For as long as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be a mom, partly because I always enjoyed being around younger kids. I transitioned from playing with baby dolls to babysitting to working at an after-school care program to working as a certified teacher. The natural next step was becoming a mom. When your kids are little, well-meaning people will say things like, “Just wait until she’s a teenager,” as if those early, harrowing years of keeping a newborn alive or surviving toddler tantrums weren’t bad enough. This kind of mentality—the dreading of parenting teens—would seep into my thoughts as I anxiously awaited the day that my precious babies would morph into hideous creatures bent on my destruction. I gravitated toward preschoolers, not high schoolers. Then my daughters reached that pinnacle age that made them teenagers. I’m not going to say it’s been easy. Hell hath no fury like a 7th grade girl who’s having a bad day. Their moods were erratic. They suffered through the highest highs and the lowest lows. But we’ve survived middle school and nearly half of high school, so now I can say that I truly love teens. And not just mine. This weekend I was a chaperone of 55 or so teen girls on a church retreat. We drove up the side of a mountain and made our beds in cobwebby cabins full of Asian beetles tapping at the windows. It wasn’t luxurious or especially comfortable, but that’s not why we went up the mountain. The five other “chaper-moms” (and two sweet college girls) and I were there for those girls. We cooked for them and prayed with them. We helped them find misplaced sweatshirts and enthusiastically played card games with them. We laughed with them and shared with them. A deep sisterhood developed. The chaperones told the girls stories about dating our husbands and giving birth to our kids. We frankly answered questions and explained how we didn’t always get everything right. Hopefully, we showed these already loved girls that there are other women who care about them, too, casting that net of safety and protection just a little bit wider. But the beauty of weekends like these go beyond just a few days. When you reach the heart of someone who is at such a midway place like those teen years, you can see the effects and after-effects for years to come. I’ve already seen it in my daughters. They were once those younger teens, watching and following the lead of the older girls. Now they, along with their friends, are being watched and studied. They are setting the bar for how to treat others. And I know they are watching us moms, too. They are seeing how we laugh together and cry together and share our icky stuff without judgment or an ultimate need to fix everything. So when I came home and sorted through the mail, setting aside a pile of graduation invitations, I knew without a doubt that I no longer consider teens “hideous creatures bent on my destruction.” These sisters are my people. #community #friendship #leadership #parenthood

When my children were younger, I taught them to look at adults when they spoke to them. “Give her your eyes,” I would say when someone asked them questions or complimented their Sunday clothes. This is basic courtesy. It’s the foundation of face-to-face communication. When you look into the eyes of another human being, you are saying, “I am listening.” When I demonstrated for my children how to safely cross the street, I taught them to make eye contact with the drivers. “When you look at them and you know that they see you, then you can cross in front of them without worrying,” I would say as we idled at the edge of a sidewalk, making our way to school in the morning. Something happens when two sets of eyes lock. There’s a silent click that occurs, a momentary understanding, a brief acknowledgment. That moment may not translate into anything permanent or even positive. It may not get filed away as a significant memory, but there is magic in seeing and being seen. I try to practice what I preach, making eye contact with all people, even those who don’t conform to the norms of society. I try to look without staring into the eyes of the disabled. I want my eyes to speak when my words might be too clumsy. I want my smile to say “Hello! I’m happy to see you!” I want to remember the words of Robert Hensel, the man born with Spina bifida who holds the Guinness World Record for the longest non-stop wheelie in a wheelchair. He once said, “There is no greater disability in society than the inability to see a person as more.” I want to see more. I remember so clearly when I fell in love with my husband, nearly a quarter of a century ago. This was the first time I participated in the romantic equivalent of a staring contest. It seems pretty cheesy now, but in the initial puppy love phase, we would look deeply into each other’s eyes without feeling foolish or pressured to break the gaze. The more and better he knew me—the real me, not the “First Date” version—the more I could allow myself to be seen by him. During our dating years, when he sometimes saw me at less than my best—throwing up that one time or post-wisdom teeth removal with bloody gums and high on pain meds, this vulnerability became easier. We may not gaze deeply into each other’s eyes as much now, but I have been known to enter a room and stare at him while trying to remember why I came into that room. I’m not sure if that counts, but it does seem to help. Maybe he’s my North Star and his job is to realign my compass so I can get back on track. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Can I help you?” and I squint my eyes in concentration as if to say, “Hang on. Don’t anybody move. I’m thinking.” It’s remarkable what truly seeing can accomplish. And what a difference it can make if we just look up and give each other our eyes. #empathy

To the baby of the family, Ezzy Bear, Lieutenant Happy Face (more of a reminder to cease complaining than an actual title), Ez, Lil Man, Ketchup or Enchilada (codenames for when we’re talking about him in front of him because spelling his name sounds too much like his name): You leave no soccer ball unkicked and no question unasked and no burger uneaten. You have taught us things about ourselves and the heart’s ability to love. You make us smile when you ruffle the hair of your teammates and pat their backs to console them after a missed kick. You make us laugh when you put on your “rocky roll” shows in the basement, complete with dance moves not seen since the days of Solid Gold. You make us proud to be your family. Someone asked me recently if I am at the point in my parenting of Ezra that I truly love him as much or in the same way I love my older three. I answered something generic—I don’t really remember what—but I gave this some thought later. I decided it’s not just about love. Love implies self-sacrifice and devotion and meeting basic physical needs. My maternal instincts create this kind of love for children. It pours out of me pretty easily, like water running downstream. I love most all kids, so yes, I love (read: adore) Ezra. We help him shower and brush his teeth. We pack his lunch for school and quiz him with sight word flash cards. But wholly parenting a child who didn’t come from me is more about connection than love. I loved him before I met him, all those years he grew up without us, a world away. But now we have found connection. When he leans into me when I read him a bedtime book. When he trusts me when I offer an explanation to something confusing. When he believes me when I say everything will be okay each time I take him to the doctor’s office to get a shot. On the second anniversary of his homecoming, we marvel at all he’s learned and how he’s changed. How every time he saw an animal on TV or in person (even a squirrel), his first questions used to be: “Me touchy him? Him eaty me?” We selfishly mourn the loss of Ezra-isms like “inja” for ninja and “crocogators” for crocodiles (or alligators?) and “package” for practice and him making kissing noises to simulate a referee whistle. But we know this is a natural and positive alteration. He needs to grow and change. At this point, it just feels like he fits in our family. Looking back on our original decision to adopt, I don’t know what we expected. All I know is that God asked us to make room in our family for another kid. There have been growing pains and stretch marks as we created space for this one, but God always provided the elasticity required. Now Ezra is tethered to us in a way that can never be severed. I’m sure there are times when he’s wished for a different family—one with a mom who would let him drink Coke for supper and stay up late on school nights—but he’s stuck with us, stuck because love means commitment but also because we’re forever connected. #adoption

I’m attempting to implement a more disciplined writing schedule for myself. Seeing as how it’s been about a week since I’ve added anything new to the fictional work I’m in the middle of, I would take any schedule not defined as “sporadic” at this point. I’m a closet introvert with occasional people-pleasing tendencies that can cause my self-esteem to wobble, so I’m prone to battling some pretty ridiculous mind games. I’ve had a few things published, giving me great joy, but there’s always that little, persistent voice saying, “You won’t be able to do that again. That was a fluke.” Part of the problem is that, for me, my writing practice and eventual product can’t easily be categorized. Is it my job? Well, I don’t make enough to support myself or add much to my family’s expenses with the proceeds of my books. When someone asks me what I do for a living, I pause, wondering how pretentious it would sound to say I’m an author. Is it my hobby? Hobbies are great, but that sounds too casual. It doesn’t adequately express my attachment to this process. Is there such a thing as a jobby? Anyway… Unless I place an appropriate value and priority on my writing plan, I will always push it to the back, that dark, overlooked room in my brain where I list things like: clean the top of the refrigerator or dust the ceiling fan blades. Those are tasks that I should do but other things just seem more pressing. And then there’s the ever-present fear of failure and humiliation. When you write something and put it out for anyone to read, you invite all kinds of criticism. It’s like you’re saying: “Here’s something I’ve created and I love and I’m proud of. Please pick this apart and tell me I stink.” Another possible hindrance to choosing words for sentences and sentences for paragraphs, is the Fame Dilemma. Am I doing this for the sake of art and the chance to create something brand new or is it so I can meet Oprah? In certain circles, ambition is a dirty word, especially for women (hopefully that becomes less of a cultural issue with each passing decade). This desire for success seems innocent enough until it starts to feel wicked and vulgar, and I question why I even attempt to get anything published at all. Such is the battle being waged upon my psyche. I say all this because I’ve been thinking a lot why I started a blog in the first place way back in 2011. Originally, I wanted a place to update friends about our adoption. The 4+ years that slogged on without our son home made me rethink the purpose of my blog and ultimately find my voice. I grew to love my voice and find joy in refining the language that spoke to the hearts of others. So every once in a while, when I’m in an Ideas Desert with no words to make sentences and no sentences to make paragraphs, I feel false and empty. I plop down on the dry ground of that metaphorical desert floor and weep into my hands because all of my thoughts are jumbled and imprecise. My emotions are high and my understanding is low. And I’m afraid the fairy dust has dissolved and the magic is gone. But eventually, I discover something new I want to say and my voice returns. And I write, not because I want money (though that would be nice) or fame (is that Oprah calling?), but because words have become my favorite medium. I like to try them out, chewing them in my mouth briefly before choosing the best one for my taste. I like constructing sentences, long ones with plenty of descriptions and short ones with abbreviated emphasis. I like to look at the jagged margins where I can watch my paragraphs building a story or a series of thoughts like a staircase. I like writing, and I’m going to try to employ this quote from the legendary tennis star, Arthur Ashe: “Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.” Whatever this is, it is mine. My name is Abby and writing is my jobby. #creativity #learning

At the end of February, I was given the opportunity to speak at a Family Reading Night at my son’s elementary school. I spoke for about 20 minutes about different types of book genres and my writing process. I showed the kids (and their parents) examples of the books I’ve written. The kids were great listeners and asked really smart questions at the end. Before the second session started, I asked my son Ezra, who was born in Africa and added to our family almost 2 years ago, to pass out bookmarks I had brought for all of the kids in attendance. Three elementary-aged girls—two younger white girls and one older black girl—sitting at my feet, waiting for my talk to begin, noticed my black son calling a white woman “mom,” so they asked me about it. “Is he your son?” asked the older girl, probably a 5th grader. When you have an adopted child of a different race, this is a normal question and, in my experience, not usually meant unkindly, so I’ve found it’s best to just answer honestly and without a lot of details. You can always elaborate if they need more information. “Yes,” I answered. “He looks different than you, like you’re light and he’s dark,” one of the younger girls, a 1st grader, commented. “He was born in a different country, but he’s in our family now.” I wondered if they would ask the uncomfortable question: what happened to his real mom? That’s the one that makes my chest tighten up and causes me to scan the room to see if Ezra heard the question, so I can read his face. As a rule, adopted parents prefer to be considered real (It’s not like I’m invisible or anything), but I have been around the block enough to know that vocabulary sometimes fails us, and what people say isn’t always what they mean. In other words, it’s not helpful to assume people are judging the whole adoption/race thing and get yourself all worked up. But these girls didn’t ask the dreaded question, so I didn’t have to talk about the sad events in Ezra’s life with perfect strangers. Instead, these precious leaders of tomorrow had this discussion: 1st grade girl: Did you know that a long time ago dark-skinned people couldn’t go to school with light-skinned people? But Dr. King told them that was wrong. 5th grade girl: Yeah, Dr. King wasn’t president but he was still really important. He told us that we’re all the same. 1st grade girl: That’s why it doesn’t matter if your son looks different than you. 5th grade girl: You can love everybody. The other girl who had been silently listening to this enlightened discussion finally spoke. She said, “I’m excited about your talk but I feel like I’ve already learned a lot from you guys.” I jotted down the words they said before I left the school, because…come on. That’s amazing. When you start thinking we adults have really made a mess of everything, say a prayer of thanks for the kids at John Pittard Elementary School. We can get along. We can talk it out. We can learn from the mistakes of those who came before us. When kids are shown loving, mature examples of empathy and given a chance to spend time together in this kind of atmosphere, they will figure out how to make the world a better place. #adoption #children #empathy #race

I have found that the best way to get to know my kindergarten son’s friends and classmates is by making a weekly visit to eat lunch with him at his elementary school. My go-to questions when meeting these classmates for the first time are usually: “Do you have any brothers or sisters? And if so, how old are they?” and “What did you do in Special Area (art, music, library, P.E., computer) today?” I can’t get out of there without also saying something like: “You need to eat that fish sandwich or you’ll be really hungry later.” Replace fish sandwich with chicken ring thing or steak sliders or whatever else is on the menu, and you get the idea. You can’t take away my Mom-ness, even in a busy, ear-ringing lunch room with other peoples’ kids. A few weeks ago, I noticed one of the girls in my son’s class carrying her lunch tray while timidly looking for a place to sit. I watched as another student banished her with an outstretched arm and pointing finger to the far end of their table. The little girl smiled shyly, assuming they were teasing and tried to scoot back down to sit with the trio of her classmates, but she was instructed a second time to move away. With a broken heart for the crumbling kindergartener, I asked my son if I could go and sit with her instead of staying with him. He waved me off as if to say: “No biggee. I sit with you all the time,” and I headed to the other table. By then, the little girl had pushed her tray forward and laid her head on the table. We chatted for the rest of lunch as I tried to cheer her up and remind her to eat: “That chicken patty looks good! And that corn? Yum! Come on and eat up!” But I was mostly sad for how poorly people often treat each other, even little kids. Our family has been watching The Blue Planet TV shows recently. This nature series—like its forerunner, Planet Earth—shows amazing footage of animals doing unexpected things. The Blue Planet episodes are all set under or around water. One thing I found remarkable was a segment about Sand Tiger Sharks. They pointed out that they are one of the few animals which may resort to eating their own kind. Sand Tiger Sharks will hunt other fish, but if things get desperate they will turn on each other. This got me thinking about all of the times I’ve watched shows with animals in hunting parties—a pride of lions trying to take down a pack of gazelles, for instance—and even if they’re unsuccessful, they won’t attack each other. It’s like there’s something instinctive in their brains telling them not to eat a fellow lion but to keep working together instead. I’d hate to think of humans in the same category as Sand Tiger Sharks, Praying Mantis, and Black Widow Spiders—all animals who are willing to throw away any connection to their same species when mealtime rolls around. I’d rather think that we can show kids (and other adults) the best version of ourselves. Not just because we’re stronger when we work together, though that is true, but because it’s the right thing to do. And because tearing one person down brings us all down a little bit. #kindness #together

When I was in high school I was very involved in our drama club. I did just about everything for our school theater group—built and painted scenery, ran spotlights and sound, props manager, stage manager, house manager, and even assistant director. In other words, I was busy BEHIND the scenes. When our drama teacher announced that our spring production my junior year would be Rogers and Hammerstein’s The King and I, I was determined to step out from behind the curtain and participate onstage. By then, I had established a reputation for being organized and dependable—characteristics important for the backstage team. I knew what beverage our director liked in the afternoon (orange juice over ice), I knew all of the shorthand notations for blocking scenes, and I knew every inch of our theater—from the basement green room to the followspot booth. So our director was hesitant to “waste” my talents as a lowly actor. After some begging and promises to be the director’s personal gopher (the assistant to the director), she allowed me to try out with the understanding that I would have a small part, literally small because I would be a child. The King of The King and I has a slew of kids so that was the part I was aiming for, but when I checked out the audition form, I saw that the princesses had to be 5’3” or shorter. Being that I was 5’4” at the time, I lied on the form and said I was shorter so I could get that part. That was the one and only time I’ve ever lied about my height because I was too “tall”! Once I had wowed them with my average talent, they stood all of us potential princesses and princes in a line. Some at the audition were actual children, so my lie became evident. I was not 5’3”! Gasp! The director rolled her eyes at my obvious attempt at deception and consented to giving me a part, although now I would be a prince instead of a princess. When I think back to that production so many years ago, the things I remember most didn’t actually happen onstage. I remember hunting all over town to find enough black hair spray for all of the actors. I remember having to tell the director about the accident involving the huge ceramic panther statue we had borrowed from a local store and my dad’s pickup truck. Yikes! In the end, I realized I wasn’t made for acting. That just wasn’t my gift. But the beauty of being involved in a team as large and as complex as one which puts on a play is that I began to understand I didn’t have to be good at acting to be involved. I just had to be willing to play my part, even if it had nothing to do with memorizing lines. Last weekend, I saw The King and I at TPAC. It was gorgeous and moving and I loved every minute of it. I get teary every time I’m in the audience during a standing ovation, and that matinee performance got me, too. I know just a tiny bit what it feels like to be on the receiving end of that kind of applause. It produces a smile from ear-to-ear that seems to say, “Thank you for recognizing how much work it took to do this thing we love and overlooking all our imperfections along the way. And thank you for not noticing that gaping hole in the neck of that giant ceramic panther.” #talents #team

I’m not going to be that mom who complains about having her kids home for snow days. I’m not going to mention how they start the day getting along and doing for each other and, by lunchtime, it’s like we’re in a psychological experiment to see how long it takes to break the human spirit. I half expect to stumble upon scientists in lab coats making notes on clipboards as they watch us through two-way mirrors. It would do no good to describe the piles of wet, snow-crusted clothes and gloves and boots and scarves sitting in puddles all over the house from their 15-minute excursions outside. And I’m too big a person to dwell on the stacks of dirty dishes and glasses from them eating all day long. I mean, I want my babies to eat, preferably something with vitamins since we’re on the road to contracting rickets with all these consecutive days indoors without sunshine. These kids are just so precious, even if their baked-on oatmeal bowls and microwave popcorn bags are not. I refuse to speak of how difficult it is to get anything done around here. Each time I sit down to work on the laptop or fold laundry (while watching TV alone), someone is in my room asking me to make a quesadilla or drive them to a snowy hill or asking me for the 100th time if I think school will be cancelled again tomorrow. At some point of nearly every Facebook post about kids home for these snow days, you see something related to eating: hot cocoa or snow cream mostly. But my snow day snack of choice is less adorable. The idea of going back to the post-apocalyptic experience that is the grocery store is truly abhorrent to me. Instead, I head to the kitchen pantry and take out every chip or cracker bag with a handful of half-bites left at the bottom and eat them like a hungry squirrel storing away food for the rest of winter. I rifle through the Halloween candy and re-evaluate the rejects: Maybe I don’t hate Whoppers as much I remember? Would a chocolate Laffy Taffy really be that bad? No. You won’t hear this mom complain about snow days because I am trying to see these days as opportunities. A chance to snuggle with my African-born son who needs extra hugs to warm up. A chance to observe my twin daughters watch TV and laugh instead of studying and running around to all their various high school activities. A chance to hang out with my nearly teenaged son as we cook together and play games. I know I shouldn’t complain because what I’ve received this last week would be a gift to working parents who would love to spend time with their kids instead of skidding their way to work. So I’ll just say that I have (mostly) loved these snow days, but I’m truly grateful for sunshine. #children

Per our family’s tradition, I asked our soon-to-be 7-year old son where/what he wanted to eat for his birthday. With our other kids, they’ve picked special home cooked meals with elaborate desserts or Chinese buffets followed up with frozen yogurt sundaes. It’s their once-a-year chance to make the family’s dinner plans without any input from siblings. (Disclaimer: Our daughters have actually made their choice together. It’s one of the unfortunate side effects of being twins.) So I asked our youngest what he would pick. He thought for a moment and said, “Where is the place we eat in the morning when we drive to Mimi’s house (Knoxville)?” “McDonald’s?” “Yes. That is what I want for breakfast.” “Okay.” “And where is the place where you can walk up to get a hamburger? It is close to church.” “Burger King?” “Yes. You never take me there. I want to eat there for lunch.” “Okay. I bet you have a plan for supper. What do you think?” “I want to eat at the taco place.” Now we’re talking, I think. Please pick Chuy’s. Please pick Chuy’s. Please pick Chuy’s. But he further explained, “The taco place with the bell on the sign. You never take me there either.” “Taco Bell?” “Yes!” He answered excitedly, “That is where I want to eat supper!” It promises to be a day full of indigestion! I thought. His choices reveal a limited understanding. Picking three fast food meals when we’ve offered him all that’s available seems foolish. I know part of the appeal of his choices is that they appear somehow forbidden. These are the places mom refuses to bring him so they must be something extra special. I’m assuming that one day he’ll understand there’s food more remarkable than Egg McMuffins, Whoppers, and Taco Bell Grandes. I wonder if this is sometimes how it looks to God when we pray. We have no idea the glorious riches He wants to offer us. When Jesus instructed his disciples how to pray, He reminded them that “your Father knows exactly what you need even before you ask him!” As a part of my New Year’s resolution to pray more, I’m going to try to remember to leave room for God’s plan in my petitions. I’m going to ask Him to meet my needs and consider my wants, but I’m going to add a default clause that goes something like this: “But You, Lord, are wiser and know better than me, so feel free to alter anything I just said.” Amen. #family #prayer

Have you ever thought about the purpose of a blanket fort? You’ve probably made one before: blankets strewn across chairs and pillows on the floor, like a sheik’s tent nestled by a desert oasis. From an adult’s perspective, it looks like blankets that will have to be refolded and throw pillows not designed for sitting upon and chairs which have been dragged to new locations, leaving scuff marks on the hardwood floor. But to kids it’s a shelter. A warm, shadowed place for them to feel cozy and safe. Our family recently attended a funeral for a dear friend. As the six of us lined up and walked down a church pew, our youngest son was the last of the group to be seated. Not overly pleased to be in “Big Church” on a Thursday, he plopped down with the tall end of the church pew on his left and me on his right. In spite of the loving, celebratory tone for the memorial service, I noticed our son scooting in to the protection of my side. I rested my arm behind him on the back of the pew, and he leaned in. The solid wood on his left and the warmth of his mom on his right was comforting and protective. It was a safe shelter in a stormy place where fathers pass away and people around him cry through several tissues. The Book of Psalms is full of language describing a desire to feel that kind of protection and shelter in moments of sadness and fear. “Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” Psalm 17 (NIV) “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock.” Psalm 27 (NIV) “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4 (NIV) “I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.” Psalm 61 (NIV) With 2017 coming to an end, the general consensus is that it’s been a tumultuous year. Floods and fires and fighting in Washington has made me yearn for a safe and protective place. I want the shelter a baby bird feels as he draws in to the soft feathers of his mother, when she pulls her child in close and rests her wing on top of him. I crave the dark, muffled stillness of a blanket fort. Heavy blankets draped across chairs and me cuddled beneath. But most of all, I desire the same thing the Psalmist David did so many thousands of years ago. I crave a refuge, a warm safety, a shelter. #rescue #rest #safety

With Christmas right around the corner—houses lit with blinking red and green lights, wreaths on doors, and bell ringers in front of every store, I (like any normal, Protestant girl) am thinking about the Passover. Okay, maybe that’s not necessarily a natural connection, but stick with me here. From what I can tell, most every culture has its own unique traditions, music, and history. (They each also seem to have their own version of a dumpling, but I digress…) If you dig into what make these groups distinctive, you also find recurring celebrations. After a limited amount of internet research mostly consisting of me and my husband looking at pictures and descriptions of obscure festivals and celebrations after I googled the phrase “Obscure Festivals and Celebrations,” I’ve decided these traditions can be put in one or a combination of four categories: 1.) Celebrations for religious reasons, 2.) Celebrations for political/historical reasons, 3.) Celebrations related to nature, 4.) Celebrations as excuses to do stupid stuff. Take, for instance, the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. It’s a part of a nine-day festival to honor Saint Fermin who was beheaded for sharing the Gospel in France, but it turned into a justification to risk life and limb by jumping in front of giant bulls being herded to the bullring. If you ask me, things got a little out of hand. Each festival I read about told a story of people gathering to commemorate a moment or a movement or an ideal. The reasons vary from sacred and very special to “you just had to be there.” (Like the Cheese Rolling Festival in Gloucester, England where locals attempt to win a large wheel of cheese by rolling down a steep hill after it. Many are hospitalized after they reach the bottom. That better be some good cheese.) The Jewish culture is famous for its festivals and holidays, and why shouldn’t they be? The Old Testament is full of God’s commands to memorialize extraordinary events. There are holidays set aside to seek God’s atonement like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. There are holidays such as Pentecost, the Feast of Tabernacles, and Hanukah which are meant to remind God’s people to be thankful for His Provision. Then there are holidays designed to commemorate God’s rescue in times of trouble: Purim from the book of Esther or Passover from the book of Exodus. God gave Moses His very specific instructions for avoiding the punishment which would soon be meted out to all of the Egyptian firstborn sons. God said “This is a day to remember. Each year, from generation to generation, you must celebrate it as a special festival to the Lord. This is a law for all time. Celebrate this Festival of Unleavened Bread, for it will remind you that I brought your forces out of the land of Egypt on this very day.” (NLT) After they had escaped Egypt, Moses reminded the Israelites of God’s festival: “…you must explain to your children, ‘I am celebrating what the Lord did for me when I left Egypt.’ This annual festival will be a visible sign to you, like a mark branded on your hand or your forehead. Let it remind you always to recite this teaching of the Lord: ‘With a strong hand, the Lord rescued you from Egypt.’” (NLT) Although celebrating Christmas isn’t a command found in the Bible and we can’t pinpoint the exact date for Jesus’ birth, we are told again and again to remember what the Lord has done for us. The word remember is found more than 250 times in Scripture. God calls us to remember. So let us remember what God has done for us. He sits at the Seat of Mercy. He’s the Great Provider. He’s our Rescuer. Let’s celebrate His Son! #Christmas

Mr. Hopper was universally regarded as the meanest man in town. He just didn’t like kids—not in his grass or near his car or close to his mailbox or even in his peripheral vision. At 3:00 pm every day, he made sure to position himself in his front yard with his garden hose in hand. It only took a few showers for the kids to re-route their walk home from school. A shortcut wasn’t worth an afternoon of soggy socks and sodden tennis shoes. As people moved away and new families moved in, the reputation of Mean Mr. Hopper grew to legendary proportions. Some said his wife had left him, and he hadn’t been the same since. Others said he had fought in Vietnam leaving him bitter and angry. One unsubstantiated rumor claimed he had been an informant for the Feds, now forced into hiding from the Mob. The neighborhood’s assumptions about him were challenged every year on December 1st. Rain or shine, Mr. Hopper spent the day dragging inflatables and wooden cut-outs from his garage. He untangled miles of orange extension cords and blinking Christmas lights, pausing from time to time to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the bright red handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. He carefully placed the reindeer figures in the seats of the five-foot tall Ferris Wheel before plugging it in and checking that all the lights along the edge worked properly and it rotated smoothly. He set the giant, inflatable M&M near the oak tree then started up the fan that breathed life into the flat green bundle of shiny fabric. Scaling the old splatter-painted fiberglass ladder, he hung the icicle lights on his gutters along the front of the house. By the end of the day, hardly an inch of empty space remained, including the front porch where super-sized versions of The Grinch, Pillsbury Dough Boy, and Mickey Mouse stood guard. The final piece to Mr. Hopper’s tribute to twenty years of Day-After-Christmas sales was the life-size Mrs. Claus cut from plywood and painted with poster paints. She stood front and center with one hand waving to any passers-by and the other hand holding a plate of tree-shaped cookies. Mr. Hopper would remove his handkerchief to tenderly wipe away any grime she had collected from the dusty garage, then he would stand back to survey his hard work. Without a smile of satisfaction, he would give the yard a nod and walk inside the house to await the increasing darkness that would add magic to his display. As the days leading up to Christmas tumbled by, more cars would slowly roll past the bright house. On many occasions, Mr. Hopper could be seen peeking out his living room curtains. When drivers caught sight of him, they would speed up to continue down the street rather than risk being on the receiving end of a a fist-shaking from this grouchy neighbor. “I can’t imagine why a man that ornery would want to do his house up for Christmas,” Mrs. West said to Mr. West as the Hopper house twinkled in the rearview mirror. “They say he’s as tight as a miser with his money. Makes you wonder what he thinks about his electric bills when they come in the mail ‘round this time of year.” *          *          *          *          *          *          * One year Mrs. Haven returned to town on Christmas Eve. She was an elderly woman who had been Mr. Hopper’s neighbor nearly thirty years before but had moved to San Francisco to be nearer her only daughter. Having been the town’s first librarian, she had been invited to the opening of the new public library. At a reception following the ceremony, one of the patrons asked Mrs. Haven if she had kept up with any of her former neighbors. “No,” she said as she carefully held a plastic cup of punch, “I’ve lost touch with everyone, I’m afraid. It’s too bad because we lived here for ten years.” “Where was your house?” “We had a lovely split-level on the corner of Maple and Birch.” “Oh my! Isn’t that next to Mr. Hopper?” “Charles Hopper? Yes, that’s right.” “Muriel Haven, how did you ever stand living next to that man?” “He was a wonderful neighbor.” Mrs. Haven furrowed her brow with a confused expression. “He kept his lawn neat and his wife baked the best cherry pie.” “His wife?” The circle of people took a step in toward the center, closing in on Mrs. Haven like a pack of hungry wolves. “Yes. Charles and Penny were a dear couple. I suppose Penny has passed on now. She would never leave her bed after little Charlie’s accident…” Mrs. Haven paused to sip her punch and glanced at the faces surrounding her. “Of course you all know about the accident.” No one spoke or even breathed. “He was only four when he was hit by a car in the street in front of their house. Poor Penny was such a sweet, meek, little thing. She just crumbled into pieces. My husband and I moved a year or so after the accident and when my letters were unanswered…well, we just never heard what came of them.” *          *          *          *          *          *          * The late local news had ended. Mr. Hopper had just turned off the television set but he had a difficult time pulling himself up from his recliner. He knew he had to turn off the outdoor lights before preparing for bed, but he dreaded the moment when the brilliant brightness would be extinguished. The sudden darkness always made him feel blind and unsure of what lurked just beyond his yard. He reached up to switch off the floor lamp so that he could fully appreciate the cheerful flashing and whirring outside. Thoughts of a little boy with blond ringlets tearing open the wrappings on a new train set Christmas morning made a hollow ache spread from his stomach to his throat and into the deep sockets behind his eyes. He had spent the past thirty years trying to forget the son who had been a joyous surprise to an aging, childless couple. He had worked hard to prevent any children coming within twenty feet of his door but memories are no respecter of boundaries and garden hoses. He always told himself that he did it for her. He kept them away for the same reason that he put out the lights and decorations every year—to bring her back to him—to make everything the same as it had been before Charlie. In moments of honest introspection, he admitted that he also did it for himself to prove that he was still alive. Sometimes he needed more proof than just the air entering and exiting his old chest. “Charles?” a weak voice called from the back bedroom. “Coming, Penny.” Mr. Hopper folded the leg rest on his recliner and stood, then he went to kiss his wife goodnight. #Christmas #empathy #family