First Advent came and went with hardly a nod. I had wanted to do something. Something to make this time special for my children. Something to help us keep our perspective through this season filled with so many memories.

Last year we put up our first tree in years. The children had so much fun running up and down between the trees at the Christmas tree farm and there was Tiggy, in the middle of it all, enjoying just being outside in the fresh air amidst the trees. We brought the tree home and slowly the bottom half of the tree was emptied of its ornaments as they found places higher up out of his reach or on the windowsill waiting for a new home on the tree.

He died on the third advent.

Then the ornaments stayed on the tree where they were put and looking at ornaments placed on the bottom half made me cry.

Time is again feeling like a freight train. Slow and unstoppable, dragging me through the upcoming days, bearing down on December 12, gathering force as everything around me goes out of focus and I see only one day on the horizon.

I wanted to do something special to help us keep perspective. Maybe light a candle and sing a song. Bake cookies together and have cocoa. But we were out of eggs and out of milk and I had a splitting headache.

So I let them have some ice cream with Nestle Quik sprinkled on top while they watched It’s a Wonderful Life , Micah napped and laid on the couch.

I wanted to do something special because this season is so hard. It is so hard for me to see anything but the death of my son and at times it seems like a nightmare that is about to happen rather than one that happened almost a year ago.

But when I lift my eyes, I see something more. Something distant and indistinct but too bright to be ignored. I see the shadow of heaven, hear the echo of the promises made, feel the warmth of everlasting love and know that I will hold that little boy again.

Because death is not the end.

And I want to share that with my children, even through my tears.

I’ve always had a measure of old-fashioned American patriotism, and I was actually quite shocked when I realized citizens of other nations don’t necessarily share such sentiments about their own nations. But the summer of 1994 was the first time I remember feeling a strong sense of pride at my national heritage and the principles upon which our nation was founded. I was in a small suburb of West Berlin, just a brief walk from where the Berlin wall once stood. I opened up the Berliner Zeitung to find a full page spread thanking the American miitary as they prepared to withdraw from the American quadrant. America’s military presence had been continuous and visible since 1945, but we had never treated Germany like an occupied country. The harrassment, violence and even rape suffered by East Germans at the hands of the Soviet Union was unheard of in the American sector. Heartfelt memories of the Berlin airlift were shared. My friend’s parents told me of their fear when the Soviet Union first closed off Berlin. And tears welled in their eyes as they told of the arrival of the first packages. As America, an occupying military force, prepared its withdrawal, the people of Berlin thanked us for establishing and preserving their own liberty.

We are a nation founded on the guiding principle that “...all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…” our national symbols are symbols of liberty–the liberty tree, the statue of liberty, the liberty bell and the Declaration of Independence. We have long been a beacon of liberty to the world, proclaiming:

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

A recent comment, words of encouragement.

“You will again call God good.”

Pause for reflection.

I’ve cried out in anguish with a sorrow so deep there were not words to attach to the prayer. I’ve cried out in anger over sliced hot dogs, snipped drawstrings and safety fences that in the end were not enough to spare my little boy from a terrible accident. I’ve wrestled with why. Why? Why isn’t my little boy here, asleep in his little bed with his bottom in the air and a car tucked under his arm?

But did I ever stop calling God good?

I think of recent conversations, Facebook statuses and Twitter updates with others extolling the virtues of God.

“Car needs over a thousand dollars worth of work. Didn’t know how we were going to afford it. Then we did our taxes and the money we’re getting back covers it almost exactly.

Isn’t God amazing?“

“Had lots of errands. Forgot to fill the tank. Low fuel light came on as we came into a part of town where I did not want to stop. Ran out of gas, coasted down a hill, into a gas station and right to the pump.

Isn’t God faithful?”

“Hubby got the job! After over a year, our savings held out and he got the job!

Isn’t God good?”

Pause for reflection.

What about when things don’t turn out so well?

As I knelt on the floor, the weight of a dresser on my back, trying to keep my son’s head and neck straight as I rolled him to his side so he wouldn’t aspirate on his own vomit . . .

{Was God amazing?}

As I stood shaking in the ER, wanting to be with him (needing to be with him), terrified of being in the way as I heard them trying over and over and over to get him intubated . . .

{Was God faithful?}

And, only minutes after a nurse had told us he would be in room 201, went over the use of the respite rooms, admonished us to be strong for him, as the surgeon came in and told us he couldn’t save our son . . .

{Was God good?}

It isn’t really something we post to Facebook quite like that, but even in tragedy, God is amazing. He is faithful. He is good. Because His character is not dependent on my circumstances. He has done many wonderful things in my life, but His character is not revealed through my wealth nor through my safety nor through my comfort.

His character is revealed through the cross.

And as I think of my son crushed, his skull broken, his form lifeless, I can think of only one thing.

Our Father did it willingly. For me. For you. For the world He loved so much He gave His only begotten son.

Happy Easter.

For days, my daughter has been asking me for a package of pasta. For days, I have been telling her that I cannot give her an entire meal without knowing why.

“It’s for April Fool’s,” she tells me.

“We’ll see,” I answer.

“Please?” she begs, with a twinkle in her eye.

And after dinner on March 31, I finally relent.

“There’s a partial bag in the pantry you can have. But you have to clean up any mess you make.”

I wonder for a moment why I am providing the materials for my own demise, but the excitement in her eye before she turns to run to the pantry makes it worthwhile, before I even get pranked.

“Can I stay up late, mom?”

“Yes,” I say as I begin putting the others to bed.

I put L.E. in my bed and lay down with her to help her with her difficult transition to night. Her conversation is getting lighter. Tonight she only makes sure (as she does every night) that we thank God for Tiggy and make sure He is taking care of him. Tonight, she thinks maybe God should let him sleep with Him in His big bed.

I drift off to sleep and awaken at midnight to my daughter clanging about in the kitchen. I send her to bed and start a cup of tea. Because my husand is Australian, I have learned to take my tea with milk.

Which requires opening the refrigerator door.

Which causes the cup balancing precariously on the door to fall, spilling its partial bag of borrowed pasta on the floor.

For a moment, I am annoyed. For a moment, I want to leave it there until morning for her to clean up. But then I remember the twinkle, smile and pick up the pasta. I leave it on the counter and make my tea.

Later, as I turn out lights before bed, I notice the pasta on the counter. Remembering that twinkle, I put the pasta back in the cup and balance it atop the refrigerator door. As I leave the kitchen, I hear my baby begin to stir. I think that if he is going to demand to be fed every two hours, maybe I should have a glass of milk before bed.

Which requires opening the refrigerator door.

Which causes the cup balancing precariously on the door to fall, spilling its partial bag of borrowed pasta on the floor.

This time I laugh outright.

Good one, Mouse.

“Hugging him!

“Kissing him!”

“Jumping on the bed!”

Little L.E. was shouting out her memories of Mattias as fast as I could write them on her little coins. She painted them with gold glittery paint and turned her attention to decorating her little black bag while I made some coins of my own.

“Watching the chickens together.”

“Eating cookie dough together.”

“How he loved his siblings and holding his baby brother.”

I thought of that smile, that ornery grin, he flashed so freely. I thought about what wonderful treasures each of those memories are for me, for little L.E. and for each of us. And I thought how easily this project could be adapted to fit any family to remind children how special they are in our lives.

Think of the “words of gold” children could write to drop in each other’s pots, or treasured memories they could drop in their own. Either way, with a little time and a little paint, each family member could have pot full of treasure more valuable than gold.

Not to mention the opportunity for some wonderful conversation about what we treasure in our lives, all with a little seasonal flair.

Materials:

For the pots: black paper bags, or a paper pot pattern like we used for Valentine’s Day. Shamrock stickers or cut outs to decorate with are a nice touch as well.

For the coins: yellow construction paper for the clean at heart, paper circles and yellow paint for the more adventurous and a bit of glitter or glitter glue for those who dare.

Then enjoy some time together sharing the treasures of your heart!

Valentine’s Day isn’t really my thing. Card making isn’t really my thing. But on some strange impulse, I joined this Valentine’s card exchange which left me sitting on the floor of Michael’s going through paper crafts magazines and books looking for (praying for) some sort of inspiration the children could agree on.

We finally found it in flower pots. Aren’t they adorable?

To get started, you need a flower pot to decorate. This free template from Sunny Stampin’ provides the perfect pattern. And isn’t her card the second most cutest thing ever? Ours are only cuter because they were made by my children. And ours involve chocolate. And chocolate covers a multitude of design flaws.

Then you cut out your little pot on pretty paper and decorate.

Finally, you make the chocolate lollipops.

And try really hard not to lick the spoon. That’s the hard part.

Once they were finished, I was feeling sort of bad for choosing something the little ones needed so much help with, so I turned the materials over to them so they could make their own cards for each other. They even made a box for Tiggy.

Oh, and they want to do this every year, I think because it involves chocolate. And they seem to think all the left overs belong to them.

Actually, I’m not quite there yet. I can barely face a whole day, let alone a whole year. But it did draw my thoughts to last year, to moving here, to the way I used to look at the land outside my window. This property was a canvas upon which we were painting our dreams. Everything was such an adventure, and Tiggy was in the middle of it all.

Now the color has gone out of my dreams and the flavor has gone out of life.

But the children knew the date and that it is one normally associated with too much junk food, staying up late and lots of games. So I did what I do every year and turned the planning over to them.

Mouse immediately made a list.

• Decorations
• Food
• Drinks
• Music
• Games

I praised her for spelling everything correctly and all the children went to take stock of what we already had.

“Can we get some sparkling grape juice, mom? It isn’t New Year’s without sparkling grape juice.”

“Ask your father.”

“Can we dad? Please?”

“Gas is over $3 a gallon.”

Now mom hears that and hears either “No,” or “If we’re driving into town, it better be for more than grape juice.” The children just hear a random and irrelevant tidbit of information they didn’t care about anyway. So they repeat their request.

Over.

And over.

And over.

John looks over at me. It’s his, “Please help me say no” look. I shrug my shoulders.

“I don’t really mind. The stores will be closed tomorrow. I’m sure there are other things we could use.”

That isn’t quite the answer he wanted to hear so he musters all his fatherly authority.

“Oh, call the market and see if they’re open.”

And they are, so now he’s stuck. And Mouse delivers us another list.

• Sparkeling grap juice
• Egg nog
• Chips, honey musterd or BBQ

I don’t say anything about the spelling.

It is determined that Mouse will stay home and work on the party plans but Bear wants to stay with her. We’ve let her babysit before, but not Bear. The two of them are just too competitive. But so much has changed in the last few weeks. My normal maternal fears are heightened. The world is suddenly a very scary place, where furniture tumbles, horses fall, and space heaters malfunction.

But it’s also a world where my children hurt and grieve and I want to say yes.

So I do.

And it is immediately apparent that they now live in the same scary place.

“What if Mouse gets knocked unconscious? What if there’s a fire? What if the roof caves in? What if…?”

We go over each scenario, emphasizing the importance of calling 911 and getting out of the house. We write out our address and leave it on the phone in case they forget, but remind them that all they have to do is call. 911 will figure out where we live quickly enough. We give them a tutorial on the use of the fire extinguisher because Bear fears being engulfed in flames with no exit, but remind them that all they have to do is get out. We don’t care about the fire so long as they get out. We even have Mouse put the cell phone in her pocket so they will have a phone no matter what.

I begin to wonder if we should just take him, but he wants to stay. My husband asks if maybe one of us should stay in case we’re in an accident so at least one of us survives. My heart aches for a time when we could take for granted that we could return from a simple shopping trip without calamity.

But we do. They rearranged the furniture in the front room to make room for a snack bar, a game table and an open area because what’s a New Year’s party without a dance floor? Paper chains hung from the ceiling fan and paper streamers hung from the doorway into the kitchen.

And Mouse, who wouldn’t say his name until now asked to bring out his picture.

The party started with a video: the memorial slide show my husband made for the funeral service.

And with mom crying. . .sobbing. . .there has to be a better word for it. The tears are never far away, but this is different. It over took me at the hospital and I collapsed, but there were no tears then. It was there when we left the casket at the cemetery, but my husband was able to lead me away. And it was there watching the short video of his life that was far too short as I thought briefly about entering a new year without him.

Bug just stood and stared at me, not sure what to do, until she crawled in my lap. L.E. and Mouse pulled up chairs to watch the show. Bear stayed at the table with his back to the computer until it was over. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more and then sat on the couch with the baby, trying not to think of anything else.

He liked the decorations. He particularly liked the streamers in the doorway when I walked through with him. They rubbed against his face and he kicked and waved and tried to catch them with his mouth. So I walked back and forth with him, smiling at his delight while the children danced to the Alvin and the Chipmunks channel on Pandora.

I even did the Moonwalk. Which left them all staring in disbelief. To prove I was cool and not insane, we showed them YouTube clips of Michael Jackson doing the Moonwalk. And even an instructional video on how to do it. Mouse and Bear gave it a try. Bug was much more impressed with him kneeling down and spinning.

“It just doesn’t seem like a family without Tiggy,” she said after trying a few times.

But the music and the games and the dancing drew her back in. My heart stayed with her words.

I’m not sure how we got from Michael Jackson dance moves to Weird Al videos to Colin Buchanan. I just know I fell asleep in there somewhere and woke up with all the children snuggled in a blanket on the floor watching clips on the computer.

The last thing Tiggy did was snuggle with his siblings on the floor while watching a movie.

And so midnight came and went and we’re in a New Year. A lot the same, yet forever changed.

Edward Winslow wrote in A Journal of the Pilgrims at Plymouth (1621):

Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massosoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed upon our governor, and upon the captain, and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

By the goodness of God, we are far from want. In fact, we have never known want like that of the Pilgrims. Giving up their homeland, leaving for an unknown shore across an unfriendly sea, suffering disease and starvation to make an investment in their future. They sought a wealth few of us think on today. As the closing two verses of The Landing of the Pilgrims so eloquently say,

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?–
They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod.
They have left unstained what there they found–
Freedom to worship God.

Freedom to worship God was the wealth they sought. And more than that, the freedom to educate their children. For in Holland, the Pilgrims did have freedom to worship God but they saw their children going the way of the world, adopting the Dutch culture. They wanted not only the freedom to worship God as they pleased, but to educate their children according to their conscience. It was for this they traversed a hostile sea, suffered disease and nearly starved.

It was this for which they were able to give thanks and for which I am most thankful this season.

Happy Thanksgiving!

If you post what you are thankful for this week, feel free to leave a link to share!

Approximately 2,010 years ago (give or take), the greatest marketing opportunity in history was born and the religious and secular worlds have been fighting over Him ever since. If only Herod had seen the commercial implications, perhaps a generation could have been spared.

He Himself didn’t really seem to get it, either, what with overturning money changers’ tables, insisting His kingdom was some sort of spiritual enterprise rather than worldly one, and His peculiar knack for telling large crowds what they didn’t want to hear.

“Repent and ye shall be saved.”

What kind of message is that? Seriously, His Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. Surely the bigger message here is,

“Merry Christmas.”

I remember a time when we were concerned about the commercialization of Christmas. Maybe the whole “Jesus is the reason for the season” thing was from before businesses became so irreverent as to begin wishing people a happy holiday instead, I don’t know. But the message seems to have changed since I first accepted Christ 18 years ago.

Now, instead of discussing how believers can “keep Christ in Christmas” during a stressful and particularly commercial time of year, prominent Christian groups are instead concerned with how to keep His name in the minds of marketers.

In response to affirmation from Dick’s Sporting Goods that they would indeed be using His name as a marketing tool, the American Family Association sent out an email alert calling off their boycott. Dick’s has seen the light. Not of God’s glory, of course. Just of the profitability of slapping His name on their commercial endeavors. And that’s the most important thing.

“It is amazing to see the culture change that is occurring inside corporate board rooms. All across America, companies are coming to realize they should include Christ and Christmas in their advertising.”  AFA email, dated November 19, 2010

Luke 1:49 tells us, “Holy is His name.” Sacred, blameless and set apart. Set apart for glossy ad inserts, that is. Shouldn’t we boycott everyone who doesn’t see this simple truth? And that bit way back in the Old Testament about not using the Lord’s name in vain? Well, when there are this many dollar signs attached, you can hardly call it “in vain,” right?

So now we are free to shop online at Dick’s Christmas Shop and rest assured in the knowledge that His name is being kept in its rightful place at the altar of American commericalism.

Oh, and while we’re on the subject don’t forget to buy a button.

_________________________

With a wave of my gardening gloves to Bore Me to Tears

Happy Mother’s Day!

And today is probably not the day to start a lapbook on the subject. Most homeschoolers, I believe, start these kinds of things the week before, at least. Most homeschoolers, I believe, are a little more proactive. And they don’t do lessons on Sunday.

Anyway, I just came across this nice looking (free) Mother’s Day lapbook while surfing around and thought maybe someone could use it. Those of you who start this stuff the day before major holidays at the latest can save it for next year.

And an interesting tidbit: After all the work Miss Jarvis put into attaining a day to celebrate Mothers, it only took a few years for her to regret it. It quickly became one of the most commercialized holidays in America, resulting in Miss Jarvis calling it “a Hallmark holiday.” Greeting cards, she thought, were a lazy out for the more personal and more involved art of letter writing.

I wonder what she’d think of e-cards?