Being Gifted

The other evening, we had a wonderful event in our little town. We lit up a Christmas tree.

Now, to many of you, that would seem about as nondescript as it gets. We lit up a Christmas tree...big deal. Many cities have hundreds of beautiful Christmas trees lining the streets, adorning  the entrances to buildings, and standing in stately manors.

But that's not where we live.

In our tiny little town, we have no statues, no high-rise buildings, no collection of city streets. Just a pretty little area on the curve coming into town that recognizes the veterans and the founder of our local Ruritan club, along with three flag poles of varying height, in accordance with the flag they proudly support each day. So, having a tree on the monument is kind of a big deal to us.

We feel pretty gifted around here.

After the lighting  of the tree, we went down the street to the Methodist church to the Fellowship Hall to have fellowship with our friends and neighbors, enjoying hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies provided by the ladies of the church. After this, we all went upstairs to the sanctuary which was beautifully adorned with a mass of red poinsettias, red ribbons, bright white lights, and, at the center, a lovely nativity.

And then the singing began. Parishioner after parishioner came forward and offered gifts of song. Heads nodded, feet tapped, and joy lifted to the rafters.  I think it's safe to say that the beautiful verses of "Silent Night"  sang by the congregation as the benediction could be heard well beyond the doors of the church. We all left with smiles; the Advent season had begun.

This is certainly the season of gifts and gifting. It occurred to me on the way home last night, with the music still gently playing  in my mind, that we are small town for sure...but oh, the gifts we receive each and every day in this small little spot in the world.  We know one another, we like one another, we care for one another.

We are pretty gifted around here.  

Tender Mercies

This has been a trying couple of weeks. The most devastating thing parents can hear is that their child is seriously ill. I don't know of any time in life where I have felt more helpless. After nearly two years of roadblocks, frustrations, endless blank stares from physicians and surly comments from ER personnel, we are swiftly closing in on a diagnosis after the symptoms of liver failure have appeared.

And now, I truly thank God for tender mercies.

Ever since he started this roller coaster ride of ultrasounds, MRIs, multiple paracentesis lab visits, liver biopsy, ophthalmological exams and blood tests after blood tests, Kurt has been wrapped in the tender mercies of kind people. People who are gentle, people who are highly skilled, people who treat him as the wonderful kid he is. They remember him, they remember his name, they smile and they visit during procedures.

That makes these helpless parents feel helped.

Those tender mercies have been extended to us as well. And for that we are very thankful. I'm called by these good people telling me where to show up with him, which door to enter, where to leave the car, who to talk to...in short, I don't have to think about these things. They just happen. Grateful is an understatement. It allows me to spend my time with my kiddo talking about this stuff, but also allowing him to get as far away from this stuff as possible...we have time to talk about computers, programs, Pokemon, and silly everyday stuff that our shared sense of humor enjoys.

So, we pray for and give thanks for continued tender mercies. They remind us that we are indeed in God's loving hands. 

I Owe You an Apology, February...

As I was slipping along on our road yesterday in route to the highway, the thought occurred to me...I've been badly mistaken now for a number of years. Time to come clean and publicly make my confession.

I owe the month of February an apology.

For years, I have told anyone within ear-shot that my least favorite month of the year is February. It seems if anything goes wrong, awry, or just plain wonky, it's in February.

I'm wrong...it's January that is to blame. It's been sitting there, quietly and smugly, allowing its neighbor on the calendar to take the hit of my frustrations.

Yes, January, you are the culprit here. High with good spirits left over from the holidays, I tend to drift right along--at least through the first half of January--with my good will toward men, things, and everything else. And then, after one too many icy or snowy days, my mood of good will starts to crumble a bit. Constantly changing schedules due to weather, precautions left and right for fear of frozen pipes or drains (and so many in the house--where did these all come from?), dressing in layer after layer of clothing in order to fortify oneself for the dreaded outdoors--this is what life becomes in January. Even though each day gains us a bit more daylight, the days are rare that afford us the chance to actually be outside and enjoy it.

So, by February, I'm just pretty much tired of the whole "winter wonderland" deal. And then I start disliking February. The whole, short little month. I've bad-mouthed this little month for years.

Time for me to come clean and make my formal apology...so, February, I apologize. This year I will put blame where it goes--on this bitterly cold month of January.

Just one thing, February...I'll be on guard...you can be back on the bad list quickly if you dump that white stuff and ice on us a little too much.