You'll never know just how much I need you

I'm sitting here this morning recuperating (if that's what you want to call it) from a trip to the dentist to have a broken tooth repaired.  Now, nobody hates going to the dentist as much as I do (although he's a great guy), so it is usually a trauma-inducing experience.  Plus, I am still getting over whatever stomach bug I brought home with me from our winter in Florida, so consider me a slug for the rest of the day.  Sorry, hubby:  I'm not going to get my closet sorted back out from where I dumped shoes when I unpacked them!  Scarlett O'Hara rules:  Tomorrow is another day.

So many things are on my mind, not the least of which is Matthew.  I haven't said much about Matt lately, but we need to continue to keep him in our daily prayers, as he is still undergoing maintenance chemotherapy for the next 2 years.  What a brave guy, to deal with all of this!  I don't have too many specific memories of being 5, but I do remember that going to the doctor was not top of the list for me.  Frankly, I remember

escaping from the pediatrician's office (in a fancy office building) in my crinoline slip (that's how old I am).  Doggone if I wasn't 3/4 of the way to the elevator before my father caught me and made me come back and sit still for my shots.  Sounds spunky to me - and Matt has spunk going for him in spades.

I fell in love not quite two years ago with a photo I saw on Facebook of a freckle-faced little boy with red curls and snapping eyes and an impish grin.  Then I read the story of how he had almost lost his life the summer before when he was diagnosed with leukemia.  Anybody who knows me knows that I was then totally hooked.  My long-distance friend Rita and I put together a digital scrapbook of Matt to be auctioned off at a benefit being held for him; Creative Memories, the company that printed the book, expedited printing for me so that the book would arrive in good time for the benefit.  The book fetched a decent price, and the buyer was kind enough to donate it back to Matthew's mother as a keepsake.

No, I'm not patting myself on the back.  I'm thanking God for the opportunity to know Matt and his family and to be able to do something for them.  The Lord has moved mightily in my life to bring special people into my heart; these are not your run-of-the-mill everyday folks, but people at some sort of disadvantage.  I feel that it is my calling as well as my chosen vocation to advocate for and help these people.  I chatted this morning with the dental technician as we waited for my anesthesia to take effect.  She has a son with special needs, and we speak frankly about how people's awareness needs to be raised and these folks seen as individuals, not a blob of "sick" people or "disabled" people.  Matthew is not just another kid with leukemia to me; he has become an "adopted" grandson who I had the pleasure to meet last summer with his mom and sisters.  There is a benefit for Matthew coming up in June (let me know if you're interested in details for contributing or possibly attending!) and I will be there, along with my great-niece Emma who met Matt with me last summer and obviously has also been taken in by his charms.

I praise God that He has given me a heart to feel for these folks.  From the day Lindsey stole my heart in the church nursery to this winter when He gave me Jessica as a new best friend, the Lord has blessed me mightily.  Timmy, Jill, Lee, Kristina, Shell, Joey C. and Joey R., Brian, John, Robin, Julian, Emily, Rachel, the "other" Emily, Torie, Bobby, Peter, Clayton, Nicholas, Nathan, Syd, Ryan, and too many others to try and remember live in my soul and are a part of my daily prayers.  I have to remind myself to keep up with promises I make:  right now I need to send out a check I promised to a friend for her participation in an Autism Speaks Walk.

Am I speaking only of children with physical and mental disabilities?  No.  We all have our own set of abilities.  None of us can do exactly what the other one can do, and besides, I prefer the term "special needs".  That gathers up all my special people, as you certainly can't say that a child like Matthew, with leukemia, doesn't have special needs.  Mom Jenni has become the most professional germaphobe I know, when I know that she would infinitely prefer to set Matt off to the back yard to eat dirt like most of us did when we were 5.  You see, chemo has trashed Matt's immune system, and he has to be careful of any possible virus or infection that come down the pike - if he gets a fever, it's off to the Emergency Room for possible admission to the hospital.  Yuk!  Matt may not have the obvious disability of using a wheelchair or crutches, but he has physical barriers all his own to overcome.

With all that God has blessed me, I ask you to beseech Him to open your hearts to someone with special needs.  They are people, too, and need love, attention, encouragement and acceptance in order to blossom.  We may not all show our need for nurturing in the same way, but believe me, it's there.  Age, gender, race, among other things, are not a factor in our human needs.  We are all God's creatures and need to be loved and respected as such.  If you want a flower to open its petals and bloom in all its glory, it needs to be cared for and treated with warmth and just downright caring.

One of my most popular postings on this blog was entitled "My God is an Awesome God;" it probably has more than three times the readers as any of my other posts.  This makes me happy, not as a writer, but rather as someone who can spread the word about her Lord and Savior and share the stories about my special people in my life.  I am grateful to God for the gift He has given me with words so that I can bring up different subjects that are near to my heart and share them with my readers.

Do you have a gift?  Scripture says God gives one to each member of His Body.  No, I'm not talking about the gifts I was taught in a pentecostal church; I'm talking about love, sharing, patience - the Fruits of the Spirit as found in Galatians.  Some people really have a knack for getting along with the elderly.  I'm a kid person.  Some people can deliver Meals on Wheels, others can work at a senior center or even volunteer at a day care for children of working parents.  Does your school system need aides for their special needs population?  Check it out and you may open the door on a whole new season in your life.  Even remembering to send out greeting cards to people on their special days is a ministry and outreach.  Trust me, God will use you wherever you are planted.

Amazing how this entry has gone from being just about Matthew to encompassing all those in our world with needs that are different.  Sometimes I sit down to write with one idea and wind up somewhere else, but I try and believe that it is all God's hand. 

"Open my eyes that I may see, glimpses of truth you have for me.  Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit divine."  This simple chorus, sung in many churches, is a good prayer for each of us.  Remember that as children of God we are called upon to do His work.  What better way to start than by asking Him to help us see what it is He wants us to be.

The forgotten men

If you've been following my ramblings over the last few months, you know that I am in Florida for the winter with my husband.  We have had 4 months of soaking up sunshine and being with great friends while enjoying the occasional visits from family that make things only that much more special.  As we grow closer and closer to the time we go back to Indiana and our regular routine, the Lord has pressed some things on my heart that I feel I need to share with all of you, particularly my readers in the USA.

Although we always look forward to coming here, this year has been an extra blessing with the addition of new friends that I'll call Joe and Cheryl.  They are new here to this complex, having recently retired and moved here permanently with their daughter Linda.  It turns out that my hubby and I have a lot of things in common with Joe and Cheryl and are very close in age as well.  An added factor is my "adoption" of Linda, who has some disabilities and therefore is on my list of people I need to get to know and advocate for.  We have spent many times together chatting and laughing and getting to know one another as we feel our way into this special friendship it seems God has planned for us.

A pivotal event in the background of my life is the Vietnam War.  My father was a news junkie, and we always had the television on in the kitchen while eating dinner, digesting the war news along with whatever my mother had put on the table to eat.  Unbeknownst to my mother, I participated in an anti-war rally while in high school, parading down Broadway with scores of other students to make our voices heard that it was time to stop the senseless slaughter of American boys in a country that was going to be the same after we left whether we shed our blood there or not.  My husband, who was draft age during the conflict (polite word for undeclared war) gets irritated with me sometimes to this day when we get on the topic of Vietnam and its ridiculous waste of 58,000 American lives and I start chanting, "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?"  If you're old enough, you'll recognize the slogan.  I know I've mentioned in my ramblings before about how I stand and weep at the Vietnam Wall in Washington DC.  That was when I didn't have any connections to anyone whose name is on The Wall - now I know folks whose brothers were killed over there.  How much more meaningful it is now to gaze at the shiny black granite with the too, too many names etched into the stone.

When these men who simply did what their country asked of them came home, they were reviled.  "Baby killer" was an epithet often thrown at them without any justice to it at all.  Oh, granted, there are always some folks who get carried away and do things in combat they shouldn't do, but one also must remember that 'Nam was not a conventional war with battle lines and a known enemy.  Any person on the street could be Charlie (the nickname for the Viet Cong) and you didn't know who or what they were going to use to try and kill you, often making drastic measures on the part of the American troops necessary.  What a pity that much of our society failed to recognize the sacrifices made by these combat troops and that they weren't welcomed home with outstretched arms and open hearts to receive the love and care they needed after one, often multiple tours of duty in country.

Now I'm back to Joe and Cheryl, my new friends.  You'll see the connection quite quickly, so bear with me here.  Joe shared one time that he was a Special Forces member in Vietnam, doing 3 tours of duty.  Moving as gently as possible, I asked where he had been stationed.  Turns out he was, in his words, "about 3 klicks (kilometers) from the DMZ."  If you recall the Vietnam War, there was an area between North and South Vietnam that was kind of a no-man's-land, the demilitarized zone (DMZ).  Joe was about as "in country" as one could be, with the enemy's homeland just a stone's throw away.  As a Navy SEAL, his missions were complex and even more dangerous than most.  I asked Cheryl while we were at the pool the other day if Joe had been wounded, as I noticed a perfectly round scar on his back that looked way too much like a bullet hole.  She said he had been wounded multiple times and was awarded not just the Purple Heart for wounds sustained in combat, but many, many more citations and medals.  We don't discuss this in front of Joe; memories can be painful things, and Cheryl also shared with me that Joe spent years in counseling at the Veterans' Administration for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

I know that Joe's story is not unique; there are hundreds of thousands of other Vietnam vets out there who have their own experiences and traumas.  I see some of these vets when I go to Washington, DC, and visit the kiosks that have sprung up around The Wall.  Some vets are homeless, some are advocating for their brothers in arms, some are trying to eke out a living by selling POW/MIA bracelets and other service memorabilia to sentimental citizens like me who want to buy everything they have in stock.

My point is this:  I am not here to expose Joe's past for sensationalism.  Getting to know Joe, learning about him has re-sharpened my gratitude to those who have served and continue to serve our nation in the military.  My father was a World War II veteran who never spoke about the things he had seen and heard in combat, but at least when his generation came home from the battlefields they were cheered and appreciated.  Everyone I know who was in Vietnam never speaks of their experiences, either.  However, my generation, the 'Nam generation, was not feted or congratulated for a job well done or a job done at all.  They were quickly and quietly swept under the rug so they wouldn't be an embarrassment as a reminder of a conflict we didn't "win."  This is the travesty of Vietnam.  These guys were drafted into a war they knew little or nothing about, served with the limited resources we as a government gave them, and came home to be called names and shunned.  Shame on the American people!

I embarrass my grandchildren, because if I see a service member or a veteran, I will make a point of thanking them for what they have given for my freedom.  I was looking around yesterday, and caught the image of Joe in the corner of my eye, standing "at ease" as he waited for a snack at the poolside cafe.  Old habits die hard.  Thank you, Joe, for your service.  Thanks to Sheryl and Fred and Bob and all the others whose names I'm forgetting who also served in 'Nam, in a war this country was too self-absorbed to recognize as yours.  Hopefully, we as a nation will never turn our backs on those who fight to preserve our freedoms again.  May God bless you richly and hold you close to Him as you carry on with your lives.  You will always have my admiration and gratitude, and I will work to see to it that you are no longer forgotten men.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I've got a bee in my bonnet.  So what else is new, you may ask?  This one is bugging me enough (get it?) that I'm up at 6:20 am after last night's Mardi Gras party here in Florida because I feel I need to get it off my chest.  I can only pray that this little missive of mine makes it to the appropriate eyes so that action can be taken; I know that with God all things are possible, and I rest in Him and trust Him to live, move and be in the ways He feels are appropriate for this subject.

As I've mentioned in older postings, I spent a good portion of my adult life working with people with disabilities.  God has opened my heart in a special way and I love these folks beyond words; and if I "adopt" you into my heart, you are there forever and I will always be your fiercest defender.  I don't even like to use the word disabled; I prefer differently-abled.  My first true love was "my" Lindsey, who swept me off my feet as a tiny baby with Down Syndrome who was hanging on day by day waiting for her heart-repair surgery.  She is now in her 20's, a lovely young woman who accomplishes much and has a joy for living that I quite frankly envy!  Many more loves have been added to my heart through God's grace and kindness over the years; too many names to list here, but know that I rejoiced when you conquered a milestone and often wept with joy at your progress or just your plain lovableness.  Changes in healthcare and other circumstance have made it impossible for me to continue to work with you daily, but know that I still love each and every one of you for who you are - even my little Julian, who came into my office one day on his crutches and announced, "I'm a putz!"  He was so proud - apparently unaware that putz is (I believe) Yiddish used in the means of calling someone a jerk or other derogatory name.  My little Mexican Julian, spouting Yiddish and telling everyone within earshot what a putz he was - I miss you!

The Lord sees fit to bring new people into my life when He knows I need them.  This winter, here in Florida, I met a young woman with autism who is rapidly becoming one of my best friends.  She makes me laugh; her intelligence and humor are sharp as a tack and she doesn't miss much when she chooses not to do so.  I also, as I perpetually do, have become one of her most aggressive defenders.  That's where the respect mentioned in the title of this entry comes in.  I see too many people who won't take the time to get to know my friend for who and what she is, but rather lump her in with that vast, shapeless group they see as "retarded" (my least favorite word in the world).  I've noted in my blogging before that doctors and teachers put labels on people and I've seen too many who have been tagged "severe and profound" who could out-think me in a nano-second.  God made each and every individual on this earth different from the next, and you can't just sweep up everybody who looks or acts differently and put them into this ill-defined group of those-who-can't.  You can't just run around hugging and kissing on everyone that you think is sweet or for whom you feel sorry.  You've got to get to know people as individuals!  Some people don't like to be touched.  Some folks crave it.  Don't talk to a grown person as if they are five - show them the respect and courtesies you want extended to you!  Again, getting to know the individual helps you know how to approach.  Disability or not doesn't matter - do you like your personal space invaded every time you turn around?  I know I don't.  All of us are God's children, and He has given us all a dignity of whatever sort, and I believe He wants us to respect that dignity no matter what the circumstances.

My new friend warmed my heart the other day:  she announced that she was "feeling love in Panama City Beach, Florida."  If that's the way she feels, then I know that I have listened to God and let my true feelings for her shine through.  I do my best to love all God's children - we don't always make it easy for one another, and our imperfect nature gets in the way too many times.  I am far from perfect when it comes to the respect game, but as someone once said, "the Lord's not done working with me yet."  In the meantime, it would be an ideal world for me if I could gather up all my special kids and stand before them to protect them from people's lack of understanding that often turns to hurtfulness.  I praise God daily for the special love He has given me for "my" kids and ask Him to continue to guide me along the way so that others can be shown what precious gifts these very special people are.

Comparisons

Since Saturday evening, the media has been filled with accounts of the life of the late pop diva Whitney Houston, who died sometime Saturday in Los Angeles.  To see video and photos of her in her last days, it's easy to mourn the once classic beauty, the joie de vivre, and the magnificent singing voice God had given her.  There will be speculation from now until whenever as to whether she was back on the drugs that have caused the disintegration of her career.  I have to admit I, too, am sorry to see her go at such an early age and with so many seemingly unnecessary complications fueling the negative in her life.  What a pity!

But, on the other hand, what about heroes who fight their way through adversity without whatever drove Ms. Houston to her rampant drug abuse?  Those of you who read my blog regularly know I'm talking about Matthew.  Just to bring any new readers up to speed, Matt is 5 and was diagnosed with leukemia shortly after his 4th birthday.  Aggressive treatments and a whole lot of faith and prayer have brought him from a critical stage into remission, although he will continue to receive maintenance chemotherapy for the next couple of years.  He is my hero.  I had the blessing of meeting Matt, his mom and his sisters this past summer, and even in just the short time we spent together you could see the fighting spirit that inhabits this beautiful child.  He is a free spirit, dancing to the guitar strains of a street musician as he was moved to do so; he made up a special language to talk to the zebras at the zoo and chortled with glee when he just knew they understood him.  Matt loves lions, and I proudly wear my "Matt's Leukemia Fighting Lions" tee shirt whenever I can to help draw attention to the cause of childhood leukemia, and in particular to Matthew.  We don't know what ups and downs the road ahead holds for him and his family, but let me say I am proud to know them:  they are rooted deeply in God and Christ, and have an ever-expanding network of friends and loved ones who help out and/or pray for them daily.

It would be so easy, in my opinion, to want to build a haze of detachment around yourself if you were the parents of a special child like Matt.  I have an adult child who has mental issues, and it's hard enough wrapping my mind around the way he keeps hurting others and himself without resorting to some type of emotional crutch.  But my Lord and my God has given me peace; He has sustained me through many years of heartbreak and frustration and I praise His name as I say I have come to this point in my and my son's lives stronger, wiser, and more dependent upon Jesus. 

Matt's parents are shining examples of the love of Christ working in a believer.  Of course they have their down moments, we all do, but I know them well enough by now to know that the first thing they do is go to God in prayer and seek prayer from others.  When Matt is in the hospital or things are just too much, his mother journals on the Caring Bridge website and often her entries and a glimpse into the emotional turmoil that comes with the knowledge that your little son has a potentially deadly disease.  But Jenni rests in the Lord, and He gives her courage and strength to see things through; to be what Matthew needs; to be a proper wife and helpmate to Dave; to find the time and the energy to be a loving and creative mom to Becca and Angie.  How I admire her!  I know she's exhausted, and it seems like more and more just keeps getting tossed her way - she recently lost her adored grandmother - but she takes that God-given spirit of hope and love and moves forward as best she can every day. 

Charles Swindoll once wrote a book called One Step Forward, Two Steps Back, and although I haven't read it in a long time, its title gives strength and encouragement.  We are NOT going to climb that mountain in one day.  The mountain God has for us may be a totally different one than the one we're peering up at.  But if we don't work at putting that one foot in front of the other every day, we're not doing what He wants us to do when it comes to tackling that mountain at all.

Getting back to where I started all of this - Whitney Houston - I hope you can see the positive comparison I have drawn with Matt and his family.  We all have our shortcomings in one way or another, and some of us handle it differently than others, but my God is an awesome God and He can carry me through any trial or tribulation without a chemically-induced haze.

One of my favorite Whitney Houston songs, and one I used in a column I wrote on child abuse prevention in the past, is "The Greatest Love of All."  The opening line says it all:  "I believe that children are our future.  Teach them well and let them lead the way.  Show them all the beauty they possess inside.  Give them a sense of pride to make it easier; let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be."  And then the chorus, equally moving:  "I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows.  If I fail, if I succeed, at least I live as I believe.  No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity."  Poor Whitney's dignity is a thing of the long-ago past.  Children, all children, are our future and God entrusts us with this precious gift to raise in the way He intends.  Kudos, Jenni and Dave, and to all the parents of all the children out there who get through the day knocking on heaven's door for strength and sustenance.  May the Lord continue to bless and keep you all and know that whomever you are, wherever you are, you are loved by God.

"Because the greatest love of all is happening to me.  I found the greatest love of all inside of me."

Thank, you, Jesus.

Amazed and thankful

I apologize for the time lapse in writing, but it's a busy winter for us here in Florida.  We love the building we're staying in because there are so many fun people and fun activities to be a part of and look forward to hopefully being able to continue here for many years.

As I write this in the middle of the night - remember me, the night owl? - I can't sleep because my mind is just whirling with so many things.  We're eagerly anticipating a visit from family next weekend and are glad that so far the weather looks like it's going to cooperate.  We also decided today to extend our stay by another 3 weeks, so we won't be home until late March.  Hooray!  But we were also faced with a decision on moving to a new condo unit for next year that would be available for the entire 4 months of the winter, and that threw us for a loop.  We made separate trips upstairs from the pool deck with the owner of the unit (I had to go later because I was in the pool when she went up with my hubby), and each came away with our own evaluation of the unit.  It's different from any we've had here in the past, even when we've stayed at other buildings.  The unit is lovely.  The price is right.  But being the couple we are (he makes slow decisions, I make snap judgements) we decided to meditate on the prospect of next year for a while.  In the meantime, knowing that we were both conflicted, we both went to prayer seeking an answer.  I even put a post on Facebook that we needed prayer for guidance for a somewhat big decision.  My other night-owl friends got back to me almost instantly telling me they were on the case.

Then there's a sideline that dovetails into this story:  our eldest daughter presented us with Kindle Fire units (one apiece!) for Christmas, and consequently I have been reading again like an unbridled animal.  I have missed reading (the old eyes just don't see that well any more) and the ability to make large print on the Kindle has got me reading a book in 1-2 days again.  Well, in conversation with the same daughter over this weekend, she mentioned Charles Spurgeon's timeless devotional Morning and Evening.  Efficient thing that she is, she sent the link for the digital download of the book and I immediately purchased a copy, figuring that since my Kindle is almost always in my hand I stand half a chance of remembering to do my daily devotions.  Yesterday's (and my first day's) morning devotion was about the format of our prayers to our Heavenly Father.  I once worked with a pastor who refused to be put "on the spot" about praying because he felt he needed time to compose himself before addressing God.  Me?  I blurt little prayers out at least a dozen or more times a day, and they're hardly fancy:  anything from a simple "Jesus, please help me," to "dear Lord, please let my knee work right now so I can get out of this chair."  Knowing my umpteen prayers during a day, I was tickled when Spurgeon wrote that we don't have to be fancy or fine in our prayers, just say what you need to say and get on with it; God hears us and answers.  I even dreamed about what he wrote last night in my sleep; I found myself lecturing someone that they don't have to prostrate themselves and carry out a certain ritual for prayers to be heard.

So when I started praying for a decision tonight, and cranked up my cyber prayer chain, I wasn't at all surprised when the answer to the question became stunningly clear.  The answer is that we will maintain our current condo rental next winter and let the other one go.  It's not worth the conflict and turmoil that certain parts of the decision to stay there would have evoked.  As I lay in bed (after flipping through I don't know  how many television channels trying to occupy my mind), I was struck anew with the need to praise God for His faithfulness and for His response to earnest prayer.  I am also beyond-words grateful for the clarity of His answer; I can remember as a new believer often saying, "I wish God would just hit me upside the head with the answer to this prayer."  I wasn't giving God the opportunity to be who He is; I was busy running the show and straining for answers that I'm sure were there, but I wasn't attuned to hearing them.

And, of course, my favorite homespun advice, from Dr. Peter Marshall, who was a well-respected preacher and teacher in the 1930's and 1940's:

Our God is amazing in so many ways:  in the undeserved grace that He imparts to us through His Son, Jesus, and in the way He answers prayer, just to name two.  I find myself, over an hour since the answer struck me so firmly between the eyes, just wanting to praise God and thank Him for the things He does for us, His children.  Ask yourself:  have you taken time today to thank the Lord for what He does for us?  Have you made room for Him in your heart for the little everyday things and not just the church service on Sunday?  Will you take to heart Spurgeon's teaching and remember that even the smallest prayer can avail much?  I can't encourage you enough to seek out and purchase a copy of Morning and Evening.  It has withstood the test of time, along with others like Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest and I can't begin to count the number of people who find a closer walk with God through these two teachers.

So I guess I'm saying thank you to our daughter, who inadvertently got the ball rolling with very generous Christmas gifts and a quick conversational reference to a well-loved but (on my bookshelf) forgotten devotional; thank you to the people who listened to me babble on all day about making a decision (I was a terrible bore, I know); and most of all, thank you to my Heavenly Father, who heard my cries for help and reached down and touched me, setting my mind at ease in so many ways.  Never forget to sing and praise the Lord, for He is so good.

And I continue to ask for your prayers on behalf of my buddy Matthew, who is still undergoing maintenance chemotherapy for leukemia.  It's not easy to deal with these things when you're an adult, let alone a 5 year-old child, and Matt has shown remarkable character and poise in the way he fights when the cancer tries to get him down.  Love ya, Matthew!  Hang in there!

to us a child is given

Driving down the road here in Florida, one of the local shops quotes Scripture on their sign:  "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government shall be on his shoulders.  And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace."  Isaiah 9:6.

Down here in the South, I see a lot more tendency to celebrate Christmas as the celebration of the birth of the Christ child - not so much commercialism as there is up north.  Hooray for the Redneck Riviera!  Oh, I know, there are those who say that Jesus was not born in December, that Christmas is a man-made holiday, etc.  I hear you loud and clear, but say in response that it doesn't matter what season we choose to celebrate the gift of the Christ in human form; the important thing is that we take the time to thank our Heavenly Father for this gift that surpasses any other in all time.

As we give thanks for the gift of the Christ child, we should also be thinking of the other children in our lives:  not just family, but those who we don't know at all or know well.  I think of Matthew, my 5 year old buddy with leukemia.  Every child anticipates Christmas as a special time, whether the main focus in their household is on Jesus or Santa, or even a bit of both.  Matt has been doing well lately, and I have been praising God for His special touch on this extra special boy.  Then I woke this morning to find out that Matthew is not feeling well:  he is having tummy problems and it appears that the salivary gland that gave him fits last fall is causing pain again.  My heart sank when I read this; I just received their family Christmas card the other day and it is prominently displayed in my living room so I can see Matt's sweet face along with his sisters every time I look up from the couch.  Now it summons me to prayer that the family will not have to face Christmas saddled with worry and pain.  I'm praying that he doesn't begin to spike a fever again, which may indicate a return to the hospital.  I'm praying that his pain medication will help him to have peaceful days and restful nights.  I'm praying that mom and dad can get some sleep without the fear and the worry in their hearts and share the blessed Christmas celebration with their family.  I know God loves Matthew dearly; He created him in his mother's womb and brought him into the world to be the special blessing that he is to so many people.  A Father who cares enough to know how many hairs are on our heads (and that's been a varying number for Matt this year!) holds this child of His close to His heart and whispers love into his ear.

I wish I could physically be there to hug Matt and his family, but I am a thousand miles away.  I trust my Lord to provide people to give Matthew and family the physical expressions of love I am unable to provide.  I trust those with whom I have shared Matt's story to lift him in prayer every day, not just on days when he is under the weather.  I have noticed that my blog readership extends not only to the US, but to Russia, India, Germany, Australia, the Philippines, South Africa; I urge anyone reading this to form a prayer chain for Matthew, to pass his needs to your believer friends, to beseech our Father God to shower him with caring, love and healing through the presence of those who are with him.  You have no idea how it strengthens Matt's mother's heart when she knows that there are people who care about and pray for Matt all around the world.  I am grateful that the Lord uses me to pass along Matt's story, and please know that I pray right along with you all.

Thank you all for your caring and concern for "my" boy and if you want to get a message to his family, you may do so through the comments on this blog.  I will see to it that they are passed along.

In the meantime, may God continue to bless you and yours and I pray that you will have a blessed, happy celebration of the birth of the One who came to save us from our sin.  Merry Christmas!

 

My own Christmas merry-go-round

I have always, when physically able, been an avid reader.  My father encouraged my love of reading from the time I could sit in his lap and follow his finger as he read aloud to me; then one day books began appearing in my room and I devoured them one after the other.  My husband marvels, however, that whether I've read certain books in the past or not, I can sit down and read them again for pure enjoyment.  Do I remember the plot?  Of course!   But there are certain passages in special books that I absorb into myself as a treasure over and over again with rereading.

Today, as I contemplate the fact that Christmas Eve is only one week away, I catch myself reflecting on Christmases past.  A quote that I read somewhere gallops across my mind:  "Oh memories, how they bless and burn!"  Don't get me wrong, I have a fantastic family these days and we always have a great, loving day when together for Christmas.  But every year I have to have what I call my "Christmas cry," when I remember the Christmases back on Jackson Street when I was a kid.  Before my father died very suddenly.  Before my mother lost her emotional bearing and never quite knew how to relate to other people any more.  Before there was dysfunction in my core family that has caused separation over the years.  Today is my day to weep for my father, for the love and security and joyousness that was Christmas for my first 14 years.

First of all, we always had to have the absolutely largest tree on the lot.  And if, by some chance, there were bare spots on the tree, my compulsive father would cut bottom branches off that wouldn't fit in the stand and somehow attach them in these empty spaces.  Ornaments and tinsel had to be just so; I also have a vivid memory of the first year my parents had gotten new carpeting in the house and my dad melted part of it with those big old Christmas bulbs we used to use.  My mother wasn't particularly happy, but my dad had the tree he wanted, with no two lights the same color in sequence.  The cat and I used to wriggle ourselves under the tree when it was completed, and I would lie on my back and stare up into the center of the tree (lights were from the trunk to the ends of the branches, not just on the outside), fascinated by the colors and shimmer and heady smell of a live tree.

Christmas Eve celebrations were always at our house, and my father played the role of host to the utmost; always in shirt and tie (as I guess was de rigeur in the 1960's).  My sister and I had to put stockings and dresses on after spending the day scrubbing the house while my mother cooked.  Grandma and Grandpa would arrive, laden with homemade pies and some absolutely putrid (in my mind) banana, marshmallow and peanut salad that the family for unknown reasons called acapuckie.  I always passed that bowl very quickly when it came to me at the table.  The thought of it still makes me gag.  Aunt and Uncle and cousins would arrive, and soon it was time to leave my dad's punch bowl of whiskey sours alone and sit down to dinner (I was allowed 1 cup of whiskey sour for years, then graduated to 2!).  Dinner was always a ham and my mother's cheese potatoes (which my children still love), ornate Jello salads, veggies, hot rolls, and that damn acapuckie among other things.  My perpetual seat was on the piano bench between my mother at the foot of the table and my grandmother around the corner to the right; I guess they figured they could control me better that way.  I would gobble my way through dinner greedily, knowing that the quicker I ate, the sooner we would exchange family gifts between grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins.  If they took too long at the table (remember, I was the youngest in the family by at least 6 years), I would gladly complain that it was time to move along now, only to be gently rebuked by my father who was savoring the meal.  Finally, they would finish eating and clear the table (a totally unnecessary act in my life) and we would adjourn into the living room for gifts.  Presents from Grandma and Grandpa were always wrapped in the comics pages from the newspaper; my thrifty grandfather didn't believe in wrapping paper and Hallmark ribbon like we did.  I couldn't tell you if there was a rhyme or reason as to how we opened gifts; I was lost in my avarice for what had my name on it and had it been something I had requested, like a James Bond briefcase (I kept the basement free from espionage for years).  The foil whirlygig (for lack of a better word) that always hung on the living room ceiling became the target for my cousins to see who could exert enough breath to make it move.  Christmas music boomed from the hi-fi non-stop:  Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis, and I can't remember who all's records were played.  Finally the evening came to an end and the company went home, which meant it was time to go to church for midnight services, always very moving in the stark gothic style church we worshiped in back then.  Then home and time for me to get ready for bed, since Santa was coming.  I always had a special little Christmas tree in my room; not a real one, but I believe it was ceramic and had bubble lights on it.  I would lie in bed, listening still to the music playing in the living room, and wonder if Santa was coming or if I had blown it by staying up too late.

Christmas morning was like no other:  I was required to stay in my room until it was light outside, a dictum I sometimes honored (there was always the year I tiptoed out in the dark to rearrange all the gifts under the tree by the light of the streetlamp across the way).  Of course I had no clue that my father had been up until just before dawn assembling Barbie houses or bicycles or whatever else had made my list bulge.  I was ready to get up and it was TIME, y'all, it's TIME!  I seem to remember that we opened stockings first, and there was always a fun assortment of things - a cedar box filled with pencils emblazoned with my name, note cards (for the inevitable thank-yous), an orange, and all sorts of trinkets.  Then I hit the mother lode, the pile under the tree.  I didn't know until years after my father's death that he used to go into debt for Christmas gifts each year and then spend a goodly portion of the new year paying off our bounty.  All I knew was that even my Jewish friends who celebrated the eight nights of Hanukkah probably didn't get as many gifts as I did - I felt like the richest kid in town!  The dog and cat would play among the heaps of paper, all the careful wrapping that had been done was destroyed in minutes, and amazingly, nothing ever got lost that I know of.  Daddy would be happy with his slippers or cufflinks or whatever I had eked out enough money to buy him; my mother could always use a new nightgown or scarf; and I honestly don't recall if I bought a gift for my sister - or she for me!  All I know is that all too soon I was torn away from my gifts and plopped into the bath to get ready to go to my aunt's home for Christmas dinner.  I remember taking my "mink" stole and my Tiny Tears doll with me one year only to face the ridicule of my older, all-boy cousins, so I generally would spend the day at their house in the family room watching Frazier Thomas' "Family Classics" Christmas movies and waiting for dinner while I hid from their cat - who hated everyone with an equal passion.  I guess I saw that part of Christmas Day as a duty to be borne, giving it up for the family before I could go home and revel in my haul once again.  Christmas Day would end with our family's best friends coming over as the adults shared pie and coffee and I ricocheted around the living room, still playing at full frenzy.

I guess what makes these ramblings oh-so-special to me is the way the celebrations ended so abruptly with my father's death.  My mother's idea of Christmas was a plastic tree (and it was UGLY) and writing the recipient's name on a hastily wrapped package with a magic marker.  Gone was the music.  Gone were the whiskey sours.  Gone was the joy and the laughter and the love, not to be found for me again until I married my husband Ken.  My sister worked very hard when raising her children to re-create the atmosphere we had on Jackson Street, and she did an admirable job, but it was always painful for me.  As for me, I found out I am not the talented Jello-maker my mother was, nor can I make a gourmet dessert like my sister.  I can put a ham and cheese potatoes on the table with all the fixings and Ken and the kids and grandkids and I laugh and carry on in our own tradition, which has come to settle at our home.  It is a blessed Christmas memory every year, but it still doesn't hold the cachet of those years on Jackson Street.  What was so magic about those years?  Was it the innocence and unadulterated joy that possessed me?  Was it the security and love that I felt?  That all left when my father died, not to be found again for many, many years if at all.

That is why every year, in addition to my celebration of God's gift of His Son, my Savior, there is a part of me that mourns.  I miss those rollicking Christmas Eves and Christmas mornings.  Now this year, we are in Florida, away from family altogether.  Although we made this choice, it is still a different Christmas without those we love around us.  Friends have invited us to a Christmas Eve party and a trip to a Chinese buffet for Christmas Day (of course, being from The Region, our first thoughts are Ralphie and family in "A Christmas Story" listening to the waiters sing "Fa ra ra ra ra!).  It will be interesting and fun, and we will make new memories to mix with the old.

Memories that bless and burn - may your hearts be filled with love this Christmas; love of God, love of family, and love of the joyous times that bring you together.  I wish you only memories that bless.  From my temporary household on the Gulf of Mexico to wherever you and yours are, I send you Christmas love and pray for you to have a blessed holiday and a wonderful 2012.  God bless.