The Smith's Christmas Card

The Smith’s Christmas card just arrived. The Reilly Family meticulously written with the help of a calligraphy pen (no Avery printed label affixed to their envelope).   I turn it over and upon close examination find the return address has the same handwritten script lettering. 

The card is simple, adored with a winter scene.  Our full names again, neatly printed inside ~ To Christine, Ken and Family, followed by a short, Merry Christmas! message.  “We certainly must be very special… to receive such a lovely card from The Smith’s.” 

But every year, when the card comes in the mail - I am completely flabbergasted.  You see I have little to no remembrance of The Smith’s.  Somewhere down the line, our lives intersected and we were added to their Christmas Card List.   I would venture to say we have received a personalized card for the past 15 years.  I can’t help but imagine Mrs. Smith smiling with memories of us, as she puts the stamp on the envelope of their card.  I envision The Smith’s getting to our name on their list - excited to reach out with some holiday wishes.  “From our Home – To Your Home.”  But without fail their sentiments go unanswered - as I have never mailed a card back. (Remember, I barely have the faintest recollection of who they are).

This brings up an ongoing debate between Ken & myself.  It has to do with our Christmas Card List.  Every year new friends and extended family members earn a place on our list as a testament to the relationships we hold dear.  Now comes the point of contention… when are families removed from the list?   

Ken holds firm to the Smiths’ notion of Never!  On the other hand, I believe in the ebb and flow of life…. There are certain people who cross your path for a period of time.  Usually for a reason – and exit as swiftly as they arrived.   In my mind, it is fitting that after a few years with no interaction – the name gets axed from the List.  (Yes, I’ve been told “Harsh” is my middle name).

But this year, the Smith’s Christmas card has me thinking differently….

Some of the beauty of the season is recalling Christmas’s past – evoking memories – remembering people on the journey – extending love and good cheer.  Maybe, just maybe the Smith’s have it right! Once a family’s name is included on your Christmas List – it should remain there forever.   The passing of time never diminishing the important moment that family won a place on your sacred list.

Memories and thoughts age, just as people do.

But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade.

I hear Ken snickering after reading this story, knowing he has finally won the argument. “Hey,” he asks, “Did it taste like vinegar the whole time you were writing these words?” ...  He has always been one to gloat!

Love, The Reilly's

Marinade

Ken knew something was up.  Might have been the look on my face or the way my body suddenly grew stiff that got his attention.  He stares at me, puzzled by my odd behavior.   Having been caught in the act, I innocently ask, “What?” in response to the smirk, which has settled across his lips.

“What? Is that all you have to say?” Ken remarks, moving closer to me.  “What’s with you and that weird like trance?”  Nothing gets past him so I confess, “Well, if you must know – I’m marinating.”

“What?” is now Ken’s only appropriate response!   Shaking his head accompanied by a hardy laugh, he questions what he just heard, “Marinating?”

“Yes, exactly.” I continue to explain, “I sometimes get a thought or an idea.  I write it down - so as not to forget. “  Ken leans in for further clarification.  “What you witnessed was me letting it rest, letting it absorb into my heart, turning it over in my mind and giving my imagination permission to run wild.”  I may have gone too far explaining – but I’m enjoying the bewildered expression, which has now settled upon Ken’s face.   

I cease any further enlightening – choosing instead to keep the creative process of “marinating” a secret.   I’ve only recently come to understand it myself.  For whenever I’m given the gift of a thought – I cannot rush its development.   I must separate my own understanding and wait for the revelation of something greater than myself.  I have become good at receiving inspirational thoughts.  But that is where it ends.  For the work is in the marinate – which has little to do with me and everything to tenderizes and add flavor to an idea.  I just need to step aside, believe in the process and give the Holy Spirit “a little” wiggle room to create a masterpiece within me. 

With any luck, the right amount of marinade will give life to a story which all began with the gift of a single thought.

Extraordinary

"THE HEALTHY WEAR A CROWN WHICH ONLY THE SICK CAN SEE"

 

And just like that, ordinary is gone.  Never acknowledging its hidden powers.  Never appreciating the magnitude of its gifts.  Ordinary defined my life.  Wonderfully Ordinary.  For in those moments of living, I was truly foot loose and fancy free - unaware of the jeweled crown I was wearing.

Then emptiness set in.  Days, years praying to go back.  Missing all that I was and all that I was able to do in the ordinary. Donning a crown of thorns.

But if I may, I'd like to share a secret.  A little truth that came out of that empty space....

Sometimes we are forced to create an extraordinary life. The tools are not the same and the guiding principles have to be tweaked.   But it is possible to be fed by extraordinary friends, extended extraordinary kindness and compassion, challenged to experience extraordinary joys and unhurried pleasures.  Moving through life with eyes wide open and a heart bursting with hope.  A deeper sense of peace all received through the struggle. A new crown of glory placed upon my head.

Ordinary can never be enough once you have tasted extraordinary.

Shedding

We were enjoying great music, singing our favorite songs at a summer concert.  It was nearing the end when the lead singer pointed to the guitarist in the band and explained how after each performance, no matter the amount of applause received, this talented musician would spend days behind closed doors.  He was driven to refine the music.  Making improvements to rework what was already close to perfection. The singer went on to explain that what the guitarist was doing was called “shedding”.

I couldn’t tell you much about the playlist or the length of the show.  For that matter I have little memory about the guest performers.  But what I do hold onto isave little memoryH the image of that guitarist “shedding” - knowing I would somehow make it my own.

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Lately a verse from the bible tugs at my heart - “For the old conditions and the former order of things have passed away”.   Familiar during moments of great sorrow, but today these words accompany me as I close the door to begin my own manner of “shedding”.

It is not the first time I’ve entered this room and definitely not the last.  For it was my first place of solace when the symptoms of my illness took hold of me.  Early on I needed to come to terms with my new self and leave behind the old order of my life.  But recently I’ve sensed a need to return to that room…. closing the door again (for a little while).

I know the answer to my question before asking - but still I ask:

Ken - “Does my walking seem awkward?  Are my movements unnatural?”

Lisa - “Can you notice a difference in the way I move?”

Katie -“Am I dropping more things?”

Ann - “Is my pace slower than ever before?”

And lately to anyone around I ask, “Do I seem worse?”

Each of my dearest companions doesn’t seem to notice what I know to be the truth.   Looking directly into my eyes they comfort me with assurances of how great I am doing.  But the nature of my progressive illness tells me differently.  My ever changing, stumbling gait points to weakness in both legs.  The combination of increased stiffness in my muscles and numbness all through my hands – plunges me deeper into a dark reality.

With little else to do (after MS drugs have been poured into my veins and routine exercise keeps me moving) - I become conscious of the need for “shedding”.  To alter, once again the conditions I’ve grown accustomed to and search for a new sense of order.  The whole process allowing me to put on a stronger armor for protection. All the time trusting that through the "shedding" I will be made perfect.

Dream Journal

To Dream or Not to Dream - that is the Question?

I’ve never been one who wakes from sleep recalling every detail of a dream.  I actually believe my mind shuts down, forcing my slumber to be a black veil of nothingness.   What I fail to accomplish during the state of mind and body, characterized by altered consciousness, I recognize fully during the hours of wakefulness.   Simply stated…  I like to Dream with my eyes open.

A few weeks back, I read of a mother who was having problems with her teenage daughter.  She was acting out and seemed unable to communicate her feelings.  This wise mom decided to bring her child to a quiet place where they could be alone.  Sitting across from one another – the mother simply placed 2 beautiful leather journals on the table.  She instructed her daughter to choose one and to begin writing her dreams on the pages.  She encouraged her to doodle her feelings and express her goals in pictures or with words.  The daughter smiled and gladly choose one, asking what the second journal was for.  “Oh, that one is for me, it's time I start dreaming again.”

Dreams take courage at any age, but from where I stand – dreams come with a deadline.   It is a middle age reality to see what goals have been realized, what dreams have been tweaked.  This is an easy view of the past.   But being fearless to envision the future with possibilities broader and deeper than anything you ever dared to image - is a serious journal entry, my friend!

I live with an illness that can make dreaming impossible.  Sometimes I have to hold off plans for tomorrow and simply get through the day.  It is in these difficult moments that I stare at the blank page – unable to lift the pen, unable to dream for myself.   I have learned to just relax in these moments and to not let fear rob me of the precious gift of dreaming. 

And there are days living with responsibilities too great to allow for such foolishness.  Dreams are hard to set into motion when the bonds of obligation hold you down. And then there are days living simply to please others, sacrificing the freedom found in selfish imaginings.

But still I dream. 

Many times altering them to fit new boundaries.

Oftentimes envisioning paths unknown.

But still I dream.

How I’d love to share some of my doodles.

Let you peek at my writings and glance in the direction of my hopes.

But instead of telling of my dreams

My life will be an open book
Showing them to you

in the very way that I live.

Is it time to start dreaming again?

Creatures of Habit

As I was opening the drawer in my kitchen to grab a fork, the entire cabinet broke completely off the hinge.  No amount of fixing could repair the damage to the splintered wood.  So I resorted to using “gorilla” glue to permanently seal it. Although unusable, the drawer still appeared like its old, reliable self. 

This break happened several months ago. Even so, each of my family members (including myself) will inevitably try to open that drawer to retrieve a needed utensil.  It has become quite the practical joke to see each person tug and pull at the sealed cabinet.   I’ve come to look at it like a physiological experiment demonstrating how we are creatures of habit.  

It has been 6 months since the death of my father-in-law and Ken is quick to list all that has happened since his passing.  First the dreaded Funeral Directors which led to Attorneys & Financial Planners and finally Real Estate Agents.  We have been busy trying to get everything settled and move to an emotional place of comfort.  All that needs to be done takes us away from being the creatures of habit we were before his passing.   And today, Ken’s childhood home which his parents lived in for 60 years, has been sold - it is officially “under contract”.   There is no moving forward without the painful reality of letting go of the past.  And forward is the only direction possible.

Now begins the work of clearing out the contents of a family’s’ life.  Every picture hanging and worn out piece of furniture carries with it a story.  Every garment hanging in the closet and strip of paper tucked in a drawer holds another memory.  The job of going through everything, which has been neatly arranged within the house, is emotionally draining.  But the elimination of things will never erase what the heart carries.  And in the process of clearing we see how God was present through it all.

So we pick and store that which will move into the future.  And we clear and remove items not physically coming with us.   The house will stand and appear as its old, reliable self but it will no longer be where we spend holidays, share meals, or stop by to visit Nanny and Poppy.  The doors will be sealed to us, like my kitchen drawer,  but our hearts are full and bursting with the memories that we take with us.  We are straddling the good ol' days and clinging to the Hope found in tomorrow, reveling in the opportunity to become creatures with all new habits.