An Artificial Christmas

We put up our tree yesterday. I know that seems early, but I love Christmas so I don’t mind starting early. Besides, it’s an artificial tree so we don’t have to worry about the needles falling off.

We used to get real trees up until that fateful Christmas when Jeff said no more. The events that led up to that decision are not pleasant to recall, but they sure make for a great story (to those who weren’t there). I wrote about it in an article printed in the December 2003 issue of Forward in Christ magazine. I reprint it here to both entertain and warn you of the dangers of “An Artificial Christmas.”

I’ve always thought of myself as a real person, down to earth, what you see is what you get. I’m definitely turned off by artificiality. No silk flowers or plastic fruit for me. And I would never have considered putting up an artificial Christmas tree – at least not until five years ago.

What happened that December is not something I’m proud of. What should have been a simple trip to pick up the Christmas tree turned into a much-needed reality check.

It all began in August 1998 when my husband, our four kids, and I moved from a run-down starter home to a large modern home on the other side of town.

As we proudly showed off our new house, the question often came up: “Where are you going to put your Christmas tree?”

The previous owners, who happened to be close friends of ours, had the most awesome Christmas trees. Each year a specially ordered 10-foot fir was delivered to their home. It was so tall it had to be anchored with fishing line from the second story balcony.

“I’m thinking of putting ours there,” I’d reply, pointing to the other side of the room. “In front of the window.”

Yes. I had thought about it. I had thought about it a lot. We would get a Scotch Pine, not a spindly fir, a true green tree. We’d fill it with colored lights and put it right up to the window for all the neighbors to see. It wouldn’t be just like our friends’ old Christmas tree. It would be better!

Finally, December arrived. I chose a warm and sunny Saturday for the task. My husband, being the neat freak he is, insisted I bring along some old blankets to lay in the back of the van. He also helped me remove the back seat, before warning the kids one last time not to step in any mud puddles.

The trip to our local tree farm was as pleasant as always. We sang Christmas carols and enjoyed the scenery as we drove along. As soon as we stepped out of the van we were greeted by the unmistakable smell of pine. “Come on, kids!” I called. “Let’s go pick a tree.”

I must have looked at every tree they had, both in the warehouse and out in the fields, before I found the one I wanted. It was an eight-foot Scotch pine, perfectly shaped, and fuller than any other Christmas tree I had ever seen. It stood out in the middle of a field of pines, where it had grown year after year, just waiting for me to come along and call it my own. I knelt down on the soggy ground and began sawing with great enthusiasm.

That lasted about one minute.

It wasn’t until I had already cut into the bark that I noticed the incredible width of the trunk. This was going to take a while.

Meanwhile, the kids wandered here and there, their shoes getting more and more caked with mud. When my oldest boy asked if he could give it a try, I was only too happy to take a break. As I watched my son struggle with the chore, I realized it was time to seek help. I went to the office and returned with a large man carrying a heavy chain saw. Now we’d get moving!

One yank on the starter chain and a swipe later, my beautiful tree fell to the ground. “Don’t let it get muddy,” I cried, picturing my husband’s face when he saw what I intended to bring into our living room.

I’m not sure how the enormous tree and my four kids all fit into the van, but they did. As we made our way home I tried to focus on the positive. “Didn’t we get a nice tree?” I said cheerfully.

“I’m smooshed,” my daughter whined.

“We’ll be home in five minutes,” I told her, but I was feeling a little uncomfortable myself. I couldn’t help but wonder what my husband would say when we got home. I soon found out.

He took one look at our mud-caked shoes, another at the soiled interior of the van, and announced, “We’re not putting up that tree until I get this mess cleaned up.”

For the next five hours my husband only glared at me, as he scrubbed every inch of our vehicle with frightening resolve. It was dark before he got out the tree stand and called me to the garage.

By this time I had gone through every emotion, from frustration to anger to shame. I comforted myself with the belief that once he saw that beautiful tree standing in the front window he would appreciate, or at least tolerate, all the fuss and bother I had caused.

My husband took the tree by the limbs and told me to grab the trunk. I couldn’t believe the size of it. Together we lugged the monster around to the front door. Then the worst thing happened. We lifted the tree up the front steps into the doorway, where it became jammed. It didn’t fit.

I was about to cry. My husband grabbed the top of the tree and yanked it back outside. Needles flew everywhere. A minute later I heard the anguished sound of a saw coming from the garage. There went my beautiful Christmas tree.

It took several trimmings before the tree was small enough to get through the door and the trunk was small enough to fit into our tree stand. At least half of the tree ended up on the garage floor.

That evening as I hung the lights on our pretty four-and-a-half foot tree I realized how artificial I had been. I didn’t pick this tree to celebrate our Savior’s birth. I picked it to show off. I wanted to impress our friends and neighbors with the perfect Christmas tree.

But, the real truth is, it was our imperfection that caused God the Father to send us his Son. It is his perfection I should have been focusing on: the perfect love God displayed in giving us his Son to be our Savior from sin.

The following year we decided to buy an artificial tree. It has the words “Made in China” on the box. Assembly is quite simple. It involves matching the color-coded branches to their appropriate slots.

It has taken me a while, but I can honestly say I love our funny-looking plastic tree. It’s not much of a status symbol, but it never should have been in the first place. I now see our Christmas tree as both a reminder of the dangers of artificiality and also as a symbol of God’s love: perfect, beautiful, and totally real.

Happy decorating!

"M" is for My Mid-Life Crisis

Ever since I can remember I’ve had a little ritual I do either the night before Thanksgiving, or the morning of. I lay in bed and thank God for my blessings in alphabetical order; one blessing for each letter of the alphabet. It’s a lot harder and more fun than it sounds. For example, I usually put my kids in the prayer by their first names: A for Amanda, D for Danica, J for Jonathan, and Z for Zack. But then “J” is taken and I still have Jeff to be thankful for. I can move Jeff to “H” for husband, but now I can’t use the “H” for house or home. Maybe I’ll call it shelter, and use it for “S.” See, it’s kind of like a puzzle.

People my age are often encouraged to keep their brains sharp with mental exercises like this. And I’m beginning to realize why. As much as I hate to admit it, my brain isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Back in the day, I could learn new stuff fairly easily. I wasn’t a “straight -A” student, but that’s mostly because I never really tried too hard. I’d go to class, pay attention, and usually get a decent score on the test. The few times I remember actually studying for a test I ended up getting the highest grade in the class, but that only happened a couple of times. I guess I was lazy. But I always knew I had potential. People told me that all the time. “You have a lot of potential.” I’m sure they said it to encourage me, but after hearing it several times I only found it puzzling. Potential to do what, I’d wonder. I still wonder about it.

I used to think I might go back to school one day. I always liked school. I didn’t like studying much, but I really enjoyed school. As a high school graduate I went to 2 years of college, got my AA degree, and then dropped everything to go after my MRS degree. I’ll never forget telling my mom I was quitting school to get married. I could just see it in her face, “But you have so much potential.” So I’ve been told.

I know I’m making this sound like I’m frustrated and unfulfilled, but I really don’t feel that way much anymore. Only occasionally. But there was a time, not too long ago, when those feelings were so strong they sucked all the joy out of me, and left me wondering where I’d gone wrong.

It all started on May 24th, 2008. I had a terrible day at work, and suddenly and unexpectedly realized I did not like my job. I thought about where I was and what I was doing, and it seemed I was going nowhere. I looked at my life and thought, “This is it? You gotta be kidding me.” I thought about all of the things I hoped I would be one day, and realized they were only childish dreams. I was a nobody and would be a nobody the rest of my life.

That was a tough year for me. I look back at it now and realize it was what they call a mid-life crisis.

I did a lot of thinking that year. I thought about where I was, where I wanted to be, and the reality of my situation. Where I was: manager of a thrift store. Where I wanted to be: a novelist, a motivational speaker, or an expert on…anything! Reality: I would probably never be any of those things.
Potential or not, if God wanted me to be somebody important, it would have happened by now. So, why wouldn’t God let me be all those things? Why was I destined to be a frustrated housewife and nothing more? To answer that, I went to my Bible.

Once again I read that God, the creator and sustainer of all things, is love. I read how he loved me so much that he gave his one and only son up to die for me. That kind of loving gift is so huge, so awesome, I can only grasp it through faith (also a gift from him).

I was also reminded that I can at any time cast all my anxieties on Him, because he cares for me, and that if I trust in the Lord with all my heart, and lean not on my own understanding, he will make my paths straight.

Eventually I came to understand and believe, I was where I was because that’s where God wanted me to be. He knew me better than I knew myself, and he is and always will be in control of my life. I took a lot of comfort in that. I still wanted to quit my job, and I still hoped to be “somebody” one day, but I was willing to trust in God to either make it happen or not. “Father Knows Best” became my new motto.

By the spring of 2009 I was feeling lots better. I made myself a little Gratitude Journal, and filled it with only the things that gave me joy. When I browsed through the pages of that little book I knew my life was about more than just where I worked. I had my kids, my husband, my home, my hobbies, my passions, my faith. In many ways my life far exceeded my childhood dreams. I had, and have, lots to be thankful for.

Which brings me back to where I began… my prayer for Thanksgiving 2010:

Lord, thank you for Amanda, my Blog, Clothing, Danica, Eternal Life, Friends, Groceries, my Husband, my In-laws, Jonathan, Kyle, Lepidoptera (butterflies), Music, Nature, Outings, my Parents, Quist (Dan), Recreation, Shelter, Transportation, the USA, Vacations, Work, eXercise, our Yard, and Zack. Amen.

And now, the rest of the story…

In July of 2009 I saw an ad for the job here at the bookstore. I applied, and by God’s grace I was offered the job. I can’t tell you how happy it made me. It wasn’t just the new job. It was proof that God loved me and cared about me enough to answer my prayer. I’ve been here for over a year now and I’m still grateful every day that God led my path here. I know I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that’s a GREAT feeling.


NOTE: There’s something else I realized during that year of introspection and self-analysis. I only add it here as a footnote because, number one, it sort of contradicts what I’ve written above, and two, I don’t really understand all the complexities of divine intervention/free-will. But looking back at the choices I’ve made through the years it’s also clear I’m where I am today in large part because of the decisions I’ve made up to now.

It was my choice to stay home with my kids, rather than work outside the home. And I was the one who decided to quit college and marry Jeff. In high school, it was my choice to watch reruns of Little House on the Prairie when I could have and probably should have been studying. So if it’s true that I’ve not lived up to my potential, it’s really my own fault in many ways.

Still, when I look back at those choices, I don’t really regret any of them. Given the opportunity to do it all over, I’m quite certain I’d end up just where I am today. And I’m okay with that too. Sure, I dreamed of being a “somebody” one day. But to God, I know I am, and that’s really what’s most important.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. You’re all Somebodies too!

The First Snow

It snowed last night.

I woke up this morning, pulled open the curtain, and this is what I saw. Yesterday it was brown and drab. Today it looks like winter.

The first snowfall always reminds me of that scene in Bambi, when Bambi asks his mom, “What’s all that white stuff?” And she replies, “Why, it’s snow. Winter has come.”

And I can’t help but be pleased. Sure, snow is a drag. It’s cold, and messy, heavy to shovel, and slippery to drive on. But it’s awful pretty too. And nothing puts me into the Holiday Spirit more than a fresh snowfall.

Since I was feeling all Christmassy and bright, I decided today would be a good day to put up my Village.

Here's how I did it.

I got out some large tubs, and put shelving on them to make a good flat foundation.

Then I covered them with white towels, and laid the "snow" over the whole thing.

Next, I took my houses out, and plugged them all in to be sure they all worked.

Then I arranged them how I wanted them...



...and started adding the trees and stuff. (That's the funnest past.)


And... Waa Laa...it's all done.

Would you like a tour of my Village? Okay.

First stop is the church. I got this piece from my mother-in-law many years ago. I had told her while we were shopping one time how much I liked the little villages that were just gaining popularity at that time, and so she gave me this one as a Christmas present. I loved it! It's still one of my favorites. You can almost hear the choir singing.

Next, we come to the humble home of Bob Cratchit.

Yes, this is a Dicken's Village, so all my pieces comprise the setting for the story, "A Christmas Carol," a family favorite.

Our next stop is the toy store. Jeff got this house for me one Christmas, and I like it, because I like toys.

Now we come to another favorite, The Old Curiosity Shop. This building actually exists in London. Jeff and I hope to go visit it one day.

Here's Nephew Fred's flat. Can you hear laughter? I think Fred is having a party.

And here is the office of Scrooge and Marley. Of course, Marley is no longer with us, but Scrooge is too tight with his money to have the sign changed. Poor old miserable Scrooge.

Our next stop is Fezziwig's Warehouse. Ebenezar Scrooge was once an apprentice to Mr. Fezziwig. He was a jolly man, and also gave great parties.

And finally we come to the home of Scrooge himself. You may notice the home is rather dark. I have a blue light bulb in this house to give it that eerie feeling. I believe the place may be haunted!

So, that's my Village. It makes me happy. And now, as my gift to you, I invite you to watch The First Snow scene from Bambi. I hope it will make you happy too.

the car

A few months ago I was at an open house, visiting with my extended family. Eventually the conversation drifted to a discussion of my blog. Some had seen it. Some had not. To describe what my blog is like, my sister-in-law Eileen stood behind me, and placed her hands on either side of my head. “It’s about what’s going on in here,” she said.

True enough.

But as I sit down to write this week’s blog I wonder if I can describe what’s going on in my head with any clarity. I’ve had a jumble of thoughts this week. Most of them centered around the lives of my children.

Being a mom is a tough job. But it’s a job I have embraced and treasured from day one. In fact, I can remember day one like it was yesterday. I was lying flat on my back in the operating room. They had numbed me from the waist down, and a team of doctors and nurses had gathered to deliver my firstborn by Cesarean Section. Even though I couldn’t feel it when they cut me open, I sure felt it when the pulled my baby out! It was a very unusual sensation, and one I had never felt before. First a pulling, then a releasing, and then an emptiness. In no time at all, a huge part of me was removed, and I was left with a hole in my belly.

Thankfully, I didn’t have much time to ponder the emptiness, because soon the room was filled with that joyous sound…my baby’s first cry. That’s when it happened. God reached into my heart, and flipped the switch labeled mom to “ON.” For the first time in my life I finally knew exactly who I was, and why I was here.

I know I made lots of mistakes those early years, but mostly I was a good mom. I fed them when they were hungry, cleaned them when they got dirty, and rocked them to sleep when they needed to rest. I read them books, and took them for walks, and taught them to know Jesus. I held their hands when we crossed the street, and bundled them up when it was cold out. I made sure they always had lunch money and clean clothes to wear. And when they were 15 I taught them to Parallel Park and make 90-degree back turns. I made sure they had a cell phone if they needed to call me for any reason. And mostly, I prayed. I prayed that God would guide them and keep them safe. I prayed that their decisions would be good ones, and they would do what was wise and good.

But they’re kids. Sometimes they make mistakes. Their choices aren’t always the choices we would prefer them to make.

This is what happened on Wednesday. My 20 year-old son decided he wanted to buy a car. It had been several years since he crashed his last one, he had saved up, wised up, and felt he was ready to be a car owner once again. He wanted me to take him to Shakopee to look at a 1995 Mazda he had his eye on.

I fought him on it.

I asked him how much money he had, and told him I didn’t think it was enough. I told him we would be willing to give him our old minivan. But no. He wanted the Mazda. He said if we lent him the money for the car he’d have enough for the insurance, the parking permit, and be able to pay us back over time. I told him he should save up more and buy a nicer car. The Mazda was so cheap. Something was sure to be wrong with it. By this time he had become quite upset with me. “Why do you always yell at me when I tell you what I want to do!”

“What do you want me to do,” I finally asked.

“I want you to take me to Shakopee so I can look at that car.”

So I did. And he bought the car with the money we lent him, and now I wonder and worry if he made the right decision.

Jeff says, “If it was a mistake, it was his mistake to make.”

But I don’t like it. I don’t like to think of him having to make car payments along with his other bills and expenses. I don’t like to think about him behind the wheel again… in heavy traffic, or poor driving conditions, or late at night. But you know what I don’t like the most? I don’t like that I can’t hold his hand, and bundle him up, and give him his lunch money like I used to do. I don’t like that he’s not my little baby anymore. Once again, I feel like someone has reached in and pulled part of me out, and I’m left with an empty hole. And I suspect the one holding the knife this time is none other than my own son. That hurts.

Yeah. Being a mom is hard. But it seems the harder task for me this week was figuring out how to turn that mom switch to “OFF.” I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want to do it. If I’m not a mom, what am I?

Hopefully, my son will read this blog and forgive me for being so difficult on Wednesday. Truth is, he’s probably more than ready to have his own car, even if he did have to borrow a little to pay for it. I just hope he remembers to wear his seat belt, don’t text and drive, and keep his focus on the road. That goes for all of you kids.

Yeah. The mom switch is definitely still set to “ON.”