Oh What a Beautiful Morning...

It came and went like a flash of lightning against a moonless sky. Christmas, a time for reflection and for sweet celebration of the Christ Child's birth was gone before I knew it.

Fun and festivities always mark this special season for our family, but this year one of the most precious times for me was seeing my fifteen month old granddaughter delight in the bath of balls that her Pop and I gave her.

I imagine that when I am appropriately thrilled by the good gifts that God so generously lavishes upon me, He is equally delighted. I hope He sees how deeply, sincerely grateful I am for the undeserved gift of His Son's salvation, and that my gratitude is constant--and never reliant on special circumstances, occasions, or holidays.

If You're a Parent...

Read this: http://chapmanchannel.typepad.com/marybeth/2008/12/mary-beths-christmas-letter-.html

In the article Mary Beth Chapman talks about Mary, the mother of Jesus, along with some "what if's" related to the events of the past year in her own life.

If you don't have time to read all of it, take a minute to read the final paragraphs where she posts her thoughts about the things she'd have done differently if she'd known what was going to happen to Maria. It's a beautiful reminder about what really matters during this often hectic and hurried season.

I'll be picking more flowers this year. Thanks Mary Beth.

Family

I love Christmas. It's the only time of year that secular radio stations play Christian music, and the only time of year that I get to see almost everyone in George's family including my many adorable little great-nieces and nephews.

At the Broome Family Christmas gathering (which would make a great movie by the way) we play Dirty Santa. Each year someone undeserving of a "dirty" gift, seems to end up selecting exactly that. This year, one of the nicest people in the family chose a gift in an Anthropology bag when her turn came around. Inside that beautiful bag she discovered that she'd received a bath towel like the one pictured here:


I'm confident of two things. 1. This did not come from Anthropology; and, 2. Someone in the family will get a butt-face towel next year if it doesn't show up before then as a birthday gift.

I just love Christmas!


Ava Grace and her cousin Jaydon



Some of the energetic children with their tired parents

Traditions

Aside from the shopping and decorations, there are two things that signal the arrival of Christmas for me. One is attending a Christmas concert at church that focuses on the real meaning of this most wonderful holiday.

Andrew Peterson and friends brought special music that ushered in the season for me Wednesday night as our family enjoyed "Behold the Lamb of God" at Meck. Along with some of Caedmon's Call's musicians, Jill Phillips, Andy Gullahorn and Bebo Norman, these talented artists manage to convey the fascinating tale of God's Son's humble arrival as baby, yet Savior, in a way that captivates me. Somehow, Peterson has successfully captured the complex simplicity of God's redemptive plan with his unique musical style and lyrical genius.

It was our second year attending the concert, and my hope is that the tour will keep coming to Charlotte. If you haven't heard Peterson's music, you can check it out at: http://andrew-peterson.com/index.php?s=gl&nid=76657

The second signal that Christmas is really here for me is our family gathering with our friends, the Poteats. It used to be the Poteat/Broome Christmas dinner. Now, it's the Poteat/Broome/Bizzell/Gompers/Summerville Christmas dinner.

Melanie (Foushee) Poteat became my closest friend in 7th grade. We were innocently devious girls--scared to do anything too risky, but thrill-seeking nonetheless. When we ran out of legitimate pastimes, we spent lots of late evenings making prank telephone calls that were much more original than the old Sir Walter Raleigh in a can gags.

We called people we knew, changed our voices, and sold imaginary products, signed up one of our teachers with a free membership to Weight Watchers, established a phony phone friendship with a woman named Fanny Pansy after finding there was person with such an unfortunate name in the telephone book, and called a Taxi to a neighbor's house in the middle of the night--(that one may have crossed the line, but oh the fun of seeing the old gentleman across the street in his undies at 2 a.m. telling the cab to go away). We were bored and there was no Caller ID. What can I say?

Anyway, Melanie was in my wedding and I was in hers. Our husbands became friends (which was a prerequisite for our marriages to them). Not really, but it was helpful. A few years later, Melanie had her first child just four months after Leslie was born. Leslie and Ashley have been lifelong friends. Next, I had David and she had Amber who were pals throughout their childhoods.

Through the years we have celebrated, vacationed, laughed and cried together, but one of our most important traditions is our annual Christmas dinner (always on Christmas Eve before our children were adults).

This year, we were all able to gather at my house for laughs, hugs and love, and only one important thing changed--Jim, Melanie's very funny husband, didn't read "How Come Christmas?". It was the first time since our tradition was established that we missed Jim's dramatic interpretation of the delightful story. http://www.amazon.com/How-Come-Christmas-Roark-Bradford/dp/0877972087 I wish every person I know had the privilege of hearing him read the book--it is a priceless experience, but sadly, our party had to break up too soon and it just didn't happen.

It's disappointing when something that is familiar AND important changes, but we were still blessed by the opportunity to celebrate Christmas and these many years of enduring friendship last night.

To still have my junior high dearest friend in my life is a great blessing. I love her family--even the newer additions that include two great young men who are now her sons-in-law. The newest addition however, is my favorite! She's a brown-haired beauty weighing in at about 7 1/2 pounds, and she is the spittin' image of an angel (I'm convinced). I'm thrilled that Melanie and I can share the joys of Grammy and Nana-hood, and that during this busy season our children and their spouses wouldn't miss the chance to keep our Poteat/Broome Christmas tradition.

So...now...it's really Christmas.

Ava Grace opening her surprise at the party!

Common Sense vs. Rules

I've waited 24 hours before posting this blog in order to collect my thoughts. I still don't know exactly what I plan to do in response to the situation I'm about to chronicle, but in order to ensure in my mind that the urgency of detailing what happened doesn't diminish, I needed to at least put this in writing.

Yesterday, the most inspirational person I know (who also happens to be a cancer patient who is valiantly fighting an aggressive form of metastatic breast cancer) went to her local gym to work out. In her battle against the insidious disease that would seek to render her weak or feeble, she only eats things that are good for her body and she exercises every day. Usually, her work out might include a hike to the top of Crowder's Mountain or a brisk walk outdoors, but when it's really cold she sometimes opts for an indoor routine. Such was the case yesterday in the early morning hours.

As my precious, brave friend tells me, she cannot work out in her wig because it's impractical and uncomfortable. There's nothing pleasant about the yucky feeling of sweat beading up underneath an already itchy apparatus. Her ball cap won't stay on and doesn't work well for her when her workout is intense, so she opted to cover her beautiful head with a white bandanna.

I know her well enough to know that she doesn't seek to broadcast her plight everywhere she goes, but it wouldn't have been difficult to ascertain that her purpose for wearing the bandanna (again, a white bandanna--no gang symbols, no skull and crossbones--you get the drift) was to cover up the results of her chemotherapy.

Her troubles began yesterday when she broke the 'no bandanna's' rule at Planet Fitness. My friend, a Christian mom who teaches her own children the importance of obedience, didn't purposely ignore their rules. She wasn't intentionally rebelling when she tied the cloth covering around her head, so the commotion that ensued as a result was embarrassing, humiliating and demoralizing.

I wish I could report that even a smidgen of compassion or empathy would have prevailed and that this unintentional breaking of the 'no bandanna' policy would have been addressed differently. The sad facts are, however, that the female manager of the gym required a young, female employee (who was obviously embarrassed and horrified) to tell my friend that she either had to lose the bandanna or leave. So, she left.

This didn't just make me mad, it broke my heart. The "mother" in me wanted to march over to that gym and give that manager more than a piece of my mind. But really, that's all she needs-- a piece of someone's mind. Yours, mine, anybody's--specifically from the hemisphere that contains the common sense and empathy portion.

Why? Because there was clearly no blatant attempt to disregard or rebel. Is it too much to have a little innocent hope that there can still be reasonable exceptions made for people whose circumstances are extenuating?

I guess it is. So, Merry Christmas gym manager. I hope the main gift you get this year is some compassion mixed with common sense.

Friday This and That

First, today's "This"...

To my sister: Please consider "this" my formal and public apology for dissing the song you once loved in my previous blog. I am sincerely sorry I ruined it for you and for any other unintentional insinuations, ramifications or negative consequences. Goodness gracious I feel bad.

I have to share here that my sister's reaction to my blog was kinder than mine might have been if I were in her Christmas shoes. She called me yesterday afternoon to say that she'd just heard a Christmas song about a person who was dying on Christmas Eve and nobody gave a rat's behind (not her exact verbiage) and that I just had to hear it. Point taken and touche'.

Now, today's "That"...

"That" man I married almost thirty years ago is really something. He's one of the hardest working individuals I've ever known--all business, all the time. He usually burns the candle at both ends. Yesterday, however, he was caught monkeying around on the job. Here's the evidence...

I love Christmas music. But...

Two local secular radio stations and one Christian station are now exclusively playing Christmas music. For the most part, I really enjoy it, but there are a few exceptions. I guess there are about five or six songs that are played too often in the rotations that aren't particularly appealing to me, but there is one song that always prompts me to change stations upon hearing its first note.

Before I tell you what it is, I want to issue a warning. Some of you are going to think I'm heartless and hopeless because you love the song and cannot imagine anyone having such strong aversion to it. May I request that you stop reading now? Or, feel free to vent by sending your comments to attack my critique and blast my opinion.

Now then, you've been warned. So just like in reality TV, here's my big reveal. I despise the song, "Christmas Shoes". Hate it. Really.

I remember when it came out a couple of years ago, my sister called, and with great emotion told me that I had to hear this heart-wrenching song that she'd just listened to about a little boy buying his mother some shoes but not having enough money to pay for them--and to make matters more gut-gripping, his mother was dying. She was torn up.

When I heard the song, my reaction was totally opposite. Nice tune, sappy, contrived musical story. Ugh.

If you are still reading, I'll admit that I'm in a small minority. I don't think there are many of us "Christmas Shoe" haters out here, and I recognize that most of the rest of the world loves the idea, story, and concept--so much so that movies and books now fatten the pocketbooks of those who contrived, I mean created it.

I also realize that there are stories like the one in the song that play out in the real world each and every day--real stories about real people who are in similar situations that would almost make the devil himself cry...but I digress.

My point is, the song feels like a gimmick to me. It's intended to make me think (I think) but what it does instead is make me mad. Why? Because it takes the man way too long to give the kid the money he needs to buy the darn shoes in the first place (he counted pennies for what seemed like hours). And, somebody told the little guy that his mother would be wearing the shoes she died in when she got to heaven. Apparently, nobody bothered to tell him she'll have a gleaming new wardrobe and will look perfectly radiant when she meets Jesus.

So, there you have it. I like Christmas music, but I do not like "Christmas Shoes". When I'm contemplating "the most wonderful time of the year"-- I don't want to cry--or think about little boys losing their mothers or not having enough money to buy that last gift. I want to think of a time long ago when a baby was born bringing light and life to this sometimes very sad and tragic world, making it possible for all to have eternal hope-- and even to look beautiful (without new shoes) when we meet Him face to face.