The Christmas Manger

With Christmas come so many thoughts of family time, sweet treats, fun toys, and, of course, the Savior.

Remember the story of how I told my dad I had volunteered him to provide the set for our school Nativity program--the night before? Well, I thought of him the other night as I decided to attempt to build my own manger for our family's Christmas. My dad had just spent two weeks here helping me (I use that term "help" rather loosely--yeah, he did most of it--I drove to Home Depot--but more on all that later, maybe even pictures) fix and build things for our new house. So, I was feeling pretty inspired in the building department.

But as I started building the manger my thoughts turned from my own father to another father. I thought of Joseph, a carpenter by trade, who, in anguish might have thought "I could make a beautiful cradle for this baby, maybe carve a cozy bed ," but instead had to borrow a manger from the local live-stock for the King of Kings to rest. I broke down in tears there in my saw-dust-filled garage, thinking about that humble father.

Jeffery R. Holland said, “I wonder what emotions Joseph might have had as he cleared away the dung and debris. I wonder if he felt the sting of tears as he hurriedly tried to find the cleanest straw and hold the animals back. I wonder if he wondered: ‘Could there be a more unhealthy, a more disease-ridden, a more despicable circumstance in which a child could be born? Is this a place fit for a king? Should the mother of the Son of God be asked to enter the valley of the shadow of death in such a foul and unfamiliar place as this? Is it wrong to wish her some comfort? Is it right He should be born here?

But I am certain Joseph did not mutter and Mary did not wail. They knew a great deal, had the help of the Holy Spirit, and did the best they could.”

This reminded me of a poem I wrote once about Joseph:

As Joseph walked those noisy streets

So many years ago,

And knocked upon door after door

I wonder, did he know

That he would find no place of rest

Except a stable bare

For Mary to lay down her head

With him alone to care?

As Joseph’s hands, so rough with work,

But gentle as the snow

Prepared a little manger bed,

I wonder, did he know

That in that bed he’d place that night

A new born baby boy

The king of kings, the prince of peace

To fill the world with joy?

As Joseph’s hands took Mary’s

While he held her all alone

As she brought forth her first-born son

Could he have really known?

That special baby’s tiny hands

Would one day heal blind eyes

And bless the sick, and cheer the weak

And cause the dead to rise.

Those tiny hands would one day bear

The scars that he would show

To thousands who would touch those hands

So each of them would know

That he was Christ, the Lord of Hosts

The Hope of all mankind

To strengthen hearts and cleanse the souls

And ease the burdened mind.

As Joseph rocked that tiny boy,

Christ’s hands around his curled

Yes, Joseph knew that his hands held

The Savior of the world.

So, my new manger sits on our fireplace hearth reminding us of Christ's birth. It reminds me, too of loving fathers like Joseph, and our Heavenly Father, and of course, my own father who has always worked so hard to make my family's life comfortable and beautiful. To help us remember the true meaning of Christmas we put a small pine bough in the manger each time someone does a good deed. Some days fill up better than others, but each bough is a gift, one that helps us think of the very greatest gift of all, our Savior, Jesus Christ.

From the Mouth of Babes

Our youngest son just got baptized, and wow, what an amazing spiritual powerhouse, even at 8-years-old! He was so excited and so ready. The next day he didn't want to watch "The Amazing Race" with us because "they use too much bad language, and sometimes the girls don't dress appropriately." We read "Billy Twitter's Blue Whale Problem" instead.

Then, after our trunk-or-treat party at church Saturday night he so simply stated, "I don't think the Spirit can be there for Halloween." What a conversation we had then, including being afraid of the dark, being in places where the Spirit can dwell, modest dress, witches and monsters, yeah, you get the picture. What a bizarre holiday, really, when you think about it. So I don't. For me it's a time for costumes and candy, but the whole scary, creepy scene...I'm going to have to re-think that one.

On a different note, our daughter is often the talk of the ward at church, and her performance during the annual primary program last month was no exception. Not only did she dance during most of the music, but when her speaking part came, and the teacher went to whisper a hint to her, our adorable daughter put her hand in the teacher's face and said, "No, I can do it myself." And in her sweet angel voice (the kind that can shake the earth when used right into the microphone) said, "When Jesus was on the earth, He always surrounded himself with little children because He loved them so much!" Is it any wonder why?

Fireflies

Ok--so, clearly I should be doing something more constructive, but that is how I end up with great stuff like this video--trying to do something else to put off doing what I should be doing (you know, like dishes, laundry, writing a novel).

Anyhow, one of my best friends sent me this video a while back. Her daughter's church stake youth group put this all together. Sure, they could have been playing video games or hanging out at the beach, but I'd say, we've got some pretty amazing kids out there who want to make good choices and be good leaders who shine out in a world that is in constant need of light.

I look at my own amazing kids and the youth I work with, and it reassures me that yeah, our future is in good hands.

Fireflies - Glow in the Darkness

Endure to the End

Endure to the end--one of the seemingly most difficult commandments, because it entails never giving up.

I saw some pretty amazing examples of endurance this last week. One was in the World cup soccer tournament. US had to win against Algeria or they'd be eliminated. When the regulation time was over, and the US still hadn't scored, some people, my husband included, just turned off the painful game. But Landon Donovan wasn't giving up that easily. With 45 seconds into injury time, he scored a goal. US would advance.

At about the same time John Isner and Nicolas Mahut were testing their endurance skills on the courts of Wimbledon in England. After playing on three separate days, for a match of 11 hours and 5 minutes, John Isner finally won the match, 70-68 in the fifth set.

But, perhaps the example of reaching beyond limits and enduring that hit me the most powerfully last week came from a group of teen-age girls. When about 35 of us from our church headed to the mountains for a week of girls' camp and high adventure, we didn't realize what we were in store for. Sure, the river rafting was thrilling, exciting, exhilarating, and even a bit scary. But when we set off on what was to be a five-mile moderate hike I don't think I was prepared for it. I took it slowly and kept telling myself all the uphill would be downhill on the way back. Each turn we took I expected to see our final destination, the cave. Instead I saw more turns. At one of those turns we came across two of the girls standing in the middle of a huge rock, crying. They had seen a snake and were terrified, too scared to go forward. I put on a brave face and mustered up some more gumption to help convince them to go on.

But after several miles, with throbbing legs and lungs, and still no cave in sight, we came across another group of our girls in tears, heading back down the mountain. They didn't think they could finish. The path was narrow and steep, there were snakes, and one of the girls had fallen in the stream crossing on the slippery log. "We can't go any farther," they cried. "We want to go back." We had no idea how much farther the cave really was. Our bishop, who was leading, had told the girls he expected maybe another 20 minutes. "We can't do it."

Well, deep down, ok, not so far down, I was relieved we had found these girls. I was ready to be their support and say, "It's ok. This is a really hard hike, and you should be really proud of yourselves for getting this far. I'll take you back."

As we stood on the trail listening to the girls cry and try to decide who would go on and who would go back, we heard the magical voice of our leader:

"It's the Cave!"

When we looked up the side of the mountain we could make out the entrance with the bishop and a group of the girls shouting and waving.

With a pretty big, not-so-subtle sigh, I said, "I think we can do this. Do you want to try?" It would probably be another 5-10 minutes, rather than 20. One of the girls who had done the whole hike with a sore foot said, "Well, I didn't come this far and get this close to not go all the way." She inspired the rest of us.

After a little more discussion and lots of encouraging shouts from the cave, we turned up the path and kept going. As each girl arrived everyone cheered her name and handed out high-five's and hugs. We had made it. Every one of us!

Coming in from the blistering sun, the cool air of the cave felt so soothing. After a little exploration and about 25 photos with everyone's cameras, we headed out. The hike back was filled with singing, and chanting, and banging rocks together to scare away any snakes. All the girls were alive with a sense of accomplishment and joy (while I think some of us leaders were sensing something else, too, like aging muscles and creaky joints).

It wasn't the most breathtaking scenery or awe-inspiring destination I'd ever seen, but it was one of the best hikes I've done in a long time, maybe because I did it, when I really wasn't sure I could. It was hard, really hard. But I was reminded once again that hey, I can do hard things.

Elder Jeffery R. Holland gave this really great insight into enduring and looking for the good things to come:

I love the words associated with Winston Churchill's simple, profound advice to never, never, never give up. Who knows what you might be missing.

Ahhh...Mother's Day!

Now, that Ahhh could be like a sigh--Ahhhh, it's Mother's Day, what a lovely holiday. OR that Ahhh could be a shrill, piercing scream--Ahhhh, it Mother's Day, hand me the cough syrup and wake me when it's over!

I'm not sure there's another day that's filled with so much mixed emotion for many moms. We're reminded of how blessed we are to have these wonderful children who are gifts from heaven, and what trust the Lord has put in us to fulfill this divine responsibility of loving and nurturing them. On the other hand, we also feel the guilt associated with our imperfect attempts at such a sacred calling.

I'm fortunate. I've already had one of those Mother's Days that serves as a gauge for me, meaning it was rock bottom and can only go up from there.

It all began with early morning Sunday meetings for my husband (really, can't someone just go ahead and add that to the Handbook that men should not have meetings on Mother's Day morning--they should be home serving breakfast in bed and wrapping homemade flower vases and crayon self-portaits with the kids, then getting them all ready for church while we--meaning I--lounge about eating bon bons?). Of course the kids were arguing over who used up all the hot water, and who took the last of the Captain Crunch. I'm sure at least one child ruined their Sunday clothes by spilling chocolate syrup down the front of them while trying to squeeze said chocolate into milk, and I'm pretty sure that same mostly-full milk bottle shattered all over the floor, along with the milk, in the attempt to grab it away before that got finished off, too. No one could find shoes or ties or the right snack. And had we owned a cat, I'm sure it would have clawed its way up the curtains after having been stepped on in a fight over whose turn it was to shoot the Nerf guns.

Needless to say, I was not having one of my stellar mothering mornings. Suddenly, after far too many blow-ups over each thing that was going to make us late for church, I thought, "What am I doing? What's more important right now--getting to church less late, or not stressing out at my kids?" So, we took our time.

Of course, when we finally pulled into the parking lot 45 minutes late, my husband was pulling out. "Where have you been? Your phone wasn't on, and I was just going to look for you." I gave him look #14, the one that says "Clearly things have not gone well, and nothing else should come out of your mouth right now unless it is about how, just to show me how wonderful I am, you are going to whip up some dinner and give me a 45 minute foot massage as I enjoy Pride and Prejudice while dinner cooks." We went inside.

It was a little difficult to appreciate all the talk at church about how sweet and wonderful mothers are, and how we are the angels walking the earth who give our children a glimpse of heaven, blah, blah, blah. But at least I was sitting down for a while.

I made it through church with my little potted petunia gift, then headed home, dreading the disaster left behind that would now greet me at the front door. Feeling pretty well spent and sufficiently guilty for my less-than-heavenly performance that day, I spotted my youngest son outside.

Curious as to what he was doing I went out. That was my next mistake. There he was sitting beside a big, dirty puddle. In his hand was a pair of underpants he had taken from the dirty laundry (or possibly just picked up off the floor somewhere, after the morning we'd had). As I watched, horrified, he proceeded to dip the underwear into the puddle, now brace yourself, then suck out the dirty water! AHHHHHH!

"I was thirsty," he said.

All I could do was laugh, maybe a bit hysterically, to keep myself from screaming and crying. It had been one of those Mother's Days. I understood.

I could have had a break down. I could have wallowed in guilt and frustration. I could have made a list as long as Long Island of all the things I could be doing better. But in the end, I just gave myself a pat on the back and thanked Heavenly Father for such ingenious children. Ahhhhh--Mother's Day!

Pizza and Panic--SuperDads to the Rescue!

There are some things we never grow out of (fortunately, I think my shoes are finally some of them, but unfortunately, I doubt my favorite jeans are another). I think I will always love chocolate, Jane Austen movies, and holding my kids on my lap while reading story books, although eventually they have to sit next to me rather than on me.

There are certain habits I don't think I'll ever outgrow, though. I still hold my breath when I cross over a bridge, I must have Peeps on Easter and candy canes on Christmas (even though I won't eat them), and I pretend to cough during church so I can sneak the snacks I bring every week into my mouth.

But there is one thing I realized I still do, and it makes me feel quite young--only because I did it all the time when I was a kid. I came to this realization of my habit when a couple of weeks ago one of the 12-year-old Beehive girls I teach at church volunteered to bring the refreshments for our next activity. "My dad can just pick up some pizzas at Costco and bring them to the park!"

I laughed to myself as I e-mailed her parents (telling them they really could just bring brownies or something) and told them about an experience I had as a second-grader:

I'm sure it was the night before our school Christmas program (those were days), when I informed my father I had volunteered him to do all the scenery. Well, instead of handing out a panicky lecture (that probably came later), he just went out to the garage and pulled out some handy refrigerator boxes and 2x4's and built a life-sized camel and donkey, and a wooden manger we still use every year for our family Christmas nativity.

It would have been just a sweet, funny little story, except that the next day at church the girl's dad was telling us how some of our plans for the up-coming youth trip had just changed. We were taking about 75 people to Utah for our general world-wide church conference, and everyone would be staying with a few family members who had opened their homes to us all. One of the planned homes had fallen through, and they were looking for another place for a dozen of the 12-13-year-old boys and their leaders. So, of course, what did I do?

"Let me call my dad," I said. And five days later my parents had 15 boys and men sprawled on beds, couches, and covering the floor of their entire basement. And what, of course, did my dad say?

"We were happy to help."

I'm sure he and my mom really were. It probably helped that one of those boys was their grandson. But I had done it again, only this time, I wonder if my dad was wishing it were a fully functioning automatronic donkey capable of carrying Mary and Joseph to Egypt rather than a house full of boys and all the food, noise, smells, and chaos that entails. Surprisingly, or not, they used very little hot water (we are talking about teen-age boys on a trip without their mothers to tell them to shower), and left everything intact!

Thank goodness for people like that who pitch in in a pinch and come through in a crisis. They're the ones who really keep the world going round, and they even bring the pizza.

Oh, the Simple Pleasures of Life

Remember that show Green Acres where the big city attorney marries one of the Gabor twins with the thick European accent, and they move to the country to get back to the simpler life? OK, just checking.

On my son's birthday last weekend he wanted to go see some of his favorite cars. So, while our oldest son was off on a fabulous back-packing trip, and our other son was playing in a baseball game at the park, I took the birthday boy and his friend window shopping.

When we pulled up to Symbolic Motors in La Jolla you would have thought that the king of the universe was there giving out unicorn rides and chocolate covered cotton candy handmade by Elvis from the way the boys were screaming.

Well, a kid in a candy shop is nothing compared to these two boys in the car showroom. "A black Lambo! Look at the Lotus! Check out the red one! No way, (and here's the hyperventilation squeal) a blue and silver Bugatti Veyron!" Thank goodness for those powerful forcefield velvet ropes surrounding that car and the laminated do not touch signs on all the windows, or those boys would have hopped right in, had that thing hot-wired and taken it on the open roads for the Salt Flats in no time!

They raced around the store drooling at all their dream cars amidst a couple of other boys (apparently doing the same thing), a woman with a puppy (who fortunately kindly kept my daughter thoroughly entertained), a man seemingly actually buying a Bugatti (while his son, who looked completely bored, watched longingly at my enthusiastic bunch, and his dad chatted on the phone about doing the show Friday instead), and a few showroom workers with that expression of man, I hope that lady knows how much these cars cost when one of those boys puts a dent in it with their excitement (or maybe I confused that look with the look of seriously, can't she see we're actually trying to sell cars here--don't get your breath on those windows!).

I loved the comment, "My plan is to start saving now so I can buy one of these when I get my license," my son's friend informed me. "I only have eight dollars, though. I blew the rest on a convertible Lamborghinni remote control car. Why?! Why did I buy the Lambo?!" I suppose that question will haunt him forever, now.

The sheer joy of being surrounded by their dream cars was exhilerating, but the clandestine rebellion was the most exciting part--as the boys circled the showroom time and again they secretly touched every car--twice! Some of them more!

Their conversation said it all: "I'll never wash this finger again!" and "I went to the bathroom in the Bugatti store! Beat that!" Well, how could I? So, we settled for a trip to the ice-cream store next door and an afternoon at the beach house with the future President (who, it turns out, has a pretty good singing voice).

So, the day of simple pleasures would have to end with the birthday boy being surrounded by his brothers and sister and cousins and parents and uncle singing four verses of the Happy Birthday song (I know, huh), while eating our our own attempt at a custom Lamborghinni made entirely of chocolate cake and frosting with a side of Fiery Fudge tabasco ice cream. It may not have been an Aston Martin wrapped up with a bow, but I say "Beat that!"

As I was Saying...

I feel like I was just saying something about restraint and grandparents...

Crossbows, cannons, bunk beds--those are chump change compared to the granddaddy of garage projects. Yes, I'm speaking of the all mighty Pine Wood Derby Car.

I've gained great appreciation for those pre-fab kits you can buy at the craft store. Sure, they lack a little personality, but only a little, and put on a shiny coat of paint, add an army man, and it's a custom hot rod. Of course, my son's definition of "custom" makes my definition look like custom in the sense of customizing your Richmond tract home with brown carpet instead of beige.

But our latest true custom Pine Wood Derby car is nearly on par with my heirloom hand-made wedding dress.

When Grandpa was visiting, and my son asked for a little help on his car, well...you can imagine what followed. Yep, a couple of visits to the hardware store, two hours of math lessons on proportions, half a bottle of glue, and about a pound-and-a-half of sawdust later (and a few whispers of "he's making this all a little complicated"), what emerged was the fanciest sports car to ever hit a Cub Scout Derby track. Oh, yeah, it even ran pretty fast (as if that mattered when all was said and done).

There is something that happens when you give a boy and his grandpa free reign with a block of wood, a little imagination, a bit of determination, and a power sander Dremmel. Could that really have been how the Lord began--a little art project for school, or maybe even a Pine Wood Derby wood block, then asking his grandpa for a little help (that part's left out of the scriptures), and an afternoon later, the solar system?

Well, you know what they say, "home is where we train for the eternities." I can't wait to see what kinds of planets these guys come up with someday ( I hope one of them involves something to do with rivers flowing with chocolate and flowers made of snickerdoodles).

In the mean time, that "Best Design" certificate hangs proudly on the bedroom wall right next to the framed letter from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf--but that's another story.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

There’s an unspoken rule about the certain amount of restraint one must practice when it comes to grandparents—take for instance, when your 7-year-old asks Grandpa, “hey, can we make a cross-bow?” and Grandpa says, “sure.” Well, what can you do. Of course, in my mind I’m picturing his typical 7-year-old popsicle stick creations, but, no-o-o-o. It involves 2 trips to Home Depot and a whole pile of power tools and a garage full of sawdust. An afternoon later, voila, a fully functioning weapon to protect the house when wild dogs take over the world.

Maybe someday I'll be glad we have that crossbow (you know, for the wild dogs), but for now, I just hide the arrows and take lots of pictures at Halloween--it does make an awfully good Hunn accessory.

Of course, even without the arrows, the boys find other things to fire, like army men and magic markers. But, I'd say their favorite thing about the crossbow was making it with the undivided attention of their grandpa, who never once told them "no, you'll shoot your eye out."

Silent Night, Holy Night

While I am basking in the San Diego sunshine, watching my children in their T-shirts and shorts play in the cul-de-sac, I think of my best friend hunkering down under three feet of snow for yet another storm on the opposite side of the country. Now, you'll never hear me complain about warm, sunny days, but there are moments--very brief, and usually just at Christmas--when I actually miss the snow.

Snowy nights are so silent. Of course that still, quiet is broken as soon as the sun comes out and the kids wake up. They play in the snow all day long, eating it until their cheeks are the color of cranberries and ice is caked into their hair. Although they’re freezing, it’s only the early winter darkness that ends their day of fun. They come inside and leave the heap of soggy socks and gloves and mountains of parkas and pants, then the puddles of boots and tracked-in clumps of snow migrate away from the cold of the doorway. The kids plop down, curled up on the couch with hot cocoa and blankets while they watch Christmas cartoons and fall asleep (hopefully not with the hot cocoa still in their hands). Their rosy, glowing faces look like little cherubs, and I’m reminded, that this is who they truly are, angels straight from heaven. And the snow falls, and once again it’s a silent night, and with all these heavenly little angels, a holy night, too.

Random

Just because this is funny...My nephew (whom I am baby-sitting, otherwise I'd still be asleep--see bulldozer and dark chocolate) is sitting on the floor, leaning over and rubbing his eyes with his toes! Oh, the amazing things kids remind us we were once capable of. My daughter can touch her tongue to her elbow (an idea, I'm sure, put into her head by her brothers).

Good Conversation

So, a few friends of mine, and particularly my sister-in-law Amy (check out her fantastic blog Unlimited Tater Tots), have tried to convince me to start a blog. Last year I did, but I forgot my password, so it has all of one entry floating around out there in cyberspace. Alas, here I am again making a new attempt.

Here's the funny thing about blogs--they're great to read, but writing it is so weird. I mean, who is actually reading this? No one (see followers to the right--yes, you--whoever "you" are-- could be the lucky first). So, essentially, I feel like I'm pretty much talking to myself. I'm okay with this since, as a mother of four kids, talking to myself is a pretty regular occurance. "Come for breakfast," or "Time for church," or "Let's unload the dishes," are repeated phrases I say to myself quite often. As incredibly wonderful as my children are, anything remotely related to cleaning, schoolwork, or personal hygiene completely falls on deaf ears. Unless my words somehow involve swimming pools, dessert, or cousins, I am usually talking to the air around me.

I do find, however, that I am pretty good company, and can even hold a fairly interesting, intelligent conversation now and again, even if I am the only one that hears it. I can't help but wonder when I am thinking about this how the Lord feels with me most of the time. My kids aren't the only ones who have to be told more than seven times to do something, or be given several chances and a few extra nudges to get things done. I'm sure instructions to me are often blocked by my frenzy to get kids to school on time, or tidy up before the home teachers come, or get in that last episode of Psych before I fall asleep on the couch, because we all know what happens once you sit down during the day--it takes a bulldozer or something with at least 17 ounces of dark chocolate to get you back up (and by "you" I mean "me").

So, I have decided this year to be a better listener. I'm sure I will continue to need a few reminders, and more than once I fully expect to have my little daughter stand in front of me, take my face in her hands, and with the look of a general about to invade the Hunns say "Mommy, are you listening to me?" (Wow, she's even insisting right now, "Listen to me" and expressing her concern for those people still on the "naughty list" and how she is hungry--more later on that fascinating train of thought she has).

I also have decided to be a better writer, or at least write more often. Whether anyone is reading or not. I am pretty comfortable talking to myself. Having said all this, my pre-school daughter is hosting her morning talk show "Are You Listening to Me?" and I am being asked "How do you climb a ladder in high heels?" and "What if your wedding dress is too long?" accompanied by the the request "Please Talk to Me. Don't you listen to me?" even as we speak (and again, by "we" I mean "I").

So, I guess it is time to stop writing and go do some listening.