Between Times

It’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s—a liminal, borderline state at my house. The magic of Christmas is kind of over—the awe of the lights, the wonder of the pile of gifts. The scurrying to the store to buy one more gift. The wrapping of gifts in secret. The joy of the gathering of family as they arrive by plane or car to cheers of joy. The baking of cookies and treats that are only made once a year. The cousins running through the house and yard with screams of joy. The adults talking late into the night.

I love the Christmas season. The whole month or so, from Thanksgiving to Christmas day. I love getting out my bright green and red Christmas Santa Claus plates, putting garlands on the house, and decking all the halls with Christmas froo-froo. I love putting up the tree and thinking about the stories behind each ornament: the paper stars, the pipe-cleaner candy cane, the tatted, the cable car I bought in San Francisco. I love thinking about my family and friends and choosing gifts I think they might like. I love going to the Nutcracker and Christmas parties and children’s concerts. I love the ginger cookies and the sugar cookies and the fudge.

But my favorite part is that my grown-up children often come home for the holidays and our family home that is really too big for just the two of us fills up with all the children and their spouses and their children. Every bedroom is full.  I line up inflatable mattresses in the storage room, hang up some Christmas lights and other decorations, and it becomes the kid cave. (Don’t worry, there is a safe fire exit.) The cousins play together, the younger ones learning from the older ones and the older ones learning how to care for younger ones. The grown-ups do what our family does best: talk. We talk about ideas and experiences and feelings and memories.

But now it is the week between Christmas and the New Year. Now the presents have been opened and some have been returned. The toys are out of the boxes and spread all over the floor. The two-year-old is watching Frozen on seemingly endless loop as his parents try to cope with melt-downs caused by not sleeping in his own bed or having his own schedule.

Dozens of shoes and piles of coats are in the entry way. The kitchen window sill is lined with labeled red plastic cups.

The treats are still in abundance, but we are beginning to get sated. We complain about weight gain. The girls stream exercise videos on their phones and are working out in front of the Christmas tree. One daughter has started reading a diet book and regales us with her new insights on insulin and sugar.

We spend the days on long planned activities—and begin to feel the crunch of time together winding down. Will we have time to fit in ice skating? Is the snow too icy for skiing?

We are talking more and more of plans for the coming year. We plan vacation trips and house re-decorating and self-improvement projects. We are gradually turning our minds toward life as usual and maybe life as better.

The excess of the holiday season is beginning to slough off. We still love being together and being able to share fun and ideas and experiences. But we are also preparing for a new beginning on January 1^st. We begin to think almost longingly of returning to work and routine, of cleaning out closets, of eating healthy and exercising regularly.

And being together for the holidays makes us more ready, perhaps more able to be better next year. We have shared our ideas, what we have learned in the last year. We have shared love. We have taken care of each other’s children. We have asked for and given advice. We have reaffirmed the bonds of family that will take us through another year.

And maybe that is the purpose of holiday celebrations. Besides celebrating the joyous knowledge that Christ came to earth to teach us and to save us, we also get to celebrate God’s plan that put us into to families. In families, we learn from each other, we support each other, we fight with each other, we forgive each other. And because of families we become more and more what God would like us to be, at Christmas and all through the year.

My Christmas Talk

 (December 4, 2011)

In December 2011, members of our congregation were asked to prepare a talk, as though we would be giving it in church. I wrote this one, which I will share here, because I still deeply believe what I wrote, though my granddaughter has moved on from dinosaurs by now. 

 This year I determined to get my Christmas shopping finished by December 1, so for the past month or so I’ve been spending a lot of time at Walmart, Costco, and Amazon.com. I even made a spread sheet with columns for the names of each loved one, gift ideas, budgeted amount, and final purchase. It has been a big project.

But, it’s actually been fun. It’s nice to think about others, to think about what they might enjoy, what would bring them joy. I have a 5-year-old granddaughter for whom I would love to buy princess clothes. In fact I bought her a Snow White dress with heels and a purse. However, when I really thought it over I realized that this little girl loves dinosaurs, not princesses, so I bought her dinosaurs, and returned the princess dress. It was good to think of what made her happy, not what would make me happy.

 I think one reason Heavenly Father organized us into families, is so we could have this experience of thinking more of another person’s happiness than of our own. In Matthew 7:11, Jesus says,  “ye then. . . . know how to give good gifts unto your children,"

We do want to give our children happiness. And I’m pretty sure the pack of dinosaurs I bought Eden will bring her delight. My adult children are harder. Because I love them, I feel every hurt they have, and of course they have them, as we all do. As I ponder my Christmas gift spread sheet, what I really want to wrap up with a bow for my children is something that will take away whatever sorrow they have.

 But no gift from Amazon will do that.

 The rest of that scripture in Matthew goes like this:

 “If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”

There is only one gift that can heal hearts and lift sorrows, and that is the gift we celebrate at Christmastime. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son.” (John 3:16)

 As the literal embodiment of God’s love, Jesus taught us to love, for “Charity is the pure love of Christ.” He taught us to love one another, all, even our enemies. He showed that love as he healed those sick in body, mind, and heart.  As we love one another, our sorrows are healed.

 He also taught us the great truths of the gospel: That we are children of God, that we belong with him, that we can be like him. That through loving our enemies, blessing them that curse us, doing good to those that hate us, praying for those which despitefully use us—through learning to truly love--we can “be perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect” (Matt. 5: 44-48). When we understand our divine heritage and destiny, when we understand that the great purpose of mortality is to learn to love, we can see mortal sorrows as purposeful and fleeting.

 But loving all is hard for us mortals.  Heavenly Father knows that we cannot be perfect now, that we will stumble and fall over and over again, just as a toddler does when learning to walk. Therefore he sent the Baby born in Bethlehem, who provided the greatest gift of all, the gift of forgiveness. Alma tells us Christ takes “upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.” He “loose[s] the bands of death which bind his people and he [takes ] upon him their infirmities.” He takes upon him “the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions according to the power of his deliverance” (Alma 7: 11-13).

 Christ—his gospel and his atonement—is the only gift given on Christmas that is guaranteed to bring joy to those who receive it. It is His coming and His presence among us that is the good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people (Luke 2: 10). It is this gift, this knowledge, that will take away all sorrow.

 So when we gather as a family this Christmas, I hope that some of my carefully selected presents will delight those who open them. I know that at some point (because it is now tradition), someone will open a gift from my son David, and he will pump his fists in the air, exclaiming “I am the King of Christmas!”

But we all know who the real King of Christmas is, the one who loves us and gives us the best gifts--the king of kings, the lord of lords, our holy Messiah and Savior.

Luminarias and Dying and Friendship

(I wrote this in February 2012, when my daughter's young husband was dying from brain cancer.)

We had just finished eating two good meals: one we had bought from Costco and one the Relief Society sisters brought in. Emily had forgotten that had been arranged—not surprising since she hasn’t slept in two weeks.

She has been caring for her dear Jared who is dying of brain cancer. I guess he’s been dying for nine years, ever since the first diagnosis, but now we think we only have hours left. His parents (John and Jean) and Paul and I are here to help. Jared’s sister and her children came today, which gave Sam and Eden great joy and a welcome distraction from their grief. Jared lies in the bed, unconscious, breathing in short rattley gasps.

There is always someone by his side, usually Emily, and often several others, remembering good times and making plans for the services.  Nine-year-old Sam has dragged his mattress in and often hangs out there, talking to his mom and sometimes his dad. Today he made a hut from cushions and a sheet. Eden, five years old, just plays. She doesn’t talk about her dad.

Anyway, we had just finished our two meals. Sam looked out the front window and said, “Someone is putting out luminarias!”

We all hurried over to watch. Men and women were carrying boxes and helping children to set the bags filled with sand all along the sidewalk and up the walkway. We watched them scurry about to finish the work without our noticing. But we did.

“There’s Zach! There’s John! There’s Sally--and all the Jessops!” Sam and Eden and Emily called out.

Emily began to cry. “I can’t believe it. How did they know? It is just so perfect”

Then someone noticed, “Look! There are hearts cut in all the bags! It’s so beautiful!”

And then Emily said,  “I just wish Jared could see this.” We were all crying now. Or at least Emily, Jean, and I. And clinging to each other.

Jared and Emily have always done luminarias for Christmas. It’s a New Mexico thing and a very important tradition for them. Jared would love this.

As the candle lighters finished up, we went outside to thank them all. I found Emily’s camera and took photos. Emily hugged and hugged her good friends, Sally and Melanie. 

We said, “Come in, come in! Have some hot chocolate and cookies.” We had lots of both.

So in they all came—whole families. 15 or 20 people. The children all sat around the table and sipped hot cocoa with marshmallows. The adults stood around and laughed and talked. Emily was so happy to be surrounded by loving friends.

Jared would have loved it all—the luminarias and the following impromptu party. It was just what he loved.

Jean said, “Maybe he did see it.” Maybe he did. It seems he is in a twilight place now, his spirit wandering out from that worn-out body, finding its way to the heavenly home.

So maybe he hovered over the glowing hearts lining the path home, maybe he joined in the loving conviviality in the kitchen. If he did, he would be comforted. He would know his family will be OK. 

They are well loved.