Don't You Cry.

“Ding, ding,” goes her Hello Kitty bell as she peddles hard around the track. Her bike flops lopsidedly from one rickety training wheel to the other. She doesn’t want to take them off yet. The sun is hot on our backs and the air is painfully dry.

This is where we live now. It still doesn’t feel like it.

My phone is in the purple and white basket clipped onto the front of her bike; it’s playing Guns N' Roses' Don’t Cry as we circle the track, waiting for her brother's practice to be over. I’m humming along and pretending Axl is singing to console me, (and also pretending that the lyrics are not largely a bunch of relationship garbage – I mean genius – I mean garbage.)

She is excited to have the important job of carrying my phone, especially whilst it blares music. Happily, she dings her bell along like the 6th member of the band. We just need some tight American-flag biker shorts and a lot of pomp and then we'd be all set out here.

The months since moving to this place have been long and difficult; the changes have been a constant struggle, launching me into yet another "difficult phase" of my adult life. Has there been anything but a succession of difficult phases? 

Well, so, this is what I’ve come to... “bumping” a 1991 hit from a four-year-old’s bicycle when I really do feel like crying at 4:00 in the afternoon?  

I fear I keep repeating myself, but gosh life is hard. It’s hard with really, truly big problems at a lot of times, and a lot of other times we take our small problems and inflate them into bigness.

Today, I am tired of this sadness so biting. And while I’m at it, I’m tired of limping for the last six years and ending every day in pain. I’m tired of nerve damage and hot flashes and treatment side effects and…  and parenting failures, and... I’m tired.

We all grow weary of our own burdens at times, don't we? I know so many of you, dear friends, struggle with your disappointment, your loneliness, your heartache, your stress, your pain. Maybe you also need someone to tell you today, “don’t you cry,” or hey, “go ahead and cry” - whichever it may be that you need.

So while I ironically seek some console from infamously self-destructive, hedonistic 90's rock-stars, I know it's actually humility, realistic expectations, and outward focus that will push me through.

I hope it will for you too.

I hope you still walk; peddle; ding your bell; play your music.

And of course, even though sometimes it doesn't feel like anything, would that we remember “There’s a heaven above you baby.”

Sometimes that's all there is.

Guns N'Roses: Don't Cry. Written by Duff Rose Mckagan, Izzy Stradlin, Matt Sorum, Saul Hudson, W. Axl Rose • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group

Like a Weaned Child

I’m a few paces behind my lanky 8 yr old as the office lady leads him around the unfamiliar school. His thin shoulders are hunched forward and he’s not making eye contact. Each time she speaks to him, he nods his head with an only-slightly-perceptible movement.

His face is brave though - so brave. I don’t understand how he is not crying. I am.

Visions of the beautiful, familiar elementary school we said goodbye to just last week are haunting me. I want that back for him. I want it all back. I want to have not had to say goodbye to such a place as was our home that I loved. I don’t want to be standing in this loud, hot hallway right now, outside a second grade classroom I’ve never seen before and discretely wiping tears into my cheeks.

How will he remember where to go tomorrow morning on his own? Will anyone sit with him at lunch? What will recess be like? ...Why are we making him do this?

My throat keeps tightening into sadness in the coming days as I try to push through the newness of so many life changes I wasn’t looking for. And when the tears do come for my brave 8 year old who misses his old friends, his old teacher, his old everything, I can’t choke back from joining in with him. "I just watch the kids play. I don’t know how to play with them. I want to go home," he tells me.

So do I. Even though we chose to make this move to be with family, I feel a bit lost and lonely amidst them right now. Oh, I know it will get better. But with 7 moves already under my belt since marriage, I am ill-prepared for how awesomely difficult #8 is proving to be. There wasn’t supposed to be a #8. And I really, really liked #7.

By week two, my son has gained the confidence to join in the games at his new school, to say, “Hey, can you teach me how to play that?” He doesn’t fight going to school in the morning, (well, not any more than he normally would anyway.) He goes several days in between pulling out his goodbye letters from his old friends and hungrily re-reading them. He seems happy again.

For such incompetent, dependent beings, children can be remarkably resilient, can’t they?

There’s a Bible passage that says:  Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; Like a weaned child rests against his mother, My soul is like a weaned child within me. (Psalm 131:2)

Sometimes is takes a lot of courage to say, “Hey, can you teach me how to play?” And nearly always, it's a challenge to have the reason to see that joy can be chosen, independent of circumstances. 

As for me, I'm still fighting the weaning process; I'm pretty much screaming inside, "Give me back my milk! I want my old joy back." I'm apparently trailing behind that lanky 8 year old of mine in more ways than one. I am working on putting my banging fists down and resting against what I have given up; I know it is only then my hands will be free to embrace what I have now.

So every day I try again at managing without that which I had become excessively fond of, (the definition of wean.) I reach for the composure to quiet my soul. I try to let go of #7 and draw into the goodness of #8.

It will be good here. I will live with joy through this, as I have fought to through the challenges that came before it. So can you... through your struggle.

May God help us draw upon our child-like spirits of resilience.
May we have peace even without the sweet milk of our desires.

The Transformative Power of Sweat Equity... AKA My Before And After House Pictures

Don't you love a good transformation?

My favorite is when a lost soul finds peace in God and therein transforms from selfish ambitions to focus on others.

I also like when the sun transforms nuclear energy into ultraviolet, infrared, and gamma energy. Just kidding. I don't even understand energy transformation. Plus, I live in the Northwest and haven't seen much of this thing called the sun in like 6 months.

Falling ever so slightly short of the transformative power of Jesus Christ, or electromagetnic energy, house make-overs are pretty cool too.

Mine has keep me from writing to you fine people for the last two years. We've been working A LOT on the deferred maintenance, late 80's home we purchased as first-time home-buyers.

The brass was a-shinin and the honey-oak was a-plenty when we arrived in 2014. 

But I loved it right from the beginning.

People say, "You'll know The One when you see it" about wedding dresses and houses. I could have worn any of the half dozen wedding dresses I liked best, but I literally walked in the front door of this house and knew it was right. 

We bought it via long-distance. I had seen it once; my husband saw it for the first time two months later when we moved in. So... it's a pretty good thing it worked out for us as well as it has.

The number of hours we spent sanding, painting, digging, trimming, sanding and painting more, spakling and skim coating, cutting and building, and sanding and painting some more is almost painful to recall. My hands are aching at the mere memory.

There were many, many weekends and late nights of work, and probably just as many trips to Home Depot. 

Some of it was fun.

Master bedroom

Master bathroom

Tile and electrical work was hired out, as was the composite deck in the backyard. We did everything else, sometimes with help from handy family members.

A pretty careful budget was maintained over all. Hard work and creativity are excellent money-savers.

Guest Room                                                                                         Office

Kids' Bedrooms

I could easily write a post on each room. 

...But that sounds like a lot of work. And I'm not a home blogger.

Finished basement: from dark man-cave to kid-friendly game space

I'm super bias but I think it's a pretty great house in a really great city. I have felt overwhelmingly privileged to live here the last 23 months.

Oh, but now we're moving. 

It's a story for another day, but in short, we're moving to a new state to be with family. 

I guess you could say: we're making a transformation from a truly lovely place to live -- to a life with truly lovely people.

Maybe in 2 years I'll have another house of photos to share. But I kind of hope not.

Pets

Pets.

I love them. Well, sort of.

Sometimes I see someone squatting on the side of the road picking up their dog's poop with a plastic sack and I think to myself, "Humans are so strange."

Yet I, myself, have picked up many a bag of dog poop in my day.

Those little 4-legged friends can be such sweet companions. Plus, there can be benefits to pet ownership even beyond relational joys and therapeutic effects:

Dogs are great for security... Cats are great for rodents... Chickens are great for eggs... Sheep are great for fields of grass... Fish... uh, decorating dentist waiting rooms...? Birds, bunnies, hamsters, snakes... ... ... I don't know, but people enjoy having them in their home. 

We innately like to cohabitate and share our homesteads not only with other humans but often also with critters. Or sometimes with critters instead of other humans. 

My dear pal wrote a post, "October: For Breast Cancer Not Pit Bulls" and received dozens of angry replies at her suggestion that human life should invariably take precedence over animals' lives and welfare. As I read through the comments of mostly-illogical highly-emotional arguments, one sad person's reply in particular has stayed with me. She said people had let her down but her dog never had.

I read that as an example of the harshness of life. How tragic that we are a people who hurt each other and are so disconnected from each other that animals rise in standing on par with or above other humans.

I firmly believe pets hold a valuable role in our lives. That's not in question here. (Okay, so now would NOT be a great time to go back and read the entire piece I wrote on the pointlessness of rabbit ownership.) But also - and much more so - we need human relationships. Healthy ones.

I find it curious that often, instead of nurturing and serving others, we anoint our pets with souls and diamond-studded collars. We humanize our animals.

Graph source: www.fool.com

Currently, we're between pets in my household.

Well, that is, if you don't count the hairy caterpillar living in an atrium box in the center of our dining room table.

My 7-year old has been pining for a pet for a couple of years now. I am, however, pretty sure his motivation is primarily born from a peer group of 2nd graders who view pets as status symbols. Plus, he forgets to drink water routinely and is not very good at wiping his own butt, so he surely can't be relied upon to be a responsible pet owner.

And then there's my 3-year old daughter, who has literally made friends with every dog in a 1-mile radius; it feels a tad cruel not allowing such an innate affection to cultivate. She, however, forgets to put the lid on her caterpillar (which I feed and give water), and so hunting for "Wooly" in our very large dining area is becoming about as common as finding streak marks in my sons underwear. I'm just hoping she doesn't "pet" the poor thing to death.

So, as you can tell, we (meaning I) am pretty primed for a pet. After all, we do own our home and have a good size yard, so there aren't a lot of excuses that remain. Well, other than that my sick body already struggles to keep up with the demands of the two mini-humans (and one husband-sized human) I take care of. And that pets are expensive. They are a commitment for many years. They require a lot of attention and care. Right, not much to stop us now.

But more to the point, even if I find myself back to taking walks with sacks of steamy dog poop in my hand, or even branch out to get my very own bunny to wake the neighbors, any pet of ours will remain simply and firmly-situated in their status as a pet -- an animal with limits on the time, money, and love they will receive.

Oh, I'm sure the time, money and love afforded it will be aplenty. But I hope that "plenty" will fall short of what we are willing to devote to other people in our lives. Helpless and innocent or not, people need our time, affection, and sympathy far more than any pet needs to be treated like a human.

If this makes you want to angrily argue about the value of animal lives, 

post on my friend's blog. She likes that sort of thing. 

Home on the Range

Well howdy there folks! Come ride along with this here g'hal for one hog-killin of a time. [Because I just used "hog" and "killin" in describing my day, this is sure to be good.]

We're gonna get on up with the sun and get a wiggle on. Time's a wasting.

Chickabiddies are up and at em, so it surely won't be long 'for they're starting trouble and asking for grub. Get yerself some six-shooter coffee cause it's gonna be a long one.

This here lady of the house has to get on the ol boss-man's 'puter and work. Course, the homestead is hurtin for some cleaning, and there's paintin and all manner of you name it to git done round the place. And there's always fixings needing done and made. Sure as a gun, moren three times a day these peckish horses are buckin for grub. [Can I feed them beans in a can if I call it "grub"?] It's up to me to keep this place in apple pie order.

I've got me a little filly who so often blusters "Mommy, look at me," and "Mommy will you play with me?" I sometimes want to cut stick and hide out in a dark well with some firewater. I've also got a lil broomie chap who I've a mind to keep watch on all his going-ons, and he'll be needin some help with his learnin. [I might have just created the greatest nickname ever for him: "lil broomie chap." Yes!]

Yep. This here folk, is some darn excitin' (mid-30's) life on the range. 

I say though, this life ain't for the weak. We best pull them boots right on and just keep on.

And bully for you and me when we do, cause by gum, days are hard. We must keep them eyes on the veins of gold hidden right fronta us. Theyr there. Them smiles and good amongst the helter-skelter.

Come sun down, when you're nearbouts all played out, plumb tired from a day chock full o work, best to douse the lights and say a prayer o thanks. Sunup tomorrow, chin up, cause it's kit and caboodle over again. Brisk up and buck up Ma. Yourn need that right attitude.

If this barrel o' kicks has got you angling, well then, you're my Huckleberry.

* Thank you to: www.legendsofamerica.com for help with my old west lingo. 

Enjoy the Show

Let me welcome you to our house.

Immediately on your right when you step in is a formal living room. Because we're big on first impressions, it still contains moving boxes of decorations that have yet to be hung in rooms that have yet to be painted. No matter that we moved in five months ago.

Oh, and there's no furniture, well, none save the collection of unplaced side tables I have crammed in one corner. We like to call this room "The Lego Room" since they regularly strew the carpet where furniture should be.

In addition to serving as the collecting place for Lego's, children's toys in general, and all things miscellaneous, this grand room has also has held wrestling matches, dance-offs, book fairs and library openings, farmer's markets, and most often, concerts. 

If you've visited us in the past couple months, chances are you have been treated to a performance on a cardboard stage in this fine arena with dingy white carpet. The show likely consisted primarily of a tall, skinny kid with one missing front tooth shuffling his feet and thinking he looks pretty awesome "dancing" for you.

Usually there's an accompanying little drummer in a princess dress who beats on a cardboard box with a curtain rod that has yet to be hung. (Why do they love those curtain rod-sword-lightsaber-mallets so?) The little drummer will occasionally rise for a solo rendering of "Jesus Loves Me" or perhaps "Twinkle, Twinkle."

Then it's back to more of the Fast Feet Kid, until about the time the audience concludes their clapping with loud, suggestive compliments about the show - in the past-tense, hoping to in fact bring about it's conclusion.

There may be tickets, wrist bands, seat assignments, refreshments... you name it. As I was informed last time, there is not, however, any flash photography permitted. So you'll have to come see for yourselves.

While I would very much like to have furniture in this room, and would very, very much like to no longer have boxes and stacked projects (and those dang curtain rod/weapons), I must admit that a big, empty room is pretty convenient with kids. Even if it is right off the entryway... with a huge picture window looking out onto the sidewalk for all to see.

So this here is my anti-pin. It is me saying, no Pinteresters, every room is not perfect in a normal house. Nor does it have to be. Sometimes a room just needs to sit empty or messy - or both - for five months. Or ten.

I like to call this "embracing the practical." It is enjoying the cardboard stage from the endless boxes.

It is enjoying the show.

The Jesus Under My Porch

As you might remember from here, we've been house hunting for a while now.

Since our last search-offer-fail expedition in our coastal city, we moved our sights a couple states over and recently moved into a lovely home in a foresty suburb.

We packed up last month, piled in our car, and set off on the roughly 1000-mile trip. A few days and countless "how far is it"-'s later, we excitedly rolled up to our house. It's our first home, and it's bigger and better than we ever imagined.

We began to unpack ourselves into a slurry of surprises this said dream home had in store for us. This isn't working, that's a little off, those will need some work...

Most of it is normal home-owner stuff, I suppose. It's all new to us just the same and pouring in like the unseasonable torrential rains that welcomed us last week.

Years of scrimping and saving, of planning carefully and underspending led us to this strange place where every which way we turn we need to spend money. Actually, no, you don't even need to "turn" - just move your eyes and the dollar signs will rack up across the horizon of empty, furniture-needing rooms, golden, late 80's chandeliers, dirty white carpet, rotting deck, and leaky showers.

I won't go into all the details, partly because that would be boring and partly because I might look a little insane spending our life savings to make this purchase. Instead, I'll just say, if you come visit us, you might need to go out to the garage to answer the telephone; jiggle the door handle up, not down if you find yourself stuck in the downstairs bathroom; and maybe do some push-ups to build-up your arm strength before you arrive, just in case you should like to open a window during your stay.

Hold on now. I'm painting a picture of a pretty dumpy place. It is not. It's a beautiful, huge home with a great floor plan and a big yard, sitting in a fabulous neighborhood.

There's just a lot of... surprises. Like the Jesus I found under the porch the other day. I crawled under the deck to turn smack into a massive hunk of wood and plastic greenery with a chipped old manger scene set into it. It's 15 feet long if it's anything. What, pray you, am I going to do with that? (Pun intended.)

Add it to the list.

The endless number of projects that I can not tackle immediately nor by myself, the constant outflow of money, the decisions... it's making me a little bit crazy. Crazy like I forgot to take my kids to the first two weeks of swim lessons that I had worked for two days getting them registered for. Crazy like if I have to pick out another light fixture I might point to the gilded gold monkey ones and say, "Those will do." House crazy.

But then, fortunately, by the grace of God -- or the Jesus under my porch -- my son's Nerf bullet hits me in the eye and I really look around. I am so blessed with this house exactly as it is. Shame on me that I should ever go a minute forgetting that.

I hear my daughter's little pink, plastic heels click across the sidewalk and catch a glimpse of her out there in her underwear, following the neighbor's daughter around. Taking care of my family is bigger than any house or yard project will ever be. And then I hear my husband jiggling the bathroom handle, stuck inside and trying to get out. And I laugh. Oh yes, we're going to have some fun here.

Zealots Have Too Much Zeal

I have discovered something about zealots – I mean, other than that they’re annoying – they have too much, well, zeal. That overflow tends to have a couple of counterproductive effects:

(1)  First, they make you feel bad about yourself and your own more moderate (and likely more rational) approach. That is, if you are sympathetic to their cause in any way; if not, skip straight to step 2.

(2)  They turn you away. Extremists generally only attract other extremists. Unreasonableness and lack of empathy never won anyone over to any cause. To the contrary, it turns people away.

I think we should stand-up for what we believe, not lacking and not hiding our conviction. But sometimes I think we also need to remember we *might* be wrong. Or partly-wrong. Or more convincing if we can sympathize with the opposition.

For example, take a few areas that commonly create extremism:

 

Religion

My religion is integrally important to who I am. However, I prefer to retain the ability to converse outside the confines of overt apologetics. This is how I maintain friendships with people who do not share my beliefs – how they can stand to be around me long enough to actually see my beliefs in action. Proselytizing to an empty room is like angrily preaching abomination to an unbeliever… Do either really accomplish anything productive?

Health

Health matters are near and dear to my heart (literally and figuratively.) Two ravaging diseases and standing on the brink of death is pretty effective at turning one’s attention to their health. Regardless of the motivation of my crusade for healthful choices, it’s an awareness I am committed to and want for everyone. Even so, sometimes moderation is the key to longevity.

My family and I still eat out occasionally. We generally eat what other people serve us, even if it’s not something we would buy/make in our own home. And I often let my kids try things they are curious about, so they’re not overly interested, not ostracized from their community of friends over a simple food experience, and to help prevent a backlash of them gorging themselves whenever given the occasion to have a forbidden item.

Frozen pizza and soda at a friends’ will not ruin my child’s organs for eternity, and store-bought breakfast cereal is perhaps not of the devil himself. (Although McDonalds might be; the jury is still out on that one.)

 

Politics

Do I even need to say anything else about this one? Did that one word conjure images of the intolerable people you know who are staunchly right or left and in your face about it? You know the ones, you try to slide past them in social situations and hide their Facebook feeds.

Ironically, if the goal of persuasion reigns over discussion, on any topic, the persuasive powers are diminished. Lectures, sermons, advice from experts, and everyone's opinions all have their place - often very important places. However, that place is not always an aggressive accusation or a mistimed, one-sided conversation with no ears to hear your opposition. 

Look, if I'm honest, sometimes tireless support (yours and mine) just, well, tires me. I want to run these races for a lifetime - not sprint and then fall away.

And sometimes, like extreme animal rights activists that would value a kitten over a human child, the credibility of fanatics is diminished by their very fanaticism.

It is possible to be gentle and still strong in your convictions. It is possible to be convinced but remain open-minded or empathetic, whichever the situation calls for.

You other people can take your zeal and shove it… in a Captain Jesus cereal box made out of kitties and American flags.

Why I Go to Church

The comfy, grey chairs are lined into neat rows. The music of the Sunday service is washing across the full room.

♫ You are my God and my King. You are the words that I sing.

I look around to the people filling the chairs, familiar and unfamiliar, the souls gathered together on this morning, as they do most every seventh day of the week, and I am struck by the flaws tainting each of our lives.

As I age in this world and gain wisdom, in the ever-so-small flecks that I do, I have come to understand how we each carry heavy burdens. We all suffer. We are all broken – by the world we live in and by our own fallible selves.

♫ You are comfort, You are refuge. You are love personified. And You are kindness and compassion, You are.

The blonde-haired, gum-chewing friend who is over-extended in her career…

My gracious Bible study leader, whose tiny body is racked with the injuries of being hit by a car years ago…

The insecure junior-higher, with her thin arms folded across her abdomen, whose father reaches over to put his arm around her…

The quiet friend that makes her husband finish his donut before they come inside, who lost her son earlier this year…

The imperfection of our lives… the imperfection of our selves... This is humanity.

♫ You are glory, Hallelujah. You are hope of peace on earth. You are alpha and omega, You are.

I would not venture to say there is equality in the magnitude of our individual suffering. But there is equivalence in the suffering itself; that we will all suffer, we will all fail is among our common threads. The question lies in what purpose does our suffering serve? Or, more than that, what purpose does our life serve?

Our own joy, our own glory, our own lives are too small a thing to live for.

♫ You are holy, You are faithful. You are savior, You are friend. You are all I'll ever need Lord, You are.

The hope of a purposeful existence – a hope that in-turn offers a peaceful existence today. That’s why I’m here.

That’s why we’re all here. (Well, that and the donuts.)

 

 ♫Lyrics are from You Are, by Mark Roach

My Name Is Jennifer. And So Is Yours.

 

Because I was born in the 80’s to middle class, (mostly) white parents, my name is Jennifer.

Just Jennifer. With not even an unexpected letter thrown in or taken out for good measure. Me and some 1.1 million other people.

Because my name is Jennifer, I sometimes feel stunted of individuality. As a child who grew up with at least 2-3, sometimes 4, other girls with the same name in my class/team/troop/etc, I certainly could not rely on my name to distinguish myself. (You know your name is far too common when even adapting versions and nicknames, Jenny, Jen or Jenn with two-n’s as though there were a difference, is still not a distinctive enough way to differentiate yourself.)

Because my name is Jennifer, I have never felt a fondness or dare-I-say even a connection to my name. Even as a small child I used to badger my parents about their selection. I would ask over and over again, “Why didn’t you name me something better, like Jolene?” Jolene? I don’t know; I won’t go there. But I always wanted something other than what I had. The ideal changed over the years to what sounded beautiful and unique to me at the time – but always something else, that would match me better.

Because my name is Jennifer, I was pretty thankful for a somewhat redeeming last name growing up. My last name was unusual enough that I had to spell it after I said it, if I ever did hear of another person who also had it, that most likely meant we were related, and, best of all, it shortened into totally cool nicknames across whatever sport team I joined or college dorm room I bunked in. Enjoying the reprieve from title-monotony, I liked that most of my friends called me by my last name, or some version of it. Thank goodness for that.

And then I got married.

If you know my married name, you’re laughing right now. It is only mildly better than Smith – and by mildly, I mean a tiny smidgen. I’m pretty much Jennifer Smith now. There is absolutely nothing about my full name that does not say boring, commonplace, and classically plain.

Now that I have offended both my own my parents and my in-laws, I shall scurry along to my point.

It’s pretty much just that I am Jennifer Smith. And so are you. Even if you have a beautifully unique name – like I hope I have given my children, or like my mother thought she was giving me in 1981 – we are all fairly ordinary amongst the 7 billion people habituating this earth. We are but tiny blips in the incomprehensibly vast span of time before and after our own existence.

When we’re young, most of us grow up thinking we deserve to be famous, royal, fabulous in big ways. After all, this is what we're told in most healthy childhoods: you can be anything you want to be; you can achieve great things; you are special. Well, then we grow up in wisdom and (hopefully) begin to realize we are not quite so distinct, maybe not so equipped to take on absolutely anything we should desire, and certainly not so entitled to deserve special recognition at every turn.

In fact, against the backdrop of all-time, the only way we even matter and make a difference is by linking ourselves to something bigger with faith; in small way, after small way, day after day, year after year; in community, in relationship and humility.

So, suffice it to say, I’ve grown enough to be okay with being judged by my ultra-common name. (I do admit though, I am shallow enough to smile at the people - which includes my husband - who still call me by my maiden name.) But I understand now, we are all Jennifers - and Bobs, and Jessicas, and Mikes - even if your name is Arabellesquella.

We are different from each other, but probably not to the extent we imagine ourselves to be. The commonality of humanity looms bigger than our individuality. I'm only as special as everyone else.

We all will grow old, if we even make it that long. We all will eventually be forgotten. So let’s remember, Jennifers, to use our blip of time wisely, humbly, and in the service of someone and thing other than our not-so-fabulous selves.

This Door is Always Open: A Glimpse at Family Gathering

Like animals instinctively returning home after a migration, my family makes its way to my parents' house at two distinct times of year: once in the summer and always at Christmas. We camp out there for as long as our various vacation accruals will allow. No matter how far or near we come from, it's where we reunite, where we celebrate, and where we feel at home.

Regardless of how long the travels leading to arrival are, turning onto my parents' small street is a massive relief marked with some sort of we're-here-cheer. As you pull up to the driveway, look sharp because cars are parked like jigsaw puzzles slid together, and children's bikes, scooters and helmets are tiny pieces complicating the challenge of finding a space.

Surely someone, or some many, will come out to greet your arrival. There will be hugs and smiles; children’s hair will get tousled. The process of unloading the car will commence and then you'll step into the house. It will smell like the meal that is invariably awaiting you and the many seasonally-appropriate candles my mother will have lit. You will almost have forgotten how beautiful it is.

From about then onward, the days and nights will bleed together into nearly-constant activity and happiness.

There will be no shortage of food. The refrigerator in the kitchen and the spare in the garage are so full that bottles of beer and sparkling apple cider, jars of pickles and cans of diet soda that no one drinks all spill out into a semi-circle on the garage floor. Feeding this crowd will be a huge endeavor, three times a day, every day. And even though different chefs will take over the kitchen, the feeding fete is exhausting.

The New Mexicans feed us green chilies on everything and add flaming hot spice to each entree. I keep trying to work in massive amounts of vegetables, as I (subtly) nag everyone about what's healthy and what's not. My vegetarian sister-in-law who is allergic to gluten either gets a thoughtful array prepared for her or is completely lost in the crowd and has to scrounge-up another green salad for dinner. My parents fill in with fare that has become standard to this crowd: always there will be a night of spaghetti and a night of barbecued garlic chicken with Lebanese toubouli. One or two mornings, depending on the duration of our camp-out, there will be buttermilk pancakes poured from the blender. And most likely, one morning we'll arise to a massive box of donuts on the counter, that one or two lucky grandchildren got to go along to help pick-out.

I keep wondering why we don't eat more cereal and sandwiches as the dishwasher and the kitchen trash can fill up over and over again. The flow of dishes is as constant as the flush of toilets or the swish of the washing machine. And by about day four, spouses start to tease each other about ineludible weight-gain.

Outside of the kitchen, it's only slightly less chaotic. The lights are left on in every room. As soon as you shut the bathroom door, someone is knocking on it. (Be sure to look before you sit-down on the toilet because there's a couple little boys with bad aim.) 

In December, it's about as cold as it gets in Southern California, roughly 55 degrees, and there is a host of swirling, dry leaves and wandering lizards and rodents out here in the country, but apparently none of these are compelling reasons for anyone to shut the front door behind themselves because it's constantly left open - to my mother's disdain.

"Shut the front door!" she will shout repeatedly to no one in particular but everyone in general.

Now, when a door is closed, that also means nothing. Children walk through our bedroom as readily as they pass through the hallway.  I step out of the shower into the bedroom to get dressed, and my nephew pops up from behind the bed. I open the car door and my nieces are camped out in the backseat. Children, in case you have failed to gather, are everywhere; although, I have barely seen my own since we first pulled into the driveway. The household wakes up with the first child's pattering down the stairs and only calms to quiet after the last small head rests quietly upon the pillow.

Most of the small heads camp out on the floor of my parents' bedroom, gracing them with constant companionship from their smallest house guests. 

Each morning is a new rotation of meals to be eaten, dishes to be washed, conversations to be had, love to shared. And, the front door to be left open just as my mother is passing by. ("Oh gads, who left the door open again?")

Once the peanut brittle has been passed, the apple cider sipped, and the wrapping paper burned in the wood stove, it's time for us to each head back to our lives that will initially feel solitary. We'll return to our individual homes and our individual family units. We'll "go about our daily activities," as my father says, and carry on with only calls, emails and various visits amongst us. Until, half of another year passes and we all return together again, this time in tank-tops and flip-flops.

There we will all be again, to pull into the crowded driveway and say, "We made it."  There we will be - to reunite, celebrate, and feel at home once again.

Wishing you a joy-filled Christmas with your family!