Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts

Once Upon a Sunday New Year

by Renee Hawkley


Once upon a Sunday New Year, a stranger was driving along a stretch of McMillan Road that borders a residential area in Boise, Idaho.  She happened to pass a makeshift "Hot Cocoa Stand" attended by a smattering of young children.  A rickety car was holding its ground nearby.

OK.  A hot cocoa stand is an unusual sight to behold along McMillan Road on a frosty, sky-blue Sunday in January.  On her way home, the stranger passed the stand again, noticed the children had a small stream of customers, and was, well—curious.  She was also smitten with a sudden craving for hot cocoa. 

Now, this stranger has a rule about spending money on a Sunday.  She doesn’t.  So she turned her gaze again to the straight and narrow road ahead and kept driving.

Still . . . the car slowed as she decided there would be no slackening of standards if she were to turn the car around and go back just to hear how this “Hot Cocoa Stand” came to be.  That way, she could get the story without having to pay for it.  So she did.

And here’s the story, as told by the hot cocoa stand’s owner, a girl of about age ten, who wanted a specific family game for Christmas that hadn’t been delivered.  She wanted it badly enough to come up with an idea.  She would raid her piggy bank to buy hot cocoa mix and a can of Reddi-Whip, make a “Hot Cocoa Stand” sign out of cardboard, and ask her dad for help to set up shop with her younger siblings on McMillan Road.  Dad agreed to help.  And there they were—Dad helping the younger children to dispense hot cocoa and Reddi-Whip while his oldest daughter acted as cashier.

I don’t know if the family’s “Once upon a time” story has the “Happily ever after” ending it deserves.  All I know is that the stranger bought a tasty cup of hot cocoa that kept her warm all day—“with Reddi-Whip, thank you”—and paid more money for it than the cardboard sign suggested.  Once upon a Sunday New Year.  

Happy New Year!
Sunday ~ January 1, 2012


Peace On Earth

by Renee Hawkley

Rulers and presidents promise it.
Children wish for it.
Parents dream of it.
Choirs sing of it.
Historians and philosophers study it.
Poets write of it.
Sinners pray for it.
Soldiers die in the name of it.
The sun, the moon and the stars reflect it.
All creation yearns for it.
But only One
Has the Power,
The Majesty
And the Meekness
To offer it
With these words . . .
"Peace I leave with you,
My peace I give unto you;
Not as the world giveth,
Give I unto you.
Let not your heart be troubled,
Neither let it be afraid."
Jesus.
The Babe, the son of Mary.
The Light and the Life of the World.
The Prince of Peace.

Thanksgiving

by Renee Hawkley


Yeah, I've got that down.
Up late the night before.
Baking pies.
Boiling sweet potatoes.
Mixing roll dough.
Making cranberry sauce.
Putting salads together.

Up early in the morning.
Onions, celery, sage, bread crumbs.
Stuffing the turkey.
Getting it into the oven.
Setting the table.
Forming rolls.
Butter, butter everywhere.
Green bean casserole.
Peeling, boiling, mashing potatoes.
Turkey out.
Baking rolls.
Making gravy.
Gathering everyone. Whew!

This Thanksgiving,
Where I'm just supposed to
Show up at my son and daughter-in-law's house, "Hang out,"
Play with my beautiful granddaughter
And eat.
Feels wrong.

But, yeah.
I'll get over it, so . . .
Bring on the gravy!

The Johnson Family Heirloom

While Christmas shopping over a decade ago, my friend, Dawn Johnson, bought an expensive manger scene on sale for $29.95. Of course, her little girl, Breanna, wanted to play with the breakable figurines. Another of course . . . Dawn tried to teach Breanna not to touch them.

All Dawn’s efforts to keep the set "nice" seemed to go unheeded. One day, Dawn’s mother reminded her of how she had felt as a little girl while visiting Grandma Wells’ house, where the atmosphere was often tense, and no touching was ever allowed.

"For heaven’s sake," her mother pleaded, "let Breanna PLAY. After all . . . for $29.95 . . . this crèche is NOT a family heirloom!"

Good point. From that day, the manger scene saw a lot of action from Breanna and her friends. A careful investigation shows evidence that each piece has been repaired time after time. If figurines could talk, each could tell many stories of adventures that had happened at the hands of little children at play.

"This scar is where my leg got broken off while I was trying to kneel by the manger," a shepherd might say.

"This is where my wings got chipped that time I was flying too close to the wall," an angel might add.

Mary might reflect, "This is where Baby Jesus got his paint rubbed off from having the swaddling clothes smoothed so much."

This Christmas, the manger scene has taken its usual place in the Johnson household. Recently, Dawn’s mother stopped by and offhandedly suggested that it might be a good year to look for a new manger scene to replace the well-seasoned one.

Dawn’s reaction was swift and sure. "Mom! Are you kidding? We’ll NEVER part with this set! Do you have ANY idea how many times I’ve glued these figures back together? Breanna has been playing with this manger scene since she was a little girl. Why . . . it’s a . . . a family heirloom!"

It Wouldn't Be Christmas Without ...

Say "Christmas," and people call upon their senses for unique definitions. Depending on who you are, "Christmas" brings memories and expectations that look like, taste like, sound like, smell like and feel like no other time of year.

At our house, we wouldn’t CONSIDER starting the Christmas season without inviting the sounds of Kenny G, Richard and Karen Carpenter, Barbra Streisand, Mannheim Steamroller and Handel.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without the sight of homemade stockings made from felt hanging from our mantle . . . six brown ones with horses on them for the boys and two red ones with lambs on them for the girls . . . and the name of a child glued onto each one.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without the smell of apple leather, cider wassail simmering on the stove and scented candles.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without the feel of my children’s arms around me or my grandchildren’s special brand of hugs and slobbery kisses.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without the taste of my mother-in-law’s famous dime-size pepper nut cookies, which I duplicate from a treasured recipe written in her very own handwriting. Only mine are more like nickels than dimes. OK . . . if you MUST know, they’re more like quarters than nickels.

It wouldn’t be Christmas without our family reading from the second chapter of Luke on Christmas Eve around the tree. It wouldn’t be Christmas without carefully unwrapping the seventeen ceramic pieces to the manger scene my sister made and placing each piece on its bed of red velvet. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the taste of crab dip or "figgy" nut roll. It wouldn’t be Christmas without chocolate. And most of all . . . it wouldn’t be Christmas without blending my voice with those of my friends and neighbors in church as we sing "Silent Night."

A Thomas Christmas Story

Of course, my favorite Christmas story is in the Bible about how Jesus was born. It's short to read and long to think about. I like the part where ordinary angels and shepherds get to do the important job of welcoming baby Jesus since, as everybody knows, Jesus isn't the least bit ordinary.
My second favorite Christmas story is in my Aunt Margaret's journal. I like it because the star of the story is her dad, my Grandpa Thomas. He got to do something important one Christmas, even though he was ordinary, too.

That Christmas, my Aunt Margaret was a young girl with freckles and long, red hair as fluffy as yarn. Grandpa Thomas was young in dad years, too.

Back then, the Thomas family didn't have electric lights, but nobody else did, either. Their Christmas tree was decorated with paper chains, strings of popcorn and candleholders that held little candles that were real.

"When can we light the tree?" Margaret and her brothers and sisters asked every night as the family gathered after supper in the parlor. "We can't wait!"

Finally, the long-awaited night arrived. "We were told to stay far back while Dad and Mother lit each little light."

After all the candles had been lit, "everybody 'oh'd and ah'ed' at its beauty." Aunt Margaret began to dance around the tree in excitement. In a sudden burst of energy, she whirled around, and one of the tiny flames caught her beautiful red hair, lighting her head on fire.

Just as suddenly, my ordinary Grandpa rushed to her side. His two big hands came down on her head over and over until the fire was out. Then, he gathered Margaret in his sturdy arms, held her close and wept. Grandma put the candles out on the tree while Grandpa comforted Margaret in the big rocking chair.

That year, Christmas Day came like it always does. It took time for Margaret's beautiful red hair to grow in again and for Grandpa's hands to heal. But that didn't matter. They had plenty of time. A loving father had reached out with love to rescue his daughter, even though she had made a mistake. Just like God did in the Bible when He sent Jesus to rescue all of us from ours. Short to read, but long to think about.

Over the Holidays

Here we go again. October . . . Halloween. November . . . Thanksgiving. December . . . Christmas. Time to pull out the holiday season dictionary and get reacquainted with the vocabulary. Let’s see, there’s:

Overachiever . . . One who goes overboard by baking six pumpkin pies from scratch using her children’s Halloween jack-o-lanterns.

Overboard . . . Being overeager to invite twenty relatives for Thanksgiving and volunteering to do all the cooking.

Overeager . . . Committing to make the reindeer costumes for Mrs. Petty’s first grade Christmas program while overlooking the fact that we don’t sew.

Overlook . . . What we do when we ignore holiday calories and gain five pounds by overeating.

Overeat . . . The process of being overwhelmed by all things chocolate.

Overwhelmed . . . The feeling we get when we overestimate the number of waking hours there are in a day to get everything done.

Overestimate . . . What we do to our holiday budget before we overspend.

Overspend . . . What we do when credit card companies overlend.

Overlend . . . What banks do to prevent overdrafts.

Overdraft . . . What happens to our account after we pay one too many overdue bills.

Overdue . . . A feeling that makes us want to pop from being overstressed.

Overstressed . . . What we become when we are overworked.

Overworked . . . How we feel when our calendars and "To Do" lists are overindulged.

Overindulged . . . What happens when we Americans don’t pause to be thankful and to realize that this holiday overload would come to a screeching halt if we didn’t have the blessings of overabundance.

This Very Christmas

This very Christmas

. . .

I shall be a carpenter who shelters a loved one from a tide of scorn

and toils to ease her path

. . .

I shall be a donkey who carries the heavy burden of a fellow traveler on a far journey

. . .

I shall be an innkeeper who has room in the inn

. . .

I shall be a servant who hears the muffled cries of a frightened young mother

on a silent night and hastens to her aid

. . .

I shall be an angel who joins with a multitude of the heavenly host

praising God and singing "Joy to the World, the Lord is Come!"

. . .

I shall be a humble shepherd whose ears are first to hear good tidings of great joy

. . .

I shall be a mother who tenderly cradles the treasure of eternity in swaddling clothes

. . .

I shall be a rich and noble wise man who follows the bright star

to kneel and worship before the manger of an infant King

. . .

And this very Christmas

. . .

I shall be a child of God who, with hope, wraps the gift of peace on earth

and gently places its fragile contents beneath the Christmas tree of humanity.

The Christmas Rocker

December always bullies its way into my life. When holiday events and lists begin to scramble my brain, I recall a simpler Christmas . . . the year of the rocker.

Our financial situation was bleak in December of 1967. As married students, we were juggling classes, jobs and the uncharted status as expectant parents. Dan had a job cleaning restrooms in the university library from 4-7 every morning. I worked part-time as a grocery checker. By late November, I was eight months pregnant and exhausted. The only thing I wanted for Christmas was the arrival of our baby. But Dan wanted a full-blown celebration. Our budget didn’t allow a tree, so he claimed a small one that had been abandoned on the curb by a fellow student who was going home for semester break. He splurged on a set of lights and concocted a tree stand from an old angel food cake pan.

Next came strings of popcorn, construction paper chains and egg shell "balls." Instead of a star on top, a tufted cloud of cotton cradled a little blue angel, the symbol of our baby’s safe arrival. The whole contraption balanced uneasily on a cedar chest. It would have made a window decorator recoil in disbelief, but somehow, this tree defied a price tag. We carefully arranged a few baby items around the base of the tree. Christmas packages from our families poked between the diapers and undershirts. No cedar chest ever displayed more hope.

The days before Christmas sludged along. We were sure my swollen frame would never carry its burden to Christmas Day. But Christmas Eve came and lingered, and even the flashing holiday lights along our street couldn’t wait up for the baby to arrive. At last, they abruptly stopped blinking, and we gave up and went to bed.

We awoke on Christmas morning realizing that the gift no material trimming could match wasn’t going to be delivered. I got up and tottered to the kitchen for some breakfast. On the way, I glanced into our tiny living room and beheld the most beautiful, sturdy, new rocker I had ever seen. The baby might have been delayed, but we owned a piece of furniture!

We sandwiched a lengthy game of Monopoly in between layers of taking pictures of each other rocking in the chair while peering lovingly into a baby quilt we had propped up with air. We paid for the rocker in six installments of $5.00 each . . . a memorable process. But it wasn’t the rocker or the lengthy payments that made the Christmas of 1967 memorable. It was the anticipation of a new life that would carve a new dimension into our marriage and make us a family.

Our Christmas gifts have changed over the years, but the message of Christmas remains the same . . . God’s gift of life to his children is the most precious gift of all. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." John 3:16

About the Sweet Potatoes

I never met a Thanksgiving I didn’t like. I like the turkey, homemade rolls and pumpkin pie. I like the family gatherings and watching the Macey’s Thanksgiving Parade. I like the football games. I like everything . . . except . . . well, maybe the sweet potatoes. We have them even though nobody eats them because . . . because it’s Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is about tradition, counting our blessings and counting our heritage as Americans, which began in 1620, when William Bradford and his little band of English castoffs made the two-month voyage across the Atlantic Ocean searching for religious freedom and a new life. Sick and exhausted, they landed at Plymouth Rock in December and were forced to spend much of the winter on the Mayflower. Half of them died. In the spring, friendly natives, led by Chief Massosoit, rescued them by teaching them how to hunt, fish and grow native crops. In the fall of 1621, those who survived hosted the first Thanksgiving feast of wild turkey, venison, pumpkin pie, vegetables, oysters, clams and bread. Sound familiar?

I’m not proud of how Massosoit’s descendants were ultimately thanked for extending the hospitality of this land. While Americans proudly sing, "This land is your land, this land is my land," it is my belief that when all is said and done, Native Americans are right. This land belongs to the Great Spirit, and the good things that come from it are a result of His direction, not ours. For this, I am grateful.

Thanksgiving came a little early this year when our nation was brought to its knees on September 11th . . . the day when every American was reminded that taking blessings and freedoms for granted is a skill most of us have mastered to perfection.

Three cheers for Thanksgiving. Here’s to stuffing the turkey and ourselves. Here’s to clogging the phone lines and airwaves by talking to relatives who are feasting in distant locations. Here’s to the whole family, surrounding the table, pausing to thank God. And last of all . . . here’s to the sweet potatoes!

Christmas ... And Everything Didn't Get Done

One blustery twenty-fourth night of December;
Time's candle had snuffed leaving nary an ember.
I lay in my bed knowing all was not right;
Christmas would come at the first break of light.
The cards were not sent and the pies were not ready,
A burden much worse made my heartbeat unsteady.
No gifts had been bought for each daughter and son,
Christmas . . . and everything didn't get done.

My pillow was crumpled and stained with fresh tears;
And I felt alone with my fate and my fears.
I wondered how God would approach such a trial
And wake in the morning still wearing a smile.
Then, amidst my emotion, a single thought stirred,
It fluttered and gently alit like a bird;
God in his infinite, wonderful way
Had left out so much on that first Christmas Day.

He left out the gingerbread and fruitcake making,
In fact, he left out all the holiday baking.
He left out the candy canes, chestnuts and eggnog,
He left out the turkey, the toffee and Yule log.
He left out the good cheer of "Frosty" and snow,
He left out the wreaths and the warm fire's glow.
He left out the ornaments, parties and pageants;
He left out the toys that each young child imagines.

Instead of the pomp and the trimmings and trappings,
Instead of the presents in colorful wrappings,
God offered his gift from an animal's stall,
Wrapped in crude bands and a young mother's shawl.
Just one little baby, so gentle and mild,
A common occurrence, the birth of a child;
Yet this special baby salvation has won,
For God so loved the world that he gave his own Son.

I knew in that moment that all would be well,
Christmas would come with its usual spell;
I could survive without even one elf,
I could give presents right out of myself.
And so, Christmas morning, the family awoke,
We laughed and we played even though we were broke;
With plenty to eat, we were warm and content,
Our happiness seemed, for the most, heaven sent.

And so I suggest if you're ever in doubt
And need to know what Christmas fuss is about,
Reach deep inside you and pull out your best,
Give something better than toys or a vest.
Give something meaningful, something unique,
It may be as small as the words that you speak;
You'll find, if you do, that when Christmas is past,
You have given a gift like God's Son that will last.

The Fantastical Twenty-Fifth Day of December

Long, long ago in a town far away,
Jesus was born on the first Christmas Day.
He slept in a manger in the open air,
His mother was Mary, and she loved him there.

Her baby was special, for he was the one
Who came here as God's only begotten Son.
While shepherds were watching their flocks in the night,
Angels announced Him by holy starlight.

"Hosanna, hosanna," and "Joy to the earth!"
Heavenly messengers proclaimed His birth.
Above in the sky, there appeared a new star,
Wise men came following it from afar.

And that's how it happened, the true Christmas story,
Of Jesus Christ coming to the earth in his glory;
And that is a birthday the world could remember,
The heavenly twenty-fifth day of December.

Then . . .
Somebody noticed the story was small,
And somebody else turned and said, "Is that all?
The birth of one baby, there isn't much to it.
Why, thousands of babies come daily and do it.

This wee celebration is too itty bitty,
What Christmas Day needs is a steering committee!"
Invitations were sent out to gather attention,
Announcing an annual committee convention.

First came the tree growers, lined up in rows
With folks who make ornaments, tinsel and bows.
They brought some mistletoe, wreaths and green holly,
And "Frosty the Snowman" to make children jolly.

Six merry gentlemen came in their sleigh
Jingling jingle bells all of the way.
Next, electricians with bright, colored lights
Introduced timers that work forty nights.

Friendly fruit cakers and gingerbread bakers
Gathered with cookie and candy cane makers.
Sugar plum fairies and sweet chocolate dippers
Mixed with spiced cider and cool eggnog sippers.

Shoemakers, jewelers and quick sweater knitters
Hooked up with merchants and cool ski outfitters.
Then came dear Santa with sixty-eight elves,
Toy makers came and began stocking shelves.

Next came musicians with bell choirs and bands,
Singing of chestnuts from their music stands.
Pianists brought in a partridge and pear tree,
Twelve drummers drumming joined in for a small fee.

Animal trainers brought Rudolph and Prancer,
The Nutcracker brought his most trim ballet dancer.
Pageant performers and suave movie stars
Brought contracts and fat scripts and their VCR's.

I Was Just Wondering

If Mary Celebrated Christmas in the 21st Century . . .

  • Would her December calendar look like a color-coded advertisement for Franklin/Covey day planners?


  • Would she sew a reindeer costume for her first grader?


  • Would she write an annual Christmas letter?


  • Would she shop for presents for all her relatives and friends, the wise men, shepherds, herald angels, the angel of the Lord, and just to be on the safe side, the innkeeper and King Herod?


  • Would she avoid the postal rush by mailing her packages by Thanksgiving?


  • Would she decorate her home to look like a Christmas fairyland?


  • Would she host a holiday party for all the coworkers in Joseph's carpentry shop?


  • Would she listen to Christmas albums by The Carpenters, Kenny G and Barbara Streisand?


  • Would she read "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" to her preschoolers and go see the movie?


  • Would she create gingerbread houses and distribute them to the neighbors?


  • Would the family Christmas tree be real Scotch pine or artificial?


  • Would she remind Joseph to hang the Christmas tree lights?


  • Would she bake sugar cookies from dough in a tube or make them from scratch?


  • Would she contribute a cross-stitch project to her community's Christmas craft fair?


  • Would she get tickets for "The Nutcracker Ballet?"


  • Would she watch videos of "Miracle on 34th Street," "It's A Wonderful Life" and "Home Alone?"


  • Would she help her children put out milk and cookies for Santa Claus?


  • Would she serve ham or turkey for Christmas dinner?


  • With all the "goodwill toward men" squeezed onto her holiday To-Do List, would she leave space to ponder the birth of her Firstborn Son?

I Was Just Wondering #2

If Mary had her baby in the 21st Century . . .


  • Would she respond to the angel of the Lord with, "Me, a virgin? Are you kidding?"


  • Would she ask the angel of the Lord to come back when her career was established?


  • Would she use a pregnancy test to find out for sure?


  • Would her doctor say that her baby would be at risk because she was so young?


  • Would she and Joseph detect an unusual aura on the baby's ultra-sound?


  • Would she use MasterCard to finance the crib and car seat?


  • Would she call ahead to make reservations in Bethlehem?


  • Would she crave peppermint candy cane ice cream?


  • Would she negotiate with her boss for maternity leave?


  • Would she research her options for quality daycare?


  • Would she call her mom and dad when she went into labor and hear the voice on the answering machine say, "Your call is very important to us?"


  • Would she tell Joseph to forget the donkey idea and call 911?


  • Would she shield her eyes from the brightness of the new star as she gazed into the sky in disbelief?


  • Would she use Pampers and a warm, zippered bunting instead of swaddling clothes?


  • Would she ask the herald angels to skip the personal visit and send their CD instead?


  • Would she insist that a dirty manger used to feed cattle was no place for her baby?


  • Would she ask the shepherds to show some identification?


  • Would she thank the wise men for the gold and send Joseph to the mall to exchange the frankincense and myrrh?


  • With all the visitors and the excitement of the birth of her Firstborn Son, would there be a scrap of time for "peace on earth?"

An Optimist's Thanksgiving

I have lots to be thankful for on the first Thanksgiving Day of the 21st Century. I’m especially thankful that I'm an optimist.

I’m thankful for several pairs of black shoes strewn around the family room. It means that my children attended church.

I’m thankful for a sinkful of dirty dishes. It means that all of us left the table with full stomachs.

I’m thankful that a new bill will be making its way to our mailbox each month. It means that our new gas furnace is doing its job.

I’m thankful for our only car . . . a 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. It means that we don’t have a car payment.

I’m thankful for the piles of leaves in my yard. It means we had shade all summer long.

I’m thankful that when I get tired of hearing politicians whine, I can put the newspaper in the bottom of the cat’s litter box and turn off the television.

I’m thankful for piles of laundry in the laundry room. It means my washer and dryer are working well and that I don’t have to make trips to the laundromat.

I’m thankful my mom and dad had surgery on their eyes this year. It means that at ages 90 and 86, they are healthy and can still see.

I’m thankful for friends and family who look, act and think differently than I do. It means the world is an endlessly fascinating place to live.

I’m thankful for a Heavenly Father who gave ten commandments instead of ten suggestions. It means there’s no question about what to do to be happy.