My Love/Hate Relationship With Christmas: Confessions of a Christmas-holic

It is two days after Christmas and I have been reduced to a drooling, mumbling, pajama-clad couch potato. In December a few years ago, I made a trip to the dermatologist where my daughter, Stephanie, works. I had burning, itching hives covering my neck and chest that felt like a hundred stinging ants.  “Well, looks like you were here last December for the same thing,” said the doctor.  “That’s it! It has been confirmed. I’m allergic to Christmas,” I replied.

I love Jesus. I serve Him as closely and faithfully as I can, but I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas. I love everything about it. I hate the amount of work that it entails. I confess, I am responsible for much of my Christmas to-do list. All those cookies I bake – dozens and dozens – to give to neighbors, family and friends. And my family reproduces like sex-starved rabbits, so my gift list is a continually growing, demanding parasite.

Thank God gift giving is my love language. Otherwise, I would eradicate that leech-list – set fire to it and cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West. Even though I purchase sale items all year long, I find myself scrambling and searching in a psychotic frenzy at the last minute every December. This year I had tons of little boy gifts, but many more little girls than boys in the family. Seriously, though, why can’t a three-month-old baby girl get a set of Hot Wheels as a gift? Who makes these rules anyway? I have a confession: little boys are easier to buy for than little girls, but men are harder to buy for than women. That is my truth, so there!

Then all the meals! Somehow I manage to keep up my usual “everyone-comes-to-my-house-for-lunch-after-church-every-Sunday” ritual. I had not fully recovered from all that cooking/baking I did for Thanksgiving when the kitchen fairy – that cursed, wretched, slave-driving creature – reminded me I have much to do in December.

And don’t ask me why I drive myself to be the Queen of Christmas Decorating. I even do the front yard décor with lights and everything. But I have learned a valuable, sanity-saving secret. Let there be no item set out at Christmas – or any other time – that is more precious to you than the tiny hands that may break it. My younger self was not so gracious about this. But now I let my grandkids and great-grandkids rearrange my village, take baby Jesus out of the nativity, touch Santas with not-so-clean fingers….you get the idea. And every year, something gets broken. And I always ask the tearful offender, “What do I love more? You or (that thing) you broke? Of course, I love you more.”

To make this December worse, I started off the first week with some coughing, achy, sneezing, fatigued virus from hell. It lasted a week. Then the Sunday night before Christmas – after having thirty plus people here that day for lunch and to play that steal-the-gift game – I got a horrid bug that kept me up most of the night with some demonic minion twisting a burning knife in my stomach.

I had to babysit a grandson Monday and Tuesday before Christmas. To top that off, my youngest daughter, Heather’s, husband ended up in ICU, so I had those three grandkids too. I was facing a Christmas Eve meal and festivities for 20-30 family, plus preparing a complete meal to take to the in-laws in another city on Christmas day.

Heaving a heavy sigh while every bone and muscle in my sixty-six year old body groans in protest, I am forever grateful for Jesus Christ, Incarnate God, who chose to be born as a helpless newborn with a destiny to sacrifice His mortal, human body because of His profound love for mankind. Words are inadequate to express the depth of my love for my Lord and savior.

This Christmas, I am especially grateful that my son-in-law, Bobby, got released from the hospital to be with his family for Christmas. Also, my sweet grandson, Nathanael, and his wife, Jessica, handed me a box of Cerrata’s Chocolates, and said, “Our other Christmas gift is that we’re going to have a baby.”  A miracle I have been praying about for almost two years. Only a handful know the significance of that announcement. 

And because I love my family and friends, I will always look forward to Christmas. 

Forever Friends

Chin hairs? Upper lip hairs? If you’re a woman and older, you know that these are just one of many banes as we age. I saw a post on Facebook once that said, “A true friend is one who will pluck your chin hairs for you when you’re in the hospital.” Oh, how true!

Years ago, a psychologist told me, “A true friend speaks the truth even when you know it may hurt.”  She was referring to my comment about my friend, Debbie.

Debbie, who went home to Jesus at age fifty, was one of the sweetest people I knew. She passed from this life because of complications due to obesity. We headed up out church singles’ group together.  All she wanted was to get married and have children. Sadly, it never happened for her.

Debbie was beautiful inside and out, but her extreme weight kept men from being interested in her. In her yearning for love, she fell repeatedly for men who did not, and would not, reciprocate. She spun wild tales of someone’s imagined interest in her, and I found it difficult to tell her the truth that, “He’s just being nice. He has no romantic interest in you.” In fact, only once did I try to tell her that, and she sobbed so broken-heartedly, I retracted my words.

“That’s not being a true friend,” the psychologist told me. Gulp! What do you consider to be a true friend?  How do we define friendship? Speaking truth isn’t always wise. Some things are better left unsaid when the overall result is more harm than good. But I should have been truthful with Debbie and perhaps she would have set her sights on someone more attainable. She always went for the drop dead, gorgeous guys. 

I feel privileged to have friends I've known since grade school and my teenage years. I have a special friend I’ve known since my early twenties. She was my pastor’s wife first, but gradually became a dear friend. This friend is eleven years older than me, and in the twilight of her years, is suffering many debilitating health issues. One is Parkinson’s. Her whole body shakes and jerks continually despite medication.

She fell and broke a hip over the weekend. One of my daughters, Denise, and I went to visit her in the hospital. Still slightly groggy, she told the nurse as I entered her room, “This is my forever friend. She will take my teeth out and brush and clean them, won’t you, Leola?”

Gulp! Although I have dentures, I have a slight aversion to such things. Have I said I have a slight aversion to such things? I did this for my elderly mother, changed her Depends, cleaned her vomit, etc. Have I said I have a slight aversion to such things?

So what did I do? I took my friend’s teeth and cleaned them, then helped her put them back in her mouth. Why? Because it’s what friends do. It is a demonstration of love.

As a friend, please love me enough to give me an honest evaluation of my writing. Oh, and pluck my upper lip hairs if I'm in the hospital. I'll try to clean my teeth myself.  Said with a chuckle. 

Always In His Care

God is always faithful, always at work in the lives of his children. Sometimes we stray from His will and plan for us, but we are never out of His care. If Jesus loves us enough to die for us, then He loves us enough to take care of us. He always, always knows where we’re at and what we’re facing.

While shopping this morning for half price Easter candy – admit it, we love to get a bargain on chocolate – I ran into an old friend, Jim. I met him and his family at church years ago. Their two daughters became friends with my daughters. His wife, Inge, and I became friends. The unique thing about them is that in addition to their two daughters and son, they always had several foster children.

Over the course of time, they adopted one of the foster girls, then within a few years, they adopted another foster child, a boy of different racial background. And they continued to be foster parents.

Inge has suffered with different ailments over the years, a brain tumor, and kidney failure. My daughters and I have stayed in contact with their daughters via Facebook. Last week Inge had a kidney transplant. The miraculous thing is the baby boy they adopted twenty seven years ago was a match, not any of her biological children. A decision years ago to change the life of one child by giving him a permanent family has had an impact this family never imagined. But God knew.

Last week Inge’s daughter and son stopped by to buy my book Like A Cedar In Lebanon for Inge to read while recuperating. When I saw Jim in Fry’s store this morning, I inquired how Inge and their son are doing. Among other things, he said, “Inge loves your book. So you’ve become a writer. That’s great.”

Had he stopped at, “Inge loves your book,” it would’ve been an encouragement. But, in the midst of his own storm with both a wife and son recovering from major surgery and the vigil to see if Inge’s body accepts this kidney, Jim began to speak life into my heart and spirit – about my writing and life in general.

Standing next to tables of marked-down Easter candy in a busy grocery store, tears sprang to my eyes. It felt like Jesus was breathing encouragement to my troubled spirit. You see, I have an alcoholic son. He has managed to destroy everyone and everything in his life. Whenever his name shows on my phone, I groan. He is so messed up and mixed up, it’s heart-wrenching for me to have any contact with him.

I have been praying lately, “God, whatever it takes, do SOMETHING!”  If you think of it, please pray for my son for deliverance, and pray for a speedy recovery for Inge and her son. If God knew twenty-seven years ago that a baby boy would be instrumental in saving his adoptive mother's life, then God knows and cares about whatever you may be facing today.

To Say No When Asked to Promote Others' Books

He’s a nice guy – one of my co-worker for several years. I really like him. In fact he’d tell people, “She’s my mama,” which caused some mouths to drop open because I’m a pale whitey, and his skin is definitely the opposite. He’s the first one who took me to eat at Lolo’s Chicken & Waffles – he and another co-worker.

 

As is often the case, we lose track of people over the years. He quit, I stayed, but we reconnected on Facebook a couple of years ago. I noticed he’d married again – for the third or fourth time. He had children with his first two marriages. I’m not sure of any others. I do know, by his own admission, that his marriages failed because of his infidelity and drug abuse. It was ironic, since we worked together at a Christian drug and alcohol rehab.

 

He found me on Facebook. Then about a year ago, he asked me about my writing career, and how I went about getting a book published. “I’m writing a book. Well, my wife and I are writing the book.” Through his posts, I found out the book is about having a successful marriage – “ Do the opposite of what I did,” is part of the cover blurb.

 

I scratched my head. Well, okay, I think, but because of what I personally know, I wouldn’t buy his book. BUT….then he begins to ask me to help promote his book, which came out a week or so ago. I frequently share other writers/authors books and blogs on Facebook, people whose work I trust and admire. “I need you to Share Share Share on Facebook and help me get the word out,” he posted on my wall on Facebook.

 

Ugh! I resent this kind of presumptive pressure. In good conscience, I can’t promote his book. Okay, I vented. I feel better. To all my fellow writers and authors, it’s okay, and a necessary part of the process, to ask friends and acquaintances to help with your promotion, but don’t pressure anyone.

Why Write?

Why do you write? Why do I write? This question wasn’t birthed by me. I see it in numerous blogs and postings. So why do I write?

The desire to write has always dwelt within me. But life happened, and I suppose I assumed writing was not meant for me. The first serious writing I did was for NaNoWriMo in 2009, a fictional account of my life. It was catharsis for me, opening old wounds and dealing with them anew. Perhaps I had never truly dealt with some at all. Whatever the case, I was hooked on writing.

My next NaNoWriMo was a novel Like A Cedar In Lebanon. It dealt with things I had written about in my fiction life story. I poured my heart and soul into my novel, but the path to publication seemed daunting, overwhelming, a mountain I feared to climb. So I did subsidy, or vanity press, publishing.

By the time my book was out there, I realized I had broken all the rules of good writing. Although I love my novel, I’m a little embarrassed by the obvious flaws in the craft of writing it contains.

My book released in November 2012. Immediately family and friends bought it, way over-priced, I might add, but out of my control. These people who love me gave great reviews on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Then a dear friend of mine said she bought my book. I hyperventilated and had heart palpitations.

My friend and I go way back to our early teen years. Then we had much in common, but not so today. I remained a conservative Christian, she has not. Our political and religious views are worlds apart. I love her dearly, and I love staying connected with her. But....she was going to read my book – my very, very Christian novel. Should I warn her?

She read it, and gave me a glowing review on Amazon. And that, my friends, is why I write. I want to show God in the midst of a harsh, cruel world. To show Jesus concerned, and at work in the lives of a fallen and flawed humanity.

And if I make some money in the process it would be icing on the cake. A plumber called by God still expects to get paid for his services. A policeman, fireman, and doctor all want to help people but expect to get recompensed. Nothing wrong with a writer expecting the same thing.

Keeping It Simple

A few weeks ago at a church picnic I met a nice young man from South Korea who is in the U.S. attending flight school. We sat at the same picnic table and had marvelous conversation, me inquiring about life in South Korea, and he about life here. He speaks great English, but carefully chooses his words and enunciates with precision. Despite the language barrier, we understood each other.

As a reader, I want novels to entertain me. I don’t want to have to experience deep thinking to understand what I’m reading. I do understand why some writers use elaborate, lofty, thought-provoking words because it's their style. I’m sure many readers enjoy that, but I don’t.

Recently I read a book by a known author. I loved his first book. In fact, I devoured it, and then read it a second time. So I was excited when a friend gave me a copy of his second book. It, too, is an amazing story, but PLEASE! Spare me the vocabulary journey of intellectual spout. It wasn’t necessary to tell the story. He was “birthed in an explosion of light, an inner expanding universe coalescing its own internal solar systems and galaxies with unimagined symmetry and elegance.”  Please, just say you were born!  And he described employees as fawning sycophants in another paragraph filled with lofty, uncommon words. I admit, although I have an intelligent grasp on vocabulary, I did look up sycophants.

My point is this – who are you trying to impress with your writing? Your average reader gets bogged down with deep-thinking descriptions. However, I guess it really, really boils down to who is your target audience?

To relate to my young, new friend from South Korea, we had to communicate well enough to understand each other without thinking of the meaning of what the other said. Know your target audience and write accordingly.

By the way, the above book I mentioned, I absolutely fell in love with it at chapter nine.