Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Eight: A Father’s Ultimate Power

Fathers have been on my mind a lot lately, in both good and not-so-good ways, and not just because it is Fathers’ Day. But I am writing about it because it is Fathers’ Day. Because I am feeling the need to sort through the “father issue” a little bit. And I know I need to tread carefully here.

Let me first state openly that I have an amazing father. I know there are no perfect fathers in the world. In fact, there are no perfect humans of any kind. But when I think of my father, there is not a single thing I would change about my relationship with him, or the role he has played in my life. I can honestly say I have zero complaints. Maybe that is at least partly because I have chosen to have zero complaints. My mother taught me to embrace the good in everyone, and I think I have gotten pretty good at that part of life. That said, I am certain there were times when I was growing up that I wasn’t necessarily “complaint-free” when it came to my dad. I was a teenager, after all, and I do remember my dad teasing me relentlessly about turning 13, like I was going to suddenly transform into a teeming mass of uncontrollable girl hormone drama or something. Which I don’t think I ever did, honestly. But if his “Oh, no, you are almost a TEENAGER!” teasing bothered me then, I now remember it fondly. And probably have done that or other annoying things to my own kids since then. But my point is that I appreciate and love my dad. He makes it easy for me to do so. Not every dad does.

If I have learned anything about fathers in my life thus far, it is how much power they have to influence the lives of their children. For both good and ill, and whether they show up or not. When I got married, I tried to choose a man who would “be a good father.” I also hoped I would “be a good mother,” but at 21 years old, I really had no idea what those things actually meant, and neither did he. Parenthood is one of those things that you learn as you go, and we both did the best that we could. I knew that he loved each and every one of our children with all of his heart. But everyone is different when it comes to expressing that love, and the message is not always effectively delivered.

Shortly after I got divorced, when the tear in the fabric of my family was still fresh and I was stressing about balancing the new dynamic between myself and my kids’ father, a friend whose opinion I trust told me something that has stayed with me. And which has proven to be true. He said, “Kids are pretty good at recognizing which parent is going to show up, and which parent will get their own needs met first, at all costs.” (Or words to that effect.)

I truly believed and hoped that both of us, as parents, would be showing up for our kids in the aftermath, but sadly, this has not been the case. I can tell you that I understand and empathize with many of the reasons, but the fact of the matter is that “not there” still means “not there,” regardless of the reasons. And the damage to the kids gets done. I understand that many fathers (and mothers) are battling demons that prevent them from showing up, and I am glad it is not my job to judge. I feel like my job as a mother is to remind my kids of the good things, and to teach them (hopefully by example) how to embrace and appreciate and remember those things about their father. I admit I am not always good at this. When there has been so much hurt and pain, it can be really hard to let go of blame and embrace compassion. But it is the absolute best way to recover from the hurt.

The picture at the top of this page is of my youngest son and his father, about six years before the divorce. In this photo, I can see the love, and the fun, and the good in the man that used to be here. And I know that if I had time to dig through all of our old photos, I would find others like this, of all six of my children. I know that their father loves them, and I want so very much for them to know it, too. But I am not the one who can make them feel that. It breaks my heart, but it is out of my control. I do not have the power that their father has. But maybe I can remind them of what they used to know about him.

Today in church, a story was told of a group of children who wrote letters to their dads for Fathers’ Day, and overwhelmingly, the number one positive thing the kids said was “I like my Dad because he plays with me.” As I have dealt with the “fatherlessness” in the lives of my own kids in recent years, and now my grandkids as well, I am deeply grateful for the men and boys who have stepped in, in a variety of ways, both large and seemingly small, to fill the gaps that have been left. The ones that I, as a mother, am just not equipped to fill. My adult sons take care of their younger brother and their sisters, as well as each other, and all of my boys are fantastic uncles to their two little nephews. Why? Because they play together. Whether it be music, games, or whatever is fun for them. They spend time together, and the “fathering” gets done, if imperfectly. And there is nothing wrong with imperfection. To achieve it, all that’s required is to show up and take part. And there is unimaginable power in that.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Seven: Understanding the Gravity of The Situation

Gravity has been in my face lately. And I don't just mean showing there. Although it definitely is doing that. But it has also been on my mind. In fact, I have been trying to write this post on gravity for months, and have not been able to complete it. Today I will, even though this powerful force I am attempting to write about is working very hard on me, making me not want to move at all. In fact, it is because this force is working on me that I will finish this message. For gravity to be a power for good, you have to know how and when to resist it. Not defy it, mind you. Sometimes you hear of gymnasts or other athletes having “defied gravity,” but this is not accurate. They have just gotten very skilled at properly resisting it. Writing this post today, when I don’t feel like doing anything, is me resisting it on only the most basic level; moving my fingers, and hopefully my brain. And not necessarily in that order.

This past Monday was not a good day for me. In addition to having a wicked cold and dealing with some personal stress, a terrible thing happened in Boston, and it affected me profoundly, as it surely did everyone who watched it unfold. Someone planted bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The final toll of human damage has not even been assessed, and maybe never will be, really. Because the injured and grieving will be dealing with the permanent, personal, and private aftermath for years to come. But what does this have to do with gravity? Bear with me.

There are a few reasons this particular tragedy affected me the way it did, beyond the obvious. One is that I have walked the street where this took place, and it is a sentimental memory for me. It was about 12 years ago, on Thanksgiving weekend, and I had flown out to spend the weekend with my husband, who was working in Boston at the time. We literally spent the weekend walking the city, and it was a kind of other-worldly experience for me. It was possibly the best weekend of my 23-year marriage. It was snowing much of the time, but not terribly cold, and we visited some unbelievably gorgeous cathedrals, and the surprisingly small, but tangibly sacred Granary Graveyard, (pictured below) which is nestled in between some older buildings, and is the final earthly resting place of folks like John Adams, Paul Revere, much of Ben Franklin’s family, and Mother Goose. (Yup, she’s real.)

I found this place to be inspiring. As if many of those souls might have been present while I was there, and I felt the profound depth of their sacrifices and contributions for the benefit of my priceless freedom. As I looked at the above photo, I found myself back there, lingering, wanting to read every single headstone, and the thought struck me that a graveyard is the place where we settle our final tab with gravity. In fact, the words “grave” and “gravity” are related, and can both be used to describe the seriousness (or weightiness) of a situation. If it is gravity’s purpose to keep us from floating off the planet before our test here is complete, it is also gravity that reclaims our physical bodies as part of the Earth again. I find some comfort in that. And I have a soft spot in my heart for Boston because of my experience there.

Another reason for the situation in Boston having affected me deeply is that I have wanted to complete a marathon for years, and I have started and stopped the training process many times. I have paid entry fees for events I never made it to. Not as a runner, but as a walker. With hopes that after having gotten rid of some significant weight, I might someday attempt running again. This dynamic has much to do with my own personal lifelong dance with gravity. (Which currently feels like a really slow waltz.) Every step that any of us take, walking or running, is an exercise in resisting gravity. From the time we take that first tentative step as infants. The more we resist gravity, the stronger and more balanced we become; the less we resist it, the weaker and less balanced we become. Lately, I have felt rather weak, and slightly unbalanced.

Marathon runners are very, very good at resisting gravity, and therefore strong, and I have great respect for that. The Boston Marathon requires a qualifying time, so is a somewhat stratospheric dream for me. But I know people who have done it, and I have many friends and family members who have completed other marathons. The photo at the top of this page is of my sister, Melinda, when she was in Moab, Utah last month to complete the Canyonlands Half Marathon. I thought it was a perfect photo for this blog, so she gave me permission to use it. I myself entered the inaugural Valley of the Sun Half Marathon, way back in 2002, somewhat spontaneously. I was walking 5-7 miles daily at the time, but had not gone farther than that in one stretch since I was a teenager. My goal was to just finish, and to try and maintain my 3.5-4mph pace to the end. I achieved this goal, finishing in 3 hours and 33 minutes. My brother, who had run it and finished long before me, drove back out onto the course with my niece and nephew to cheer me on toward the end. This meant a lot to me, and helped me keep going. I was ready to crumple at mile 9 and I lost a toenail in the process, but crossing that finish line was one of the more exhilarating moments of my life. So endurance runners and the people who cheer for them have a special place in my heart, and watching the footage of what happened at that Boston finish line was really heartbreaking for me.

The news site I was on kept repeating video of the initial blast on a loop, and there was one elderly runner who collapsed at the force of the blast, whose legs just looked like rubber when he went down. He was ok, just scraped up a bit, but people mere feet from him were not. I later learned he was from Everett, Washington, where I used to live, and where one of my children was born. He was 78 and it was his 3^rd marathon. Watching this image repeat reminded me of one recent morning when I got out of bed and was taken to the ground almost immediately by the charley-horse from HELL in my calf. Yes, I did say hell, and capitalize it, even, because it hurt that bad. It was like somebody stabbed me in the leg with an ice pick. Between trying not to spill the cup of water in my hand and collapsing from the pain, I had zero defense against the powers that be. Gravity was free to face-plant me into the carpet without any interference on my part. In hindsight, I maybe should have let the water spill, but regardless, gravity and I were not friends that morning.

When pain or other forces hit you when your resistance is down, gravity will take you to the ground. A favorite Disney movie in my family is “The Sword in the Stone.” There is a scene where the young Arthur is bounding through the woods and asks the aging Merlin what gravity is. Merlin answers that gravity is what makes you fall down. Says Arthur, “You mean, like a stumble, or a trip?” “No,” replies Merlin, “it's the force that pulls you downward.”

Like many other seemingly obvious things in life, as I get older, the basic principles I ignored in science class begin to interest me profoundly. Usually when I start to see their real-world application to me. As I have been ruminating on gravity, I have realized that it does not always show its force suddenly and painfully; more often, it is the result of its steady and constant force over time that we see manifested in our lives.

For those of us who have passed the 50-yard line of life, and/or are dealing with excess weight on our bodies, seeing and feeling the more long-term effects of gravity on our physical selves can be almost more painful than being knocked to the ground. But we learn to live with it. We spend our entire lives moving in opposition to this powerful force, without even thinking about it, while at the same time being kept from drifting away by it. We have to resist it in order to move at all, but we cannot defy it, as much as we sometimes wish we could. It is one of those irrevocable God-given laws that protect us when we respect it, and can destroy us when we don’t. What an amazingly powerful balancing factor, and part of the great refining fire that is life on this planet. Those who try to defy gravity usually don’t survive. But those who respectfully and consistently resist it benefit immensely and are strengthened from within.

I read that the 78-year-old marathoner from Everett, Washington got up off the ground after being treated by medical personnel, and covered the remaining few yards to the finish line. And that several other marathoners continued on to local hospitals to donate blood for the victims. And countless other people got up and ran toward the chaos to assist the fallen in any way they could. They understood the gravity of the situation and they took action. And that is the kind of resistance that God intended.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Six: Know When To Submit

There is some duality in this title. It comes both from my position as a Writer, and as a Mere Human. (Please, feel free to juxtapose those two titles against each other in any way you choose…) I was sitting in church when the word “submit” began rolling around in my consciousness, begging for some examination. My initial thoughts on this had more to do with the writer’s perspective, because I write all the time and never submit anything for publication. I am a procrastinator and a bit of a coward. I never feel like anything I write is “really ready” to give up, to toss into the clutches of the Big Bad Judgmental World. So I write my rambling little blog posts for family and friends, and I write song lyrics and leave them in a notebook, and I write about how I need to get serious about my writing. And I plan to submit, but I never do.

So I was sitting in church, and I was thinking about the “why” attached to this reluctance to submit, and wondering exactly what it is I am afraid of. Wondering why I feel the need to polish my words to perfection, when I know perfection is not possible. One definition of “submit” is “to give over or yield to the power or authority of another.” Which can be a scary thing when it comes to what I have written, but honestly, the things that I have put out there for public consumption have actually been fairly well-received. I used to write letters to the editor of the local newspaper on a semi-regular basis, and every one of them was published. Once, I sent two poems to a poetry website, and they were included in a “coffee table collection,” which was then peddled to everyone who submitted material. I bought my copy, and can technically say that my poetry is in a book that was bound and sold, so therefore, was published. But I know these things don’t really count. They are the equivalent of sticking my toe in the water and saying I went for a swim. Not really true submission.

Anyway, on Sunday I was thinking about these things. About knowing when to submit, (both literally and, um... "literarily") and about the meaning of true submissiveness, which some people mistakenly equate with weakness. And I jotted down a couple of notes, came home, and set aside the idea. Until today, when I got some rather painful clarity about a thing I have struggled with for quite some time, and realized that the kind of submitting I needed to do was going to be much, much harder than sending a manuscript off to a publisher. 

Have you ever gotten a message that you did not want to accept? I mean, REALLY did not want to accept? But knew that you must, in order to move forward? Even when it flies in the face of everything you thought you had been told was true? Today was that.

If, like me, you believe in a Higher Power, one who created you and knows, over the long haul, what is best for you, then you must learn the art of graceful submission. You must. I must. Submitting to the will of that higher power can sometimes mean parting with what (or who) you really believe you want and love. It can mean surrendering your hope, and hope can be a stubborn force. It’s hard to know when to part with it. To be able to see whether it is holding you up or holding you back, and when to separate it from a desired or imagined outcome that is clearly not manifesting itself. 

And then to let go. With both hands. 

It’s a free-fall at first, and it’s terrifying. And then there is peace. Because you realize that the misplaced hope you were fiercely holding onto was, in fact, a burden. A burden that He has already agreed to bear, if you will just part with it. So relax. And submit, already.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Five: Enough is as Good as a Feast

This blog is not about holidays, or pilgrims, or turkey dinner. Although Thanksgiving does tend to spawn ruminations on gratitude for me, and I kind of believe one’s level of gratitude determines their definition of what “enough” means. So maybe that’s the answer to the big question and I don’t need to go any further. Be grateful for what you have, and it will be enough, yes? Well, yes, if you can master that practice. And I already wrote that blog. But lately I have had some experiences that have caused me to  ponder the concept of “enough” a little more deeply, and this title phrase has come bubbling up from my memories of the countless times “Mary Poppins” played on our VCR when my kids were small. It was her answer to kids who wanted more, when she had determined they already had enough. So how much is enough? How much time, how much sleep? How much food, how much money? How much fun, how much love? Is it possible to have enough and still feel empty? Well, yeah. It is. But we’ll get to that.

Let’s address the question of time. We all have 24 hours in a day. I am not the first person ever to say that. We have all been told that everyone has the same amount of time, and that it’s just about how we spend it. I saw a movie recently called “In Time” where everyone stopped aging at 25, but was then given a ration of just one years’ time thereafter. There was a meter on their arm that measured their time, and they could trade it for other necessities, gamble it, give it to loved ones, or, if they had the means, buy more. But when it ran out, you were done. Boom. Dead on the ground. No chance to borrow a few more minutes to sort things out. No debt in that scenario. Broke is broke, and dead is dead.

The main character in this film liked to run things close to empty. (A quality he and I sort of share, but which I am trying to change.) He was a gambler who was unexpectedly given a surplus of time by a man who had far too much of it and was tired of living. He was then accused of killing the man to steal his time, and I don’t think I have to tell you that lessons in “just how green another person’s grass really is” ensued. So at which point in the story did this man have enough time? At every point, as long as he was not dead? Or at no point, because he was continually being pursued by those who wanted to steal his time?

I found this concept intriguing because I am not so good at managing time. (Or money, which operates on very similar principles.) I never have been. So the idea that running out of time could carry an instant death sentence was a little frightening to me. My current reality consists of trying desperately to meet online homework deadlines, about 5 nights a week, in pursuit of an elusive college degree, while also working a full-time job, and playing the Mom and Grandma Roles. Usually I finish within minutes of the deadline and don’t always beat it. No matter how well I try to plan, I always feel like I don’t have enough time.

The past 7 years have felt particularly chaotic and frightening because I have been trying to achieve “enough” in so many different areas, and am continually feeling like I am falling short. No matter how surrounded I am by friends and family who love me, I feel like it’s not enough because I don’t have a partner.  No matter how many healthy strides I try to make, I feel like it’s not enough because I am too old/tired/whatever to change. No matter this, not enough that, and so on. We may all have the same number of hours in a day, but some of us have more persistent forces attempting to steal our precious hours away.  Or at least it feels that way. And since time is the framework within which we try to get “enough” out of life, and money is the means whereby we acquire most of what we need, it sort of follows that if we want to have enough of everything else in life, we first have to acquire enough time and money. But how much is that? Is there a magic number?

I was incredibly blessed earlier this year to have received an inheritance from my grandmother. It was a big number. A big enough number that I thought it could change my life permanently if I handled it properly. Surely with that much money, I could create a lasting foundation on which to build, and never again feel like I didn't have enough. Well, as carefully and prayerfully as I approached my choices concerning these funds, they went quickly. On good things, of course, but I found it to be true that needs will rise to meet income. My needs and those of my children and grandchildren were met during a time they would not have been otherwise. Yet I went through this period of beating myself up because there were so many other things I had wanted to do with the money that I was not able to. My perspective on what constituted “enough” changed drastically through this experience. My levels of gratitude and appreciation for my Depression-era grandparents and their years of self-sustained provident living have increased exponentially. They took a garden and a house built with their own hands, and turned it into a fortune for their posterity. A certain story about loaves and fishes comes to mind.

So if there is an answer to the question of how much is enough, this is mine; Whether I am paying cash for a reliable car, or shaking change out of a piggy bank to put enough gas in the tank of that car to get to work on payday, it is enough. Keeping balance between feast and famine is an ongoing challenge. On every level.  So when my parents, children, and grandchildren are all in the same room with me, or when my ex-husband’s family invites me to Thanksgiving dinner and continues to embrace me as one of their own, it is enough. And it is also a feast. (No matter how much or how little I eat.)

Real life is similar to the movie, in that none of us knows when our time meter is going to run out, but as long as we still have any time at all on the clock, it has to be enough. We have to decide that what we have is enough, and that enough is good enough to feast upon. Although I think it might not be that bad to stop aging at 25.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Four: When It Comes To Love, Sometimes a Half-Empty Glass Is OK

I have a tendency toward depression this time of year. From January, February, and sometimes even into March, my glass feels like it is half empty. And draining quickly. I can’t really explain it. I can’t blame it on the weather either, because I live where the sun shines incessantly during these months, and the temperature averages about 65. Yet I have trouble getting moving, and I have trouble getting happy. The most basic chores exhaust me. Taking a shower feels like training for a marathon, and cooking? Forget about it. I am a frequent flyer at the fast food drive-through. If I am enrolled in classes, (and I usually am) they suffer. Everything suffers. The intensity of this condition has increased since I got divorced, and not because I wish I was still married. I do not wish that. Ever. But I feel homesick. For where, who, or what, I can’t always determine. I do know that it has to do with what is missing from my life. It is a specific emptiness. It is not ingratitude or self-pity. It is just this painful thing that I have to acknowledge and attempt to maneuver around. Usually, I can. Eventually. But it is a cycle that repeats.

Today is Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is kind of like the “hump day” (…and NO, that is NOT what I mean…) of this cycle. As in, the middle, the top of the hill, the most exhausting part. The “Wednesday”. I think I am not alone when I say that for most of us, this day is difficult to ignore, no matter what you tell yourself about its meaning, or lack thereof. When you are a kid, no matter how many colorful, candy-filled valentines are stuffed into that decorated shoebox, if you didn’t get one from that One Cute Boy, all the candy hearts in the world just could not make up for that. And when you are a bigger kid, no matter how many expressions of love you receive from Friends and Family, if you don’t get what you need from that One Cute Boy, everything else pales. The difference (hopefully) is that when you are older, you at least feel guilty for not being appreciative enough of everyone else. But the bottom line is that we all long for a partner. A companion who is forever, who loves us deeply and beyond doubt. And until we have that, the emptiness will remain.

Having said that, I am beginning to learn, (in my advanced age) that emptiness does not have to be a terrible thing. Emptiness can be an opportunity. While my hopes continue to spring eternal, (that God will eventually bring the Cute Boy to me) I know that His timetable is not my timetable, and I can choose to stay sad in the meantime, or I can get creative about filling the emptiness in other ways. And since the emptiness is about love that is missing, the only way to fill it is to identify the other things that I love. And allow myself to have them.

One of the things I have recently discovered about myself is that I am very, very good at self-deprivation when it comes to the things I REALLY love. But I am learning to excavate those things, polish them up, and assign them the proper value in my life. Of the two big things that I have loved the longest, writing is one, and music is the other. I have always written, (in fact, I can’t stop myself from doing it) but only recently have I really started putting it out there where other people can see it. Not everyone loves it, and that hurts sometimes, but it’s ok. The process fills some of that emptiness, and helps me deal with it; put it in perspective.

And then there is music. I am a singer. I really love to sing. All the time. For anyone who will listen, for no one but myself when I am driving alone in my car, or for a huge arena full of people, should fate ever deal me that particular gift. But it really doesn’t matter where, or for whom I sing. It is the thing I love to do more than anything else in the world. Music, even more so than writing, is the one thing in my life I have never doubted that I love. Yet I do not allow myself enough of it, because I think I am being selfish to do so. I’m too old, it’s too late, and it’s an unrealistic pipe dream, whatever. I am learning to dismiss such negative self-talk, and just do it because I love it. I have also discovered that the pain and regret I have felt in varying levels through the years over my supposedly “lost” musical dreams makes me uniquely qualified to support my children in the pursuit of their own musical and artistic dreams. Which I find incredibly satisfying. It is another of the big things that I really love.

I was talking to a friend the other day, about being fifty (which we both are). She reminded me that if we make it to a hundred, (which we both plan to) then we are only halfway there. In other words, our glass is ONLY HALF FULL. We still GET to fill the other half. And we know so much more about what is worth filling it with than we did in our first fifty years. A simple shift in perspective can change everything. So I guess now I am a “glass half empty” kinda gal. And I like it that way. Emptiness with promise. Space to fill with even more things that I truly love. And plenty of space left to eventually share with the Cute Boy when he decides to show up. The pain of his not being here yet is an effective, driving, force that compels me to fill the emptiness with good things. With other forms of love.

So on this Valentine’s Day, I have chosen to take the sadness of not hearing from the Cute Boy and channel it into a message about the value of the emptiness. Tonight I chose to fill some of that emptiness watching a very UN-sentimental (yet entertaining) TV show with my daughter, followed by a command performance by my not-yet-2-year-old grandson doing the Chicken Dance with Elmo and Spiderman. Sheer joy on his sweet little face. Then I came home and listened to an amazing song that was written by a very old friend and sent to me today. Think I’ll fill my glass with some of that. And tomorrow when I face the emptiness again, I will find some more of that.

Years ago, I went to an art party at a friend’s home. She was selling paintings, and one of them just reached out and grabbed me. It felt like a visual representation of my soul. Scattered hearts and musical instruments, floating in a sea of blue. I really, really wanted that painting, but felt like it was out of my price range. My friend told my husband, and he bought it for me. It is still one of my favorite things. I recently pulled it out of storage, and yesterday I dusted it off, took a photo of it, and have posted it at the top of this message. Perhaps tomorrow I will actually hang it on my wall again. Identify what you really love, then put it where you can see it every day. With enough love around you, emptiness is not nearly so scary.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Three: There Is No "X" In Christmas

It is Christmas Eve, and I find myself with some alone time. Which is not the same as finding myself alone at Christmas. I am not alone, and for that, I am continually grateful. At the moment, my kids are with their father and his family, and I just came from a wonderful Swedish Christmas Eve dinner with my brother's family, my sister, and my parents. Now I am home, with a little time to contemplate the nature of Christmas. I have not done Christmas in the "traditional" way this year. Partly by choice, but mostly due to circumstance. I have not decorated, I have not written a festive rhyming Holiday Newsletter, and I have not spent a single dime on gifts for anyone. I didn't even put up a tree, although we do have a tiny artificial one in the living room that my son set up. This is not like me. Usually, I am all over Christmas, from the day after Thanksgiving until January 2nd.

The reasons for my lack of Christmas preparation this year are varied, from being overwhelmed by school and work, to not having any extra funds; from dealing with the passing of my grandmother, to just passively rebelling against the madness. I am not feeling bitter or negative, just a little on the numb side. I love Christmas, and I think I am generally pretty good at embracing the Spirit over the Sales. In fact, I avoid Black Friday like the plague it sounds like it is named after. Which is not to say that I begrudge anyone else the opportunity to get up at the crack of the night before to battle crowds over toys and electronics. Saving money is a good thing. I may even try it one day. But I have enough chaos in my life without purposely adding more. And I don't think there were shoppers pushing each other around in that small stable where it all began.

Still, I have been feeling a little down over letting the season slip by without having accomplished x,y, and z. Even though I do not buy into the crass commercialism that has taken over this sacred Holiday, I do still feel like it is my responsibility to prepare a festive and homey environment for my kids, and I feel I have failed to do that this year. My goal has always been to create a setting wherein they know that this time of the year is different than the rest of the year, because it marks the entrance into this earthly sphere of the Savior of us all.

That is an amazing thing. A thing that gets lost in the shuffle. So lost that His very name, Christ, has been replaced in some instances by an "X". I am not here to pass judgment on anyone who has ever said "Merry X-Mas", I have done it myself in the past. Before I thought about what that really meant. I don't know if the crossing out of Christ came about as a thing of convenience, or as a way to be politically correct with regard to those who might not necessarily be Christian, but removing His name from a holiday that is meant to honor His arrival seems to me to negate the holiday. As does feeling bad for not being able to afford material gifts to celebrate what was a most humble beginning. One that did not involve material wealth.

My feeling tonight is that there is no "correct" way to do Christmas. Except to remember who is being honored, and to treat those around you like He would. We should honor, recognize, and respect the holiday traditions of other faiths, as the Savior Himself would. But this does not mean dismissing or apologizing for our own. And the Holiday traditions can be wonderful. I like my eggnog, going to see Christmas lights, and hoping to experience the superpowers of mistletoe as much as the next person. I am a fan of Santa, and of gift-giving. And there is nothing wrong with that. Gift-giving is symbolic of the great gift that the Savior is to each of us. It is also fun.

However, like life, some Christmases will be richly abundant, and others will be sparse. If you are lucky, some will be both. Because it will likely be the ones that were sparse that will be most treasured and remembered. And when life is bearing down on us, sometimes there are things on our very long and detailed Christmas lists that need to be crossed off and let go of. Just be careful what you draw that "X" through, or you are in danger of losing Christmas altogether. Embrace the people you love, and let go of the rest. That is how you do Christmas right.

Lesson Number Twenty-Two: On Doubting What You Are Sure Of

You may have noticed that I omitted the word "Learned" from this particular title. That is not an oversight. Because I don't know that I can ever claim this lesson as one that is fully learned. So this is more of an exploration than a declaration. This topic has been rolling around in my head for some time now, and it is doubt that has stopped me from addressing it. Doubt in my ability to get the message right; to properly deliver it. So I have started writing, and I have stopped, and I have started again. I have been taking notes and writing down observations for weeks. Because getting this particular message right feels important to me.

About five years ago, a song lyric was brought to my attention, on at least three separate occasions, via three different sources, and in rather quick succession. So I paid attention, and I have remembered. The lyric had to do with God's mercy on those who doubt what they are sure of. The context in which I have interpreted this song lyric has evolved over the past five years, and I now believe that the over-riding message has less to do with the actual meaning of the words, and more to do with the question the words have caused me to keep asking myself; How can I keep my doubts away from what I am sure of? The answer is that I can’t. My doubts will always test the things I am sure of. And that is where the part about God’s mercy comes in. In the midst of the testing.

This blog is about the things I am sure of. The things I feel I can somewhat confidently say that I “know for sure”. Most of what I write about here has already withstood the test of my doubting long enough for me to say “this concept or principle won’t change, and I can trust it”. That is my criteria for declaring a lesson “learned”. That said, there are many things in my life that I used to be sure of, that I no longer am. But this does not have to be tragic.

When I was young and single, the one thing I was just certain I was going to get right in life was Who I Married. I fully believed that if I did everything I was taught to do, if I had faith and was obedient to God’s laws, He would not let me choose poorly. And then when marriage got really, really, hard, I was just certain that we would find a way to work through it all; that God would not allow us to fail. Obviously, finding myself divorced made me question many of the things I had previously been “sure of”, with the aforementioned “certainties” leading the list.

Nonetheless, being the ever-adaptable perpetual optimist that I am, I became certain that I would soon find someone better suited to me, that I might even have more than one contender for the position, and that, oh, “5 or so years from now”, I would finally be happily bound to the Right Man. Six years later, I am a not-so-young-yet-still-single Grandma who is going to college and writing this silly blog, trying to sort out the criteria for determining what I am “sure of”. Seeking a man does not even rank space at the far bottom of my “To-Do” list. I have handed that one off to God and am not even trying to figure out the divine time frame on it. I just trust Him.

We are all sure of certain things at certain times. If we were not, we would never make a single decision. Belief and absolute faith are powerful things. For a certain amount of time, the apostle Peter had absolute faith that he could walk on water. And he did. Right up to the moment he let doubt creep in, and then he began to sink beneath the waves. Doubt can sink us, or it can strengthen us, (sometimes both) depending on how we manage it. Recently a man I greatly admire spoke in church, (humbly, poignantly, and passionately) about the pain of seeing his parents give in to doubt in areas that were close to his heart. This served to remind him (and me) that we can only rely on the beliefs of others for so long before doubt forces us to figure out for ourselves what we are sure of. We have to test what we believe, and we do that by living it, as this particular man does. Those of us who have been recipients of his kindness have no doubts about what he believes.

In this same church meeting, there was a lot of talk about the “tender mercies” of the Lord, and I could not help but connect the message about painful doubts with the message about tender mercies. The point was made that it is the very strengthening nature of our trials that IS the tender mercy of the Lord. He allows us to have the doubts, to sink for a while, to make choices that lead to pain, so that when we reach the point that we are finally sure of something, it has value. Because He loves us. When Peter was sinking into the turbulent ocean, perhaps feeling shame for his own failing faith, he reached out for the hand of the Savior, who had mercy on him in his doubt and lifted him back up.

He will always be merciful to us in our doubts, and of that, I am sure.

In the past few months, there has been much of both the painful doubts and the tender mercies in my life. Reality has conflicted with some things I felt like I knew for sure and could count on, and I have felt like I was left drifting. Drifting and sinking. I beat myself up over and over again for my lack of faith, and this makes it hard to reach upward for the hand of the Savior when I need it. Yet it is always there. Without fail, He has been merciful to me in my doubts. Which are many, and which repeat often.

As does the lesson.

Faith. Doubt. Mercy. Repeat.