- Finding the Perfect Present -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Breaking Bread -- Regina Walker
- A Christmas Without Uncle Bud -- Elizabeth Thompson
- On the Bright Side -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Let Hearts Be Light -- Elizabeth Ross
- Missing Silent Night -- Jim Turner
Showing posts with label December 2004. Show all posts
Showing posts with label December 2004. Show all posts
DECEMBER 2004
The HOLIDAY Issue:
Finding the Perfect Present
Ever since Charles Dickens wrote a little story called A Christmas Carol, being haunted by the ghosts of our pasts, presents, and futures have become sort of synonymous with the holiday season. As each new year approaches, one can’t help but look back on the previous year, and make resolutions for the next. But no matter how “naughty” we have been, just like good old Ebeneezer Scrooge we all hope to have the chance to make a last minute jump onto Santa’s “nice list.”Still, what exactly is it about the holiday season that makes us analyze our lives? Why do we share an almost universal desire to be deemed worthy of the presents we are given? What makes us want to give gifts to our friends, family, and fellow earth-dwellers? And why can’t we be joyful, peaceful, spiritual, and giving all year — rather than just during the holiday season?
I have a sneaking suspicion that being in the “giving spirit” every day of the year—24 hours a day — just wouldn’t work. Ironically, I learned this lesson from Sesame Street. Back when my daughter, Olivia, was two, she watched Elmo Saves Christmas about 4000 times during the month of July. In the video, Elmo makes a wish on Santa’s magical snowglobe — and what does he wish for? Why, Christmas EVERYDAY! But much to Elmo’s surprise, Christmas Everyday is too much of a good thing. The loving, happy people of Sesame Street become exhausted and frustrated, and are practically ready to run poor Elmo out of town. Finally, Elmo admits that he made a mistake. He realizes that if Christmas came everyday, then it would no longer be special. And it might even become a chore.
I guess that being “too nice” definitely takes a toll on people; and limited exposure to “good will” probably works best. After all, we can’t all be saints, just like we can’t all be sinners. But we can still strive to be our best, hopefully learning from our past mistakes without too much damage or regret.
I recently picked up and read a copy of Spencer Johnson’s The Present. Just like Johnson’s other book, Who Moved My Cheese?, this book provides a short, life lesson about something that is somewhat obvious, yet elusive, as well. Johnson believes that people can lead successful and happy lives, both at work and at home, if they live their lives guided by some very basic, simple truths.
Long story, short — the moral of Johnson’s tale is that “The Present” is “the most valuable” gift you can receive. Johnson says, “The Present is not the Past and it is not the Future. The Present is the Present Moment. The Present is Now.”
To some, Johnson’s message about living in the present, may seem rather corny and a bit self-evident. Yet why is it, then, that so many of us ignore this commonsense by dwelling in the past or running towards the future? Why can’t we simply “learn from the past” and “plan for the future” as Johnson suggests?
It basically goes back to the same message that Charles Dickens shared long ago through his tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, a man who finally sees the light: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.”
And whether we know it or not, there really is no such thing as the “perfect present.” There is only The Present and what we make of it.
Johnson gives these reminders about finding your own “present”:
1. You already know what The Present is.
2. You already know where to find it.
3. And you already know how it can make you happy and successful.
4. You knew it best when you were younger.
5. You have simply forgotten.
This holiday season, instead of stressing out about finding the perfect present, perhaps we should all take a deeper look at the present we already possess.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Breaking Bread
I think my family was strange while I was growing up. Unique, maybe is a better word. Unlike others, I suppose. I was always so self-conscious growing up, I never knew if it was me or my family. Did everyone’s family follow bizarre customs all their own? Did they all act as though it were the norm? Was it just me who wanted to blend into the woodwork? Was I the only one with a barely part-time dad who appeared almost like an unknown celebrity or an angry god?
On the occasions I ate at friends houses I saw just how different every family was. There was my best friend who went to public school whose parents were alcoholics. She was an only child and since her parents would be blitzed by dinnertime, we would get to choose any fast food we wanted. Chinese usually won out and we’d order egg rolls and shrimp in lobster sauce and feast in her room while her parents drank Old Milwaukee in the living room. It was always exciting to me because, in a sense, there were no rules. It didn’t matter what or how much we ate or how much of a mess we left. It was all okay to her parents who were basically oblivious to us. The family had a maid who would come in the morning and do away with the old beer cans and Chinese food containers; the evidence. In a way, it was almost like being an adult. Doing our own thing, making our own decisions without anyone else’s input or permission. Her parents depended more on us than us on them.
I had another friend from my Catholic, all-girls prep school whose family approached mealtime in a somber, reverent, and proper way. They were a well to do, intact, and religiously devout family. Plates were filled by mother in the kitchen and each looked identical. The expectation was that everything on the plate would be eaten and with minimal table discussion. The food was always in shades of brown and off-white and even the vegetables had lost their vibrancy, spice, and uniqueness from kitchen to dining room. There was meat, a starch, and a vegetable. End of story. And there was prayer before the meal. “Thank you Lord for this bland and ubiquitous food.” And then silent consumption.
I was a bit of an oddity. I did well in school. Had good manners, but came from an untraditional family. I was a great student and a pro at fitting in.
When I was in college, food became something dangerous; worthy of fear. Puberty and my teenage years brought curves and awkwardness so my penchant for anything chocolate or fried had to be contained. My appetite for such foods was like a beast within me with an obvious goal of making me fat and possibly ridiculed or rejected by my peers. I was alone now in college. No one else’s rules to follow so I had to create my own. Since my earlier years were without specific boundaries, I was at a loss. I started to measure my food. A little brown rice, a little steamed broccoli, a bit of roasted chicken. It was shades of mom and the measuring cup. Food and my power and ability to control my intake of it in itself became a ritual and a display of my ability to overcome temptation, desire, and appetite. Food took on a different meaning. It had less to do with nourishment and more to do with self-control. How would what I eat make me look? How would others judge me? Who was I?
Today I seem to have no rituals around food. I have been able to let them go. It is freeing. I wonder if my kids would do better with formality around mealtime though I don’t know that it did much for me. We have picnics of pizza (too often!) on the living room floor. Oh and chicken nuggets while watching Spongebob Squarepants. I guess those are rituals in themselves. And ones we truly embrace.
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Copyright 2004 Regina Walker
A Christmas Without Uncle Bud
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
The headline read: Hotel Blast in Baghdad Kills Two.
I felt compelled to click on the “raw video” icon and it wasn’t due to some morbid sense curiosity. I saw the quick flash of a face…a face of a soldier who looked a hell of a lot like my brother.
In my mind I knew that he was fine and that his unit was deployed far from any fighting, but my heart raced as I continued to scroll through the story and flash over the streets littered with chunks of the damaged hotel.I covered the computer screen with my hand when I heard a voice behind me ask, “Wow. Are those soldiers? Like Uncle Bud?"
It was my five-year-old son. He adores his uncle and is passionate on the subject of military life. He brings home library books on The Revolutionary War and has a collection of figures wherein medieval warriors battle cowboys and Indians. He believes that George Washington should still be the President of the United States and listened intently to the tour guide at his home in Mount Vernon, VA. I couldn’t help but smile as he drew a few glances from the rest of the adults in his attempts to correct her, once or twice.
His fascination with the rules of combat is quite amusing, but I’m beginning to wonder if his attention toward warfare is quite as healthy – so I attempt to tread lightly and point to the fuzzy picture on the computer screen, “Yep, they’re soldiers looking for the bad guys who made this mess.”
He placed his G.I. Joe on my desk and moved closer as a smile quickly flashed across his face, but I bit my lower lip and waited.
“War is so cewl!”
There it was and if I had fur, it would have been standing on end right at that moment. I pulled my son onto my lap and allowed him to watch the video with me, again. He gasped when I told him that the blown out windows and crumbling building was a hotel similar to one we stayed in recently. He moved closer to the screen to see the damaged vehicles, some almost unrecognizable, and he was surprised to learn that they were once real and not some special effect. I pointed at the ambulances and reminded him that there were probably injured people, two of which were reported to have died.
After watching the short news clip, my son asked, “Is Uncle Buddy going there to fight in a war?”
I have found it difficult to prepare myself for his deployment…not being able to see him at our parents’ house on Sundays… isolated and strained to celebrate our 40th birthday without my twin brother…
But planning a Christmas without their Uncle Bud has been disappointing, to say the least. Trying to help my children understand that war was bad and Uncle Bud was good has been extremely challenging.
“No, thank goodness, but if America asked him to, he would. Because it’s his job to protect us and to protect our right to live free. And sometimes that means he has to protect people in other countries as well. From leaders who don’t want that kind of freedom for their people. That means that no one can tell you what to be when you grow up; or that your three sisters can’t do something just because they are girls; or no one can tell you to be quiet when you want to talk about something you don’t think is right. Stuff like that.”
I continued my attempts to help my son understand that gun battles and blowing things up is not as glamorous as some weird and badly animated cartoon might portray. That a lot of soldiers...who have families just like ours…have died. That even though I was sad that my brother would be away from his family for the holidays, I was happy that he was okay.
“Will Uncle Bud have snow for Christmas?”
My three-year-old rubbed her big brown eyes and yawned, fresh from her afternoon nap. My two oldest girls stopped playing their game and watched me closely as I shook my head and turned off the computer.
“Nah, it’s very hot in Cuba and he’ll probably wear shorts on Christmas Eve and go swimming on Christmas Day. Maybe you can draw him a picture of snow and send it to him! Wouldn’t that be cool?”
I turned away and headed for the kitchen, because I was afraid that I would begin to cry.
“Anybody thirsty?”
We sat at our kitchen table, drank our warm chocolate milk topped with marshmallows and talked about Christmas without Uncle Bud. I scraped at the dried up glitter glue and spoke of tree lightings, holiday shows and caroling with the girls scouts, but tried to think of a way to make this Christmas a little more, special.
They finished their mugs and wanted to know, “What’s for lunch?” The usual argument ensued and I insisted that they try and agree on one thing, because I would not be making three different meals, when my son interjected, “Yeah. ‘Cause that’s ‘cause we live in America. I say we vote Mommy from being the boss!”
Perhaps my husband is right and there is such a thing as too much information. Rest assured, I acknowledged that the right to vote was indeed a wonderful thing. And I stressed the fact that even though I may not be the boss of them, I was still their mother -- who, incidentally, had a direct line to Santa.
As peace keeping efforts continue overseas, I pray that each and every one of us find a little of our own peace and comfort in sharing this holiday season with family and friends. And in the spirit of the holidays, I hope that those of us who are separated will, one day, be together again.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
On the Bright Side
I was thinking about the upcoming holiday season and it didn’t make me happy. Last year I remember feeling at loose ends and unfocused on New Year’s Day. Many of us suffer from post-holiday letdown; everyone seems to get sick and we seem unable to shake off whatever bug has invaded our system. It's a downer.My holidays were peaceful, happy and uncomplicated but I felt no joy. At first I thought it was me, but people I talked to, including teenagers, seniors and folks in-between seemed to share the same feeling. Not particularly rushed or harried -- but empty, a void, ennui hard to shake off. The holidays seemed to be a big chore to get through, another job done. A sad commentary on a festive season.
I’ve come to the conclusion that part of this feeling comes from possessing too many “things”. We suffer from the poverty of plenty. Christmas presents often only add to a surplus of already unused or under-utilized items cluttering our lives. I realize there are those who don’t have enough income to meet even the basic costs of food, shelter and clothing. But many of us are able to buy whatever we want. The problem is, things don’t seem to make us happy; otherwise why do we always want more?
Someone will always have more expensive jewelry, a bigger home, a larger income, two new cars, smarter kids or a connection enabling them to get the promotion we deserve. Why can’t we ever be happy with who we are and where we are?
So my wish for you this holiday season is for less. Especially paying less attention to undefined “shoulds” and “what they say” and listening to your own inner needs and desires for a change. Less racing around on roads which become more congested by the day. What’s the rush? Instead of hunching over the wheel, blasting the horn and swearing, sit back and relax. You’ll get there just as fast and without a headache.
If you’re tired after coaching Little League for years, had enough of being a Brownie leader, of volunteering at your child’s school or have given all the time you can or want to give to an organization just say – “Sorry I’m tired”. To kids who often make unreasonable and selfish demands on your time or pocketbook it’s okay to say, “Not today; I have something I want to do”. They’ll survive and hopefully learn the give-and-take necessary in a healthy family and society.
My fondest wish is for less television in our lives including the nightmare we call MTV, video games, and sexual and violent films. The media message of hype, noise and competition assaults our senses and sensibilities, insidiously working its way into the core of our being. And we wonder why we’re always running, hyper or hostile. Maybe because it’s expected and accepted?
And for this Christmas season - select fewer gifts for folks on your list, perhaps just one, even for family members. But a gift you’ve selected with love and care, not a check-off item on a list. Less to eat and drink. Less holiday hassle by celebrating the way you want to, not the way they say it should be done, whomever your particular “they” may be.
Try less this year. It gives you more of a chance to be you.
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Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu
Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.
Let Hearts Be Light
In spite of the fact that the Christmas season is supposed to be happy, very often, people focus on the negative. Professionals have offered various terms for it, but rarely offer the most common sense remedy to the milder cases: humor.
This year I am bound and determined to keep the amusing memories of family holidays in my mind. I will tell them to my children in the hope that they remember the tales, and pass the humorous history on to their own children.
The first story is one that is pure legend to me, since it occurred the year I was born. It was the reason my father always gave when I would ask why we always had an artificial Christmas tree. I was born in the first hour of December 26th, and spent almost two weeks in the hospital.
Because my parents stayed with family in the city during that time, they didn’t end up returning home until after the new year. My father forgot his key, so he had to break into the house; the crack in the basement door in our kitchen is still visible through layers of paint. He went into the living room to check on the tree. Most of the needles and glass ornaments fell to the floor when he touched it, leaving a pile of shattered glass, and the necessity to buy new ornaments for our next Christmas. Live trees were considered too high maintenance for the next thirty years, and I introduced a tradition of acquiring them after my father’s death. Admittedly, watering the tree is a near religious affair for me.
Perhaps the family should have taken that as a warning, but it is doubtful they could have prevented the inevitable. She looked Santa straight in the eye and asked, “Why are you wearing Uncle John’s boots?” Before anything could be said to diffuse the situation, Santa stripped off his beard, unceremoniously removed my mother from his lap, and left the house, mumbling about his convictions to never dress as Old Saint Nick again.
If my mother hadn’t lost her belief in Santa by then, I have no doubt that year contributed greatly to that loss of innocence. My own revelation was not particularly momentous, but it was obvious. That year, although I don’t remember my age, I did respond to my newly acquired knowledge with some grace. I asked my mother for the biggest mixing bowl in the cupboard. She was not entirely certain what I was planning, but acquiesced. I proceeded to fill the bowl with ice, and placed it in the hall near the plate of cookies for Santa. Then I returned to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of my father’s beer from the refrigerator, putting it on ice in the hallway. My mother asked me why I was leaving beer for Santa, and my reply was to the point: “Dad doesn’t like milk very much.”
Holidays have many traditions, activities repeated for years, and even generations. Along with the myriad of situations that can cast a somber atmosphere on the season, there are those that can add a glow of happiness. Without getting into the rhetoric of the “reason for the season”, I think now that it is best to focus on the latter.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Ross
Missing Silent Night
As my wife and I sit and talk about our plans for the upcoming holidays and our plans for attending this meal at that relative’s home or that school play and that party for work, I am suddenly overcome with the thought of our servicemen and women that won’t get the chance to make plans for the holidays.
Their plans have already been made for them and they don’t include sitting and watching that turkey being carved, or that look on a child’s face when they open their special gift, and they won’t be kissing a loved one as the ball drops in
They will be standing guard, or they will be flying in the skies over hostile territory. They will be serving meals to their comrades, fixing machinery, and clearing sand and grit from their eyes while in a strange land.
Our servicemen and women make this sacrifice to protect me while I watch my children eat their pumpkin pie, open gifts under the Christmas tree, and play their role in the school play. Our families are safe as a result of their efforts and the commitment of each of them. It is inevitable that some will pay the ultimate price of freedom with their lives, and still others will be wounded, and all of these sacrifices for no other reason than their country needed them.
Our soldiers are not the only ones making a sacrifice during this holiday season. They have left behind families and loved ones. These are the families that have loaned us their sons, daughters, husbands, wives and fathers and mothers. They too will be sitting at home without being able to share in the fellowship of their loved one. Daddy won’t be there to help them put out cookies and milk for Santa Claus and tuck them away in their beds. They won’t have Mommy to make that special meal for Christmas dinner, and to give them that extra piece of fudge just because it’s a special day. A brother is gone to war, and that special holiday tradition of a picture while standing under the mistletoe will be missed this year.
I come home in the evenings and plop down on the couch for a few minutes until I hear the service door open and my son shouts my name, screaming all the while with arms open wide wanting a hug and a kiss. This is something I look forward to every day and no matter the difficulties I have endured, this always seems to add a spark. My peers in the military do not have the luxury of a spark to cheer them and warm their heart when they have had a bad day. My friend Jenny from
“It is important to my kids that we go on with our old traditions as much as we possibly can. It seems to help them to change as little at home as possible. I will probably put up more pictures of my husband around the house and remind them that their dad is still a part of our lives. I will tell them now that even though their dad cannot be here in person for the holidays, he will be here in spirit and we are always in his heart."Jenny’s story is not unlike many other people this holiday season. When some of us will be cuddled up with our spouse watching our children rip open their gifts, showing their excitement, some families will only have a picture of that loved one to look upon as they celebrate this special time of year.
Although Jenny keeps her head high and stays strong for the sake of her children, she bravely states that this is the life we have chosen as a military family. Not only do I salute her husband for his sacrifice, but I also take my hat off to Jenny. I pray for her husband’s safe return, so that next year, he can wake up with his children to see what Santa Claus has brought them.
There are 150,000 of our Americans serving in the War in
I think back to hearing about a time when we had men across the
No matter how we celebrate this holiday season, we should take a moment to remember the men and women making it possible for us to celebrate in our safety and in our freedom. I will also pray for peace and for their safe return.
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Copyright 2004 Jim Turner
Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.
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