Davis, Carson, and I took our seats at church, Sunday night, after we'd had a little bit of family squabbling among us. The service began with scripture reading and Christmas carols and I wasn't thinking about much of anything besides how mad I was at the men sitting on either side of me. I'm sure I'm just totally alone in this, but, sometimes, even at Christmas time, I could wring the necks of those whom I hold dear.....in the most loving way that a person could possibly wring a neck, of course. Well, it's hard to concentrate on the birth of the Christ child when all you really want to do is slap some nearby people silly, so that's exactly what I was thinking about, mostly. Then, everyone in the congregation was given a candle and the lights were dimmed. So, my thoughts went from wringing to slapping to possibly just scorching them with my candle. Not setting them on fire or anything, because, well, I wasn't that mad, but a little singed earlobe might do the trick. Church was over and we continued our little misunderstanding back in the car until we finally all got over it, while delivering Christmas gifts. I'd been looking forward to that candlelight Christmas service and, sadly, it didn't turn out quite like I'd expected.

I didn't send cards out, this year. I just never got it all together. I haven't been happy with our Christmas tree since we brought it home. Work schedules are going to cut some visits short, this time around. One of our favorite Christmas gatherings with friends will have an absence, this year. I've had some last minute doubts about a couple of my gift choices. And, yes, sometimes, our family members get on each other's nerves and we take the nerve irritation into church and sit it down on the pew right next to us, ok?

Three years ago, I wrote about imperfections at Christmastime and, partly due to being too busy to write, right here before Christmas, and, partly because I don't think I could write myself a more timely reminder, I'm going to do a repost from a few years ago. 

The perfect Christmas.

I think we, women, put a lot a pressure on ourselves to achieve that for our families, each year.  I mean, let's face it....we do carry most of the burden of the Christmas bustle and preparation.  Not knocking you, men, and I know there are exceptions, but Christmas is usually our domain. Of course, Davis works hard to finance a huge chunk of Christmas and, yes, he climbs up the attic stairs and gets all of the boxes down when it's time to decorate. Oh, and he does cut a couple of inches off of our Christmas tree trunk and secures it in the tree stand. But, let's talk straight here.....past that, the ball's in my court. A majority of the things that the kids open on Christmas morning, well, he'll be just as surprised as they are by them.

Now, I'm not complaining. I love it and wouldn't have it any other way, even though it does become a draining task to buy all the gifts for both sides of the family and for friends, wrap them, decorate the house, send the Christmas cards, plan meals, shop for food, cook, coordinate visits, figure out complicated family holiday schedules, and purchase things needed for all the parties everyone has to attend. 

Whew.

Some years, everything falls into place perfectly and Christmas goes off without a hitch. It's a beautiful experience. Other times, it's just a bumpy ride all the way to the New Year. Nothing seems to go right and you're just ready to pack up the decorations and move on. 

As moms and wives and aunts and grandmothers, we just want to make things nice for everyone at Christmas time. We want to give our family the kind of Christmas we see in the Hallmark movies.  Everyone is happy and there are no complicated family dynamics with which we have to work around. The tree is perfectly decorated and the lights are all working. No one is under the weather.  Travel goes smoothly. The food has never been better....just enough moistness and seasoning and browned to the peak of perfection. The gifts are so perfectly suited for each recipient that there are shrieks of joy and tears of gratitude. There is a nip in the air and a light snowfall lays a blanket of wintry beauty upon the landscape. A fire is crackling in the fireplace. Everyone is all warm and cozy in the embrace of kith and kin. All are full of love for one another and sentimental emotion wells up from the depths of each heart. Each Christmas dream comes true. 

As women, that's the gift we want to give our families, every year. 

In reality, we may find things to be not quite so ideal. Sometimes, the cornbread dressing is dry and the rolls get too brown on the bottom. Sometimes, we realize, too late, that we should've doubled the sweet potato recipe. Even the recipients of our gifts may want to know if we kept the receipt. Sometimes, as it is for us this year, Christmas is forecasted to be 80 degrees and the sound of the air conditioner will take the place of a crackling fire. Could be that half the family is sick with a terrible cold thing that's going around and it has them sounding like a bunch of barking seals. Maybe there are some undercurrents of family strife that could make things a little awkward. Could be that scheduling didn't come together this year and there will be some empty chairs at the table. Sometimes, the middle string of tree lights go out and you can't find the problem bulb to save your life. 

And, no matter how smoothly we think Christmas goes, it's always a letdown to clean up all the ripped boxes and torn paper off the floor. To wave at the family as they pull out of the driveway. To pack it all up.....those decorations we were so excited about less than a month ago. 

All that time. All that work. All that excitement. All that buildup. All that preparation. Over. And, often times, the reality didn't quite live up to the weeks of picturesque visions we'd had leading up to the big day. 

I was thinking about the imperfections of Christmas both past and present and its failure to, sometimes, meet our expectations. The first Christmas was anything but perfect. My goodness. Talk about a Christmas gone wrong, at least, from where we stand. 

Mary, God bless her, didn't plan on being a young, unmarried, pregnant virgin and experiencing the whispers and judgment that would've come along with that. She wouldn't have imagined going on such a treacherous trip as pregnant as she was and her baby being born while she was far away from the help of her mother and the other women in her family. She likely didn't expect there to be no place for them to stay when they got to Bethlehem. She probably wouldn't have chosen a barn as the perfect setting to have her first child. Joseph didn't prefer that Mary would mysteriously become pregnant and having to deal with the embarrassment and doubt that caused him. They wouldn't have chosen to place their first baby in a feeding trough or have the stench of animals nearby. Strangers from out in a field weren't who they'd imagined would be surrounding them after their child's birth. And they wouldn't have expected to soon be on the run for their new son's safety. From our human viewpoint, there was nothing that went right on that first Christmas. Not a birth story that we'd ever want to experience. Not the beginning we'd wish for any child in our family.   

But, maybe God wanted Christmas to be a little less than perfect. Maybe He came in that way to show us that we can triumph in the imperfections of this life. To give us hope in all of our Plan Bs. To demonstrate that good can come from flawed situations. To remind us His plans are better than our plans. To show us that sometimes greatness has unexpected or lowly beginnings. To prove that life doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful or useful. To display how He can work with less than ideal circumstances. To reveal to us that His idea of perfection may not always be the same as ours.  

Maybe when Christmas doesn't go off without a hitch is when we're actually experiencing Christmas in its truest form. Could be when we look around and it doesn't look like the pictures in the storybooks or the glittery front of a Christmas card is when we're closest to the spirit of that first Christmas. 

Maybe, we could dial back our pursuit of the perfect Christmas and take some of the pressure off of ourselves if we remember that the Son of God came into the world in what seemed to be the most imperfect way. It was a day when nothing appeared to go right. It was a day when expectations were not met. And yet, it was an event that had been planned from the very beginning. With all the time in the world to prepare. With any and all resources at His disposal. And that was the way He decided it should be. A King carried in an unmarried mother's womb. Birthed in a smelly stable. Surrounded by animals and strangers. 

To the human eye, it was all wrong. But, to Him, it was perfect. 

It was a perfectly imperfect Christmas.

And so I hope that your family embraces the spirit of Jesus' birth. 

And I hope you and those you love enjoy a very Merry Christmas! 

Its warts and all.
 

I feel it's my duty, as your friend, to make this public service announcement as we round the corner to that most special time of year. I know we're all excited about the Christmas season, but we need to take a moment to be reminded that we're being told that we can't go out and celebrate Christmas just any ol' way we please anymore. No, in today's society, there are new rules to which we're being asked to conform in order to keep others from being forced to run for their safe spaces, this holiday season. We certainly wouldn't want that, would we? In order to avoid being labeled insensitive to the diverse population, here are some reminders of what is now deemed appropriate and inappropriate during this celebratory time of year according to news stories from around our country.

First off.....the candy cane, which was created 350 years ago, should now be dispensed with caution and extreme discretion. The red and white confection is formed in the shape of the letter, J, which stands for Jesus, which can induce anxiety and uncomfortable feelings for some. The sight of a J or any object that resembles a J should be avoided in consideration of those who might take offense. So, out of respect for others, I am changing my name to Oni. From now on, call me Oni.....that is, until someone becomes offended by O, which stands for the Omega.....and then I'll just be Ni. But, Jesus was from Nazareth and the N might be a reminder of that, so just call me I. Nobody appears to have a problem with I, these days. It's all about I, it seems.

Of course, even the PC amateurs among us know that you no longer refer to this time of year as the Christmas season. Please, don't ask when the schools close for Christmas break and make everyone around you shift uncomfortably in their seats. Geez. Schools have winter breaks. And when referring to the tree in your den, please remember it is a holiday tree, so not to offend. Even the word, holiday, is now hanging by a thread as it suggests religious tradition. Some religions don't have a December holiday. How are they supposed to feel when you put up a holiday tree in the office? The word is safe for now, but is rapidly becoming a trigger. I'll keep you posted on the word's status for next year. To satisfy yet not offend, we're encouraged to bring trees in and decorate them to celebrate "Winter Festival". Winter is a season, which is all inclusive. It offends no one and excludes no one. They don't think so, at least. 

For 70 years now, generations have enjoyed the catchy jingle, "Baby, It's Cold Outside". We've memorized its lyrics and countless singers have recorded their versions of the timeless favorite. Thankfully, it has been brought to our attention by the enlightened that this song is actually a song about sexual assault and I know that I am, personally, embarrassed that I've hummed along with such filth all these years. Apparently, it's the widely recognized theme song for predators. Please, for your own good, turn the dial if you hear this song being played on the radio and boycott all singers, who have ever put this garbage on one of their winter albums. The singers' careers must be destroyed for ever having encouraged such sexually violent behavior. And any statues erected in the likeness of those late singers, who have passed on, will likely need to be removed. They'll be coming for your stars on the Walk of Fame, Mr. Martin and Mr. Sinatra.  

It's been noted that the nativity story has some parts that are teetering on the line of being sexist, seeing as how there were no wisewomen among the three, who traveled to Bethlehem. Surely, there were women, who were well qualified to fill one of the positions. Certainly, there was one woman capable enough to follow a star and carry the myrrh or the frankincense to Jesus. And, yes, even the gold. The fact that they were excluded makes many women feel inferior and oppressed. Think of the message this sends to young girls......you can never be among the wise. So, when telling the story of the birth of Jesus, in a religiously-safe setting, of course, it might be just as well to leave that part out to avoid the reminder of historical discrimination. If you must remain Biblically correct and include them, please refer to them as wisepeople, which is more palatable. And while we're on the subject, if it snows, make a snowperson with your children. Snowman leaves half of the world's population wondering why their sex can never be formed from wintry precipitation. It's just an unnecessary pain inflicted on others. The same applies when singing traditional carols. New versions...."God Rest You, Merry Gentlepeople" and "The Little Drummer Person". So, so much better.

And when you speak of Jesus being born a man, in a religiously-safe environment, well, that is an oversimplification of the issue of gender. You can't just say someone is born a man. This is why, in your winter festival celebrations, you should refrain from using pronouns.You could be fired for something so appalling. Just ask the professor in Ohio, who's in the unemployment line for making such a gross and horrifying mistake. They and their should now take the place of the he, she, hers, and his, which were used erroneously from the Garden of Eden up until 2017. Don't we all feel silly now?   

In the event that you organize a live nativity, please make it culturally sensitive and not dress the characters in costumes that would have been typical of that day. Wisepeople wearing those headpieces, for example, might be viewed as poking fun and generalizing an entire culture of people. For this same reason, Halloween costumes, which include items such as sombreros or hula skirts should also be avoided. College campuses have prohibited these disgusting displays and with good reason. With that in mind, wisepeople, as an alternative, could wear khakis and a t-shirt....of course, t-shirts without offensive print on them like American flags, Washington Redskins logos, or any brands which make or sell firearms.  

When traveling, this holiday season, here's another gentle reminder. This one will be especially difficult for the Southerners. You can no longer ask people where they are from. This is very important. Since the beginning of time, we've ignorantly asked strangers this ice breaking question, but we're enlightened enough now to know this implies an attitude of superiority. It suggests that "you don't belong here". Our past ignorance makes me blush every time I think about how many people I must have offended. Let's try to do better, people.  

When you sing "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Winter Festival", please omit the first verse as it assumes that Janice and Jen want a doll and Barney and Ben want a pair of boots and a pistol. Well, that is wrong on so many levels. You can't just sing stuff like that. If Janice or Jen wants a pair of boots, well, the song makes them feel abnormal. And you'd have to be a fool to sing about a pistol anyway.....especially one "that shoots". And giving them to children? Which brings me to another reminder to throw away your DVDs of The Christmas Story. Children and gun violence are clearly rooted in these types of songs and movies. It's obviously what's wrong with our society, today. I can't think of anything else it could be. Additionally, protesters should attack Nerf employees where they live and work for their violent influence on our society with their foam shooting weapons. Just despicable.

When asked to send paper products to the kiddos' Winter Festival parties at school, it has been requested by some school districts to avoid the colors, red and green, as they are too closely associated with Christmas, which is associated with Christ, which causes stampedes toward safe spaces, everywhere. Instead, please consider their requests for white or silver plates. Nothing says "this is gonna be a fun, fun time" like white paper tableware. These are winter colors, though, and, as I stated earlier, they can't think of any reason winter would offend anyone. I can only assume when these same people approach an intersection, they are thrown into panic. Green lights. Red lights. I know I immediately think of our Savior's birth when I see that traffic-controlling color combination. Which is why we shouldn't be surprised if 2019 is the year we see traffic lights changed to white for go and silver for stop. With such a subtle color difference, there are sure to be more accidents, but, at least, no one will be offended as they're loaded into the ambulance and that's what's most important in this day and time.

And if you're a teacher or childcare worker, it is advised that you not make any holiday tree ornaments at craft time. This just assumes that everyone has a holiday tree, which assumes that every family participates in Winter Festival. It should go without saying, but making holiday cards are frowned upon, too, as a child might offer them to someone, who doesn't celebrate any December holidays and the tragic ripple effect of that would likely never see an end. So, no more construction paper embellished with glitter stuck to mounds of Elmer's glue. Basically, anything related to Santa, stars, carols, or obviously angels, should not be included in any classroom activities, because of their link to Christianity. More acceptable crafts would be images of neutral objects like sleds, hats, earmuffs, hot chocolate, and gingerbread people. Oh, and snowflakes, which we're seeing more and more of now. There's practically a blizzard of "snowflakes". But, winter is all inclusive. So, just go with that.  

And for the love of winter, please, don't allow your children to watch Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It's nothing but an hour packed with non-stop bullying and characters imposing their feelings of superiority upon others. Since 1964, this classic has polluted the minds of boys and girls and is clearly the reason for the spike in bullying that we're seeing here in 2018. There are no other conceivable reasons why bullying would be on the rise besides this brain washing cartoon. What else could we possibly be doing to create the spike? If only we'd known sooner, we'd be so much better off today. How foolish, we've been.

There are other things to consider as we celebrate. Singing "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire" might induce anxiety in those with nut allergies like my son. End of fiscal year parties are suggested for annual office parties instead of Christmas parties. Might be hard to find a tacky end of fiscal year sweater, but ok. Christmas music is now strongly discouraged at holiday parties. An upbeat playlist of popular music is now suggested. I know for me, at least, nothing says Christmas is here like "Love Shack" or "Funkytown".

So, I know there's a lot to remember, but I wouldn't want anyone to accuse you of being insensitive or unenlightened, this Christmas. There are new rules being written, everyday, that make it less and less acceptable to publicly celebrate the real reason for Christmas. Admittedly, I don't see a lot of these kinds of stories down here in the Bible belt buckle, but I know they're coming as more and more institutions cave to the pressure of the PC crowd, each day.  

I guess I'd just like to say to all of those guideline-writing people.....

Merry Christmas.

and Jesus loves you.....even though I'm having some trouble.

He's the real reason for your winter festival season.

And no new rules will ever change that.

"She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name, Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins." Matthew 1:21   
   
  

When I left for work, just before lunch, President Bush's casket was being loaded onto Air Force One and his family was boarding the plane. When I got back home, mid-afternoon, his body was being carried up the steps of the Capitol as the U.S. Army Band played "A Mighty Fortress is Our God". Just beautiful. Before his eventual burial, he'll lie in state at the Capitol until Wednesday, when his state funeral will be held at the Washington National Cathedral. Then, his body will head back to Houston for a couple of more ceremonies before lying in repose at St Martin's Episcopal Church, where another funeral service will take place on Thursday. Then, the casket will leave by train for College Station and there will be another ceremony at Texas A&M before he is finally buried next to his wife and daughter behind the Bush Library. I'm tired just from typing it all out, so I can't imagine how his family will feel by week's end. It'll be hard to find a channel on TV that won't continue covering his life and his death until he's finally laid to rest. He was our president and it's what you'd expect when someone of his importance dies.

Our country has beautiful ceremonial traditions when it comes to saying goodbye to its leaders and its heroes. I always enjoy watching the meticulous details of the ceremonies and especially the precision of the soldiers' movements as they perform their duties. We've had several chances, lately, to see those played out with Billy Graham and John McCain's deaths. A lot of pageantry and solemnity on display.

Not long ago, we all watched the televised funeral of Aretha Franklin. It was the climax of a week long trail of events, which ended with quite a lengthy funeral service. Politicians, famous ministers, musicians, actors and actresses. There weren't many unrecognizable names written in the star studded guest book. It was like a red carpet event. She was the queen of soul and was honored by the masses, who wished to recognize her notable contributions to the music world. I mean, who didn't love Aretha?  

At the opposite end of life, Prince Harry and Meghan are expecting their first child in April. The press had a complete fit when they heard the news. They tend to do that when royals reproduce. They'll be waiting breathlessly to hear any new information concerning the birth. Any hint of the smallest new detail will spread like wildfire. And, surely, when they emerge from the hospital in the spring, holding the bundled royal, there will be cameras going off like mad....just like they did when Harry's brother introduced his children, heirs to the throne, to the world for the first time. Any sort of outing the couple has with their baby, from that day on, will be on magazine covers before dark falls.

Well, there's one thing, for sure. Most of our parents weren't greeted outside the hospital with an army of reporters and cameras waiting to get a glimpse of our newborn selves. I know that the public, at large, wasn't much interested in seeing Doug and Carolyn heading home with little Joni wrapped in her pink blanket back in the late 60's. Not much headline there. Ordinary parents welcome ordinary baby in ordinary Mississippi town. Well, I did have an extraordinary head full of black hair, but I still don't think that would've sold many papers.

And let's face it....most of us won't be honored with a state funeral or a flyover or a 21 gun salute. Of course, I can only speak for myself, but I feel certain my dead body will never see any kind of rotunda and my casket will not be allowed to sit on the same wooden platform used for Abraham Lincoln. There won't be a guard of honor anywhere around unless they're in the vicinity for someone else. And I haven't picked them just yet, but I have a feeling my pallbearers won't be quite as skilled as those guys are and I would probably end up at the bottom of the 300+ steps leading up to the Capitol. Sprawled out there on the ground with all of them scrambling to figure out how to get me back in the box in the most dignified manner. I can't imagine there would be many distinguished ways to do that. Kind of like somebody trying to get you up on a pool float, you know? Yeah, it's probably just best that I'm not a dignitary.

But, we're not alone. There's somebody else who didn't get that kind of grand welcome or that type of impressive send off either. A stable wouldn't be the setting we'd choose for a VIP to be born with only unkept shepherds and stinky animals there to share the parents' joy. Not quite the paparazzi, huh? And, at the end of His life, Jesus died in the most humiliating way. He died while being ridiculed and degraded. And talk about a small and understated funeral. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus prepared Him for burial with spices and linen and placed Him in a tomb. Only the two guys and a couple of Marys are mentioned as being there. That's it. No procession of chariots or large crowds or famous singers or pomp of any kind.

We have our ways of treating people, who are seen as important in this world. Some of them are deemed important just by being born into a certain family. Others gain their importance, later in life, by some achievement or status they acquire. But, nobody really noticed a baby born to an unwed mother in a barn. No national day of mourning was declared after He died between two criminals with the spittle of His killers on His face....even though, no other man has ever been born of both God and man as He was. He was royalty straight from the throne of Heaven. And no other man has ever achieved anything close to bridging the gap that sin put between God and us like He did. No other man could ever offer more to the world than eternal life like He did.

And He did it all so quietly. So humbly. And with no fanfare.

Not to, in any way, bash our longstanding national traditions or take anything away from the lives and contributions of our dignitaries, but no matter how large their funeral attendance or how many days their farewells last, when the bands quit playing and all of the limousines pull away, they're just like us...their only hope lies in a man, who came into the world and left it in the most unpretentious and humble ways.

Jesus is the only way.

Our humble King.

  

I'm in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of the year for me and so I apologize in advance for the excessive use of pictures in this post. I don't have a lot of time to write, so there's not much substance here, but I wanted to check in with my people. Think of this as Motherhood and Muffin Tops, the board book edition.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving! We never have anywhere to go until Thanksgiving night and so I stayed in my pajamas until 4:30 and that was glorious. We had a big crowd, even though we were missing six. One was playing in the Mississippi State band at the Egg Bowl (Hail State!) and the other five were in Kansas City, because it was their year to be with the in-laws for Thanksgiving. You know, we talked about holiday scheduling challenges, recently.
 

I was driving to my first Christmas decorating job, today, and passed workers putting up the big Christmas tree out in front of our city hall. The weather has finally turned cool down here in Mississippi. The leaves were sporting their fall colors and the cool breeze sent them swirling down on my car. I passed a large group of boys playing football out in a front yard- enjoying their break from school. Several store windows were showcasing those twinkling Christmas adornments that announce the coming of the giving season. It's just that warm and wonderful time of year. Our church seemed extra full, Sunday morning....everyone wanting to worship, this Thanksgiving season, and family coming home for the holiday. Our pastor, of course, preached on thankfulness and he made a statement that we've all heard before and one that I'd agree with, wholeheartedly. He commented that some of the most grateful people are those who have very little and it made me think of a story that I thought was relevant to that point.

My parents told me, many times, about one Christmas, before I was born, when my older brother and two of his cousins, about the same age, spent Christmas Eve night together in the same house. Of course, where there are little boys on Christmas Eve, there Santa will land and unload goodies from his sleigh.

So, between the boys, there were three different sets of parents represented, that night, and also three different ideas of how much a child should receive in the way of Christmas gifts. They'd all done their shopping and, when the young boys went to bed, sure enough, Santa paid them a visit, leaving three separate piles of presents. Three separate piles of widely varying sizes, at that.

I suppose they were really young and, the next morning, they didn't really notice the disparity in the gift amounts that they'd received, but one thing surely stood out to the adults. The child, who received the biggest pile of gifts, seemed to be the least impressed with what was in all the packages. There were so many that he'd grab one, rip it open, and toss it aside, even before all the paper was off, so he could get his hands on the next one. With so much laid there at his feet, there was little time to stop and appreciate what had been given to him. The abundance had caused him to become less sensitive to the joy of his gifts, while the other two, with their less impressive accumulations, seemed more amazed by each thing they'd been given. They spent more time studying them, appreciating them, and relishing the whole experience of receiving.

We've all seen that. We've been to children's birthday parties, where the kid is covered up with more presents than she could possibly ever play with or even open for that matter. And they seem to be unimpressed with all of it. The gifts that the parents had thought about for so long. The ones the grandparents had special ordered for the occasion. The ones that were super expensive with all the bright lights, realistic sounds, and rechargeable batteries. Sitting there mostly unnoticed, while their boxes appear to be more attention grabbing. Somewhere in the sizable mound of gifts, the appreciation just got lost. The wonder and awe somehow was thrown out with the mountain of tissue, ribbons, and boxes.

This is that special time when we all gather with our families and friends and remember our many blessings and give thanks to our Creator for what He's given to us. Sometimes, I feel like that little kid, at her birthday party, who's buried beneath a mountain of gifts, and I can't even really fully appreciate any of them like I should. Sometimes, maybe I start to have the mentality that there's more where those came from and I'm guilty of not living in an attitude of thanksgiving, but more of an attitude of expectancy that I'll always have what I need and a lot of what I want. Most of us probably have "piles" bigger than we deserve. Definitely bigger than much of the world could ever even imagine having.

I'm a big House Hunters fan, but I think our overindulged society comes out loud and clear on that show, sometimes, when a couple walks into a beautiful kitchen and talks about how the whole thing would need to be gutted, because the granite is the wrong color and there isn't a farmhouse sink or double ovens. And they'd never even want to attempt to cook on an electric range, heaven forbid. "I just couldn't live here long with the kitchen like this." When there are people living in abject poverty, it makes me blush to listen to our coddled mindset being expressed audibly. Maybe because I know that I have a lot of the same kinds of thought patterns about certain things.

We are blessed, indeed. Not that most of us are millionaires or live in mansions with a slew of domestic helpers, but I think we all can recognize our plentitude. And I'm not saying it's impossible for us to stay aware of our blessings and be continuously grateful for them, but I do think that it takes more of a focused effort to remain in a spirit of thanksgiving when we live among such abundance. And maybe the best way to live in thankfulness is to use our gifts to glorify the Giver and to the benefit of others. Then, we can use our plenty in a way that really expresses our gratitude. "....Whoever has been given much will be responsible for much. Much more will be expected from the one who has been given more." Luke 12:48

I hope that you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family and friends. We've already had one Thanksgiving meal and we'll have another big one on Thanksgiving night and watch the Mississippi State/ Ole Miss game for dessert. It'll be a night full of love and family and more calories than should be allowed by law. I hope that, wherever and however you celebrate God's goodness, it will be a lovely one.

      

Recently, I got out my calendar and initiated talks with Blair and John Samuel about this year's Thanksgiving and Christmas schedules. With each new marriage in a family, the holiday season becomes a more difficult puzzle to solve. The Rubik's cube could be solved blindfolded with greater ease. To a marriage, we each bring our life experiences, our raising, our beliefs and values, our dispositions, our idiosyncrasies, and all of our longstanding family tradition schedules for the holidays, which are only slightly more flexible than concrete. The likelihood of one spouse's holiday schedule fitting perfectly with the other's is almost a statistical impossibility and, therefore, a great deal of thought and coordination must be implemented ahead of time.

Now, I'd say that my son-in-law's family's schedule fits pretty nicely with ours during the holiday season, but extended family events are where it can get messy. Just in my mother's family alone, there are about 40 of us, who celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas together and, from that group, there are about 12 sets of in-laws, who must be worked around in order for us to all gather. It's like herding attention deficient cats. Things will be looking promising for everyone to get together on, say, Christmas Eve, and then....wait a minute, you lose two or three or four. "Well, that's when so and so's grandmother does their Christmas or it's so and so's year to be out of town on Christmas Eve." And back to square one, you go. Before it's all over, sometimes, you have to get pretty far out from the actual holiday to find a suitable time for everyone....How does April 26 sound for everybody?

So, this year, I was trying to get an early reading on the whens and wheres of the approaching holidays. I'm kind of a planner and like to have things sorted out in my brain. When Blair and John Samuel married, they decided to do a rotating schedule for where they'd be on Christmas morning. This year is "our year" to have them then and his parents will have them on Christmas Eve. That works out easy enough, but then there are multiple grandparents' homes and other family events that must be squeezed into that time period and that's where the whole deal gets tricky, I mean, if you want to slow down the car and actually get out at each stop.

And southern grandmothers can get offended if you show up at their house and you're not hungry. I mean, if you had a huge Christmas breakfast at one house and then a big Christmas lunch at another, the grandmother of Christmas dinner, whoever she may be that year, will not take too kindly to you coming to her table without a ravenous appetite. I mean, she went to Winn-Dixie way back in October just so she'd be sure to get the French's french fried onions, a case of Borden's sweetened condensed milk, the Campbell's cream of mushroom, and the Honey Maid graham crackers for the crusts. You have to shop early to ensure you get the good brands before they're snatched up in the holiday frenzy, you know. She got up at 4 a.m. and baked that hen just for the broth to go in the dressing, because Swanson's would never do and she had to wrestle that turkey into her cart that weighed as much as she does and you're telling her you're not hungry? And don't get her started on the bushel of pecans she shelled. You know, we've talked about the food love language that is spoken fluently down here in these parts. We don't like it when people are too full to receive our love language.....and seconds and thirds of it.

And then there are other obstacles like when couples have their first child and they start wanting to be at their own homes on Christmas morning to begin their own Santa traditions and, well, there goes another set of wrenches in the plans, especially if they live out of town. And then, there are those things called jobs. When Christmas falls in the middle of the week, out of towners can have a hard time getting home for more than a day or two. Try splitting that up into 8 equal parts in a way which is satisfying to everyone. You might as well try splitting an atom at your kitchen table with the carving knife.
So, yeah, Hallmark Christmas movies are on and Little Debbie is making her Christmas Tree Cakes, which makes it time to get out those calendars and put the pencil to the paper. We all need to nail down some dates and times, people. Grandmas and Mamas, everywhere, are sitting on pins and needles, wondering how big the Butterball needs to be, this year. There are favorite dishes to prepare and food allergies to consider. There are placemats to count. Kid tables to set up. Extra chairs to bring in. Gifts to equalize.

And they're waiting on us.

So, y'all have a good weekend and don't forget to call your Mamaw, Gran, Nana, Granny, Grandma, Big Mama, Mimi, Grams, Nanny, Grandmama, Grammy, Grandmother, or MawMaw. Hopefully, y'all can work something out.



       



 

In all of the activity of the last week, I didn't share the exciting news that my Michelle is a first time grandmother. Last Tuesday, I was able to see my precious, oldest friend and her husband, Paul, look at their child's child with wonder and pure joy. Their most treasured titles now are Big Poppy and Sis.

Michelle and I lost our dads, four months apart, and, without the other knowing, we each had decided to use what our daddies called us as our grandmother names. When she told me she was going to be Sis, I told her I was hoping to be a Punkin, one day. We both had the same idea to take a little piece of our daddies with us to love on the next generation that they'd never meet. Here on earth, at least.


Michelle's son and daughter-in-law live here in town and I was getting text updates from the expectant grandmother throughout the looooong labor. Finally, I got word that he'd been born on Tuesday night and I headed up to the hospital, the next day, to see the sweet bundle of joy. They were just down the hall from where the rooster and I had "given birth" just a few weeks earlier. I told the proud, new dad that it seemed like just yesterday when Michelle was calling me at work from Orlando to tell me that he'd been born. I knew when I said it that it sounded like one of those things that your grandmother used to say, but, apparently, I'm getting into that age bracket now, so it's all good, I guess. Time's pace has really picked up as of late.

They say grandkids are the best thing ever. I've been told this time and time again by my friends, who've crossed over into the land of grandparenthood and I've tried to imagine what it would be like to hold my child's child, but, because I haven't experienced it, I just can't fully grasp all of its glorious splendor. There are some places so wonderful that imagination just can't take you there. Paul shared a picture with me of Michelle wiping tears as she held their grandson for the first time. After all of those years of being like me....trying to imagine what it would be like....she'd finally experienced the magnitude of a grandmother's love and it was obviously more than her heart could hold.

My Daddy described it as watching someone you love more than anything holding someone they love more than anything. The love just multiplies. From that description, I always kind of looked at it like layers of love. The love gets richer and more wonderful as its depth grows.

Here in the South, we know about the importance of layers. And the more layers, the better. We love our chocolate trifles. A good banana pudding. Our homemade lasagna. Our mile high wedding cakes. We love to sink into a bed covered in layers of blankets and quilts on a cold night. We, southern women, recognize how vital a good, layered haircut is. We enjoy layering our shirts, sweaters, vests, scarves, and jackets in the winter months. We know that one layer of anything is ok, but if you keep piling it on, well, it just gets better and better. Love is like that, too, I suppose.  

But, from our chairs situated in front of our televisions, sometimes, it can seem that the world is hopelessly tiered with hate. We might even feel like any measure of love that we could possibly dispense, no matter how great, would just be cancelled out.....all of its good collapsing under the weight of the hatred that can seem almost palpable. We might start to think that love is just outpaced and understaffed, sometimes.
Whether it's a family layering generation upon generation. Teachers teaching kids who grow to be teachers who teach kids. Someone who is told the gospel who goes and tells someone else of the hope of Jesus. A mentor for someone needing a positive influence in her life, who turns to mentor someone else in return. There are a million ways in which love is layered. Countless ways it grows deeper and becomes firmly established.

God sees that the batons of love and salvation continue to be passed along down the line. I think that's why He hasn't given up on this world yet. The generations to come are depending on us to keep it moving. And He's counting on us to keep layering up.


Congratulations to Sis and Big Poppy!

  

Davis and I finally broke down, this year, and joined a tailgate group. We had tickets to several of the Mississippi State games and, before the season started, we bought some new chairs, a rolling ice chest, some serving pieces.....all the things you need to be a legit tailgater. We'd been invited to join groups before and never had, but we decided this was our year.

Well, the season rolled around and we missed the first game due to traveling and then the next couple of home games due to an unplanned hysterectomy. And that took us all the way to game 8, which was the day after Sugar had passed away on Friday evening. Davis and I had just cried ourselves to dehydration, Friday night, and I knew if we stayed home on Saturday, we'd do nothing but lose more fluids. So, we decided we'd go and get our minds off of sad things and I sent him to the grocery store with a list.

Even though they had a rare weekend to stay home with no obligations, Blair and John Samuel drove in unexpectedly on Friday night to be with us. Bless their sweet hearts. All of Sugar's people being together was good. When your heart is feeling the same pain as the other people in the room, well, it finds a strange comfort there. Blair prepared my tailgate dishes and they helped us get some things done as we'd been preoccupied for a couple of days. I really don't think I could've done it without them. Blair knows her Mama well enough to know that I was going to be in rough shape and that she could help. She took charge and what a blessing that was to me. And what a humbling experience it is when your children love you so sacrificially.

So, on Saturday morning, Davis and I woke up from our second terrible night's sleep and had another good crying meltdown. When we woke up to that first day without our old girl, well, the waterworks started all over again at square one. But, with my eyes bloodshot and swollen, my sinuses throbbing, my head pounding, and practically unable to keep on eye makeup for any period of time, I put my sunglasses on and we set out to tailgate. Oh, we were going to be loads of fun to be around. We knew everyone was going to want to hang out with us with our sunny dispositions and snotty noses, but I was certain it would do us both some good to get away.

I was right, too. We both really enjoyed the day. Being with sweet friends in a totally different place, helped get our minds off of our little friend for a while. And the game was so good. Even though we left early, we were really glad we'd decided to go.

On the way home, though, all the sadness we'd shoved in the corner for a while....all the grief that we'd pushed down all day, well, it came rising back up to the surface. The hum of the dark highway seemed to remind us that we were going home for the first time and that Sugar wouldn't be sitting at the door when we got there. We grieved and cried some more in the glow of oncoming headlights.

Sunday morning came around and I sent everyone to church without me. I think the stress of the week and possibly some overexertion had just left me completely exhausted. We had lunch and visited with the kids, but, when Blair and John Samuel drove away, the sadness came back. It bubbled right up to the top again. Grief is like that, you know. I just see Sugar everywhere in our house. And she's not in those places where she should be. For almost 14 years, those little habits and routines of hers had become part of ours and they're gone now and it's so hard to let them go.

Now, I know Sugar was a dog. I know that there are people grieving for people right now and I certainly don't elevate her to that level, but, the heart feels what it feels. There's not much we can do about it when our soul longs and cries out for something it deeply loved. Sometimes, love just feels like love and we just have to let the heart do its thing and acknowledge what it's lost. In whatever way it has to do it. Love and loss have to run its course.

I can't leave without loving on my husband. I blogged, a few weeks ago, about men having their strengths and women having theirs. Well, I'd place pet burial in the man column, every time, and even with his heart broken wide open just like mine, Davis, of course, took care of our girl. He's been taking awfully good care of me, too, and I don't know what I'd do without him.

Thank you for all of your kind words to us.

Hope you have a good week.

                

Sugar Miller, age 13.5, (94 in dog years) passed away peacefully at her residence on Friday, October 26, surrounded by her family and comforted by Dr. Leslie Williams. She died on her bed and blanket, next to her human mother's chair, where she felt most content, comfortable, and safe.

Sugar was born on April 8, 2005 in south Mississippi and, when she became of age, relocated to central Mississippi with her new family. She never attended obedience school or received any type of official papers, but was very smart and had a real command of the English language. Among her favorite words were treat, dinner, outside, bird, cat, squirrel, and lizard.

Sugar is preceded in death by her mother, a dachshund from Columbia, MS, and her father, a chihuahua of unknown address. She is survived by her human father, Davis Miller, who fed her at mealtimes and fixed her nighttime bowl of Cheerios and milk. Because of his important role, he was greeted most warmly upon arriving home. Her human mother, Joni Miller, was her closest companion and the one most likely to feed her from the table. They were longtime nap partners and she was often accused as having deemed Sugar as her favorite child. Her sister, Blair, who enjoyed dressing her up in doll clothes as a child, later, spent many hours snuggling and watching Netflix in bed with Sugar. Sugar lovingly recognized her name as Sissy. Her brother, Carson, was the one for whom Sugar felt a caretaking responsibility. She enjoyed when he shared his Pop Tart corners and bits of Nutri-Grain bar and looked forward to their nighttime visits on the front porch. Her brother-in-law, John Samuel, while he got off on a shaky foot, after suffering a couple of warning bites to the leg, soon became part of her very exclusive circle.

Sugar was employed by Miller Security, where she worked as a guard for the family home. She took her job very seriously. She was seen as a threat to the ankles of any stranger, who came lurking around. She had the least tolerance for small children and parcel carrier employees. Anyone entering her home was viewed as a threat to the four people for whom she acted as body guard. Sugar will always be remembered for her dedication to her work.

Her hobbies included chasing lizards, stalking the neighbor's cat, barking at doorbells...the ones in real life and on TV, chasing the UPS man back to his truck, following the smell of bacon, and going on walks down the street with her people. In her later years, these passions were scaled down to fit her physical limitations. They included walking to the mailbox with her Daddy, barking at the UPS man from the porch, and just growling and lunging toward the cat to let him know she could chase him if she chose to. She could still follow the smell of bacon, however, even up to the very end.

Sugar wasn't one for traveling. She liked to visit her grandfather and enjoy the smells of the wide open country and the thrill of chasing squirrels and, every spring, she took a trip across town to Sonic for her birthday dinner. Any unrecognizable road brought on anxiety as suspicions of a vet visit would arise, so she really just preferred staying at home, where she felt most at ease. Sugar didn't have many friends, but that was her choice. She was often misunderstood by outsiders and so she chose to live as a homebody and spend all of her time with her family.

Some of her favorite recent memories came within the last couple of months when her mother helped her corner a lizard in the garage and she was able to slay him like she'd done so many times before in her younger days. It was a special day recapturing the fires of her youth. She also enjoyed the two recent weeks when she spent 24/7 together with her mother, helping her recover from surgery. It just worked out that it was the time when the elderly Sugar needed her best friend to be close and her best friend needed her loyal companion, too. During that time, Sugar grew even more dependent on her mother's presence and left her post, next to her mother's chair, to keep watch next to her bedside, where she continued to sleep every night for the rest of her time here on earth.

Her last day was spent at the lake eating a cheeseburger and barking at the geese. They were frightened and quickly set out into the water, giving Sugar much satisfaction that she could still terrorize water fowl. She also enjoyed a sweet visit from her most adoring neighbor, Miss Kitzi. Sugar was also warmed by special one on one time on the floor with her brother, Carson, before he left for school and work and with an emotional FaceTime visit with her sister, Blair, who needed to say her goodbyes from far away. She enjoyed a delicious cheese omelet for supper.

Sugar will long be remembered by her family for her ferocious loyalty and her unapologetic protective nature. Her family will never be able to express their appreciation for her years of unwavering devotion to them. No one has ever loved them more passionately or defended them more fiercely or adored them more unconditionally. They will sorely miss her enthusiastic greetings upon walking in the door. No matter how much time passes, they will forever long to see her there in that spot waiting on them. What a lonely feeling that will be for them to come home now. It is important to note that Sugar had been with her family for more than half of Davis and Joni's married life. She was there to help raise their children and sat with them as their nest started to empty. She was there for the first day of preschool, birthday parties, beauty reviews, proms, graduations, and packing for college. For a long time to come, their hearts will have a gaping hole that she once filled, but that is the price they are happy to pay for 13 years of her slobbery, unabashed love.

The family asks that everyone make a donation of a Beggin' Strip and belly rub to their dog in Sugar's memory. And a prayer for her heartbroken humans would be greatly appreciated, too. They really need it.



   

As you may or may not know, Carson is a freshman here at our local community college, this year. He's majoring in business and will transfer to Mississippi State, next fall, but we sure are enjoying having him home for this one last year. I don't write too much about Carson, because, sometimes, he's not all that excited to be my blog subject or, at least, he wasn't when he was younger. While Blair, on the other hand, has always been more than happy to be the topic. But, I got special permission to talk about Carson, today, so we better enjoy this while we can.

Carson, much to his dismay, comes from a line of late bloomers on Davis' side. Not only do they start growing later than most of their peers, but, even when they're all done, they don't really put up very big numbers. My daddy and brothers all measured/measure in at over 6' and Carson has hoped for years that those genes would come through for him, but he also has plenty of genes that could work against him in the height department...not just from Davis' dad's side, but my mother's, too.

Davis' dad joined the Air Force at the age of 18 (Carson's age now) and he was 5'3" and weighted 113 pounds. He grew 5 more inches over the next couple of years. Then, came Davis, who had to sit on a cushion in order to see over the steering wheel to take his driving test and graduated from high school at the same whopping 5'3" as his dad. He also grew 5 more inches in his college years. You're seeing the pattern here.

You know how guys start shooting up around the 9th grade. Well, all of Carson's friends started their growth spurts about then, too. Their legs got long and lanky and their bodies started to stretch out, over those high school years, leaving Carson in the dust. When he was learning to drive, we'd see people doing double takes as they thought they'd spotted an underage driver for sure. We'd think he was making some strides until he'd have friends over and we realized that, for every inch he grew, they'd grown four. Blair was always on the short side, too, but I never realized, until I had a son, how height is on a whole different concern level for boys than it is for girls. The taller his friends got, the more he'd ask us when he was going to grow. We'd measure him and mark it inside his closet, where we kept our unofficial growth chart. We'd make a big deal out of any vertical movement in the pencil marks, but he was never satisfied. There just wasn't enough space between those markings to suit him.

Despite Davis' empathizing pep talks about how he got through the long wait, himself, and even with doctors' assurances that he was just following the family pattern and would eventually grow, it did very little to satisfy him. We'd listen patiently as he'd vent his frustrations for the thousandth time. He'd step up to us, toe to toe, and try to gauge his progress by checking eye levels. He'd ask what vitamins he could take to make himself grow. He'd search the internet for foods he could eat to spark the coveted vertical growth. It was just a constant weight on his mind and, sometimes, I wanted to pull my hair out, honestly.

That is....until around the first of this year. Halfway through his senior year, Carson started falling asleep every time he'd sit down. On the floor. On the couch. A straight back chair. Riding in the car. Lights on. Lights off. People making noise. Didn't matter. He even fell asleep while we were enjoying an evening at the house of some friends. He was sitting in a chair and just leaned over the chair arm and, within a minute, was sleeping like a passed out drunk. He was doing that heavy, loud breathing, you know, like you do when you're really sleeping good. It got so ridiculous that I gave him a stern, "Carson! Wake up, son!" as I was afraid he was going to start drooling on their furniture. And you can't wake him. Forget it. You'd have more luck going to the cemetery and trying to rouse somebody down there.

Now, I know you're thinking...the boy has narcolepsy, but no. I'm all too familiar with how much boys sleep when they're growing. I grew up between two of those creatures. My younger brother practically slipped into a coma during those years. We thought his sheets would become grafted to his skin. After our concerned mother took him to the doctor, he found the problem to be that Lee had grown 6 inches in 8 months. Apparently, it really takes it out of you to grow like that.

And when Carson isn't sleeping, he's eating or asking what we're about to eat or what we have to eat or what we plan to eat in the future or what time we're going to eat or when we're going to buy more to eat. The light in our refrigerator is always shining like the star of Bethlehem. A beacon of hope and provision. One Chick-fil-A sandwich doesn't get the job done anymore. Forget having leftovers for tomorrow's lunch. And the boy can put away some milk, I'm here to tell you.

I also know, all too well, about how boys eat when they're growing. They are metabolic machines. My older brother ate like a pregnant goat on steroids. I know I've told y'all this before, but he's the reason I eat so fast to this day. You had a small window of time to take in your life sustenance before he devoured everything. It was a matter of survival just like on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. And I'd have to go to the grocery store with my mother to push the second buggy. One just didn't cut it when he was a teenager. Four gallons of milk sat in the child seat of the cart. Four. And things stuffed all up under the bottom of the cart. I remember, one night, we all went to bed with a new loaf of bread on the counter, leaving Zane up to watch TV. When we got up, the next day, there were 3 pieces of bread left. He'd made himself some sandwiches.

So, we didn't realize what all Carson's eating and sleeping was really adding up to until we were reminiscing and looking through wedding pictures on Blair and John Samuel's recent one year anniversary. What a difference a year makes.
  

I wouldn't really say this counts as a blog post, but I did think I should check in since it's been a little while. I've rejoined the outside world as I went to the doctor and regained my driving privileges, mid-week. I couldn't wait to drive myself somewhere. Anywhere, really. I'd even go so far to say that I may have been more excited to drive, last Wednesday, than I was when I first got my license at 15 and that's what you'd call a pretty heightened level of excitement.

I'm doing really good, but I still just run out of gas early, which is why I haven't posted. Nighttime is my writing time and I've just been conking out. That will have to work itself out soon as I must retake my rightful place as queen of the night. (wait, that doesn't sound quite right)

Anyway, I'll try to get back before the week is over. Just wanted you to know that, despite the writing goal I set for tonight, it's now 8:36 p.m.and I'm just trying to stay awake to, at least, a minimally respectable hour for a card carrying night owl.

I've been missing this! I'll get my act together soon, people.

Night!