell me I hold too tight.

But each morning, I let them go, and I watch them separate from my world into another. 

I am aware that the unimaginable has been imagined. 

I am aware that life will continue…or it won’t.

I am relieved that my miracles are intact.  And with the next breath, I feel guilty that I’ve been spared.  But torture exists between my breaths as I think about if and when the time will come.  To live in fear is to not live fully.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

But in the midnight of their darkness, I can only imagine how faint their light must be.  In the darkest of winter, and in the stillness of this season, I pray for that spark to light the way. 

God bless the roughhewn souls who feel damaged beyond hope.  In their brokenness, may they eventually find some peace.

And may God bless me, a coward.  Just grateful for one more day to hold tight to the hands of my children.