A True Christmas Tree Tale

On November 3 this year, my cousin Jerry Ray Lindamood passed away. As often happens with the loss of special people in our lives—especially people who were a big part of our childhood—many fond memories have been flooding my thoughts in the days since then. 

I grew up in a Houston suburb, but my childhood included frequent trips to my grandparents’ house in Malakoff, a small east Texas town. My sister, brother, and I looked forward to those trips because something adventurous was always taking place there. Jerry Ray lived down the black-topped road from my grandparents, and he was often the source of those adventures. Among them: an exploration in the junk pile behind my grandparents’ house which resulted in his getting stitches in his finger; rides on the back of his shiny red motorcycle and being chased by dogs; a tree house built by him and his friends with a pulley to haul up supplies. When my sister and I tried to haul up a younger cousin, the rope broke. As you’ve probably surmised, risk often accompanied these adventures. But is it even an adventure if risk isn’t involved? (Btw, the cousin was and is fine.)

As I was decorating my house for Christmas this year, another Jerry Ray adventure came to me. It occurred in the late 1950s, so many of the details are fuzzy. But I do remember throngs of relatives had gathered at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. When the huge meal was over, a passel of cousins, ranging in ages from about seven to twelve, assembled on the front porch, eager for something to do. 

Acres of pasture and woods surrounded my grandparents’ house, and those woods always supplied their Christmas trees. Mind you, these were not the perfectly shaped firs or spruces scientifically propagated on Christmas tree farms. These were rangy cedars with branches twisting in every direction. That Thanksgiving Day, Jerry Ray decided we would all traipse across the pasture to the woods and harvest one of those unruly trees for the upcoming Christmas. Armed with an axe, he sat out, cousins in tow.

Among my fuzzy memories, one remains very clear: Chopping down a Christmas tree in the woods is hard work. First, it takes a lot of walking to get to the woods and then more walking to locate a suitable tree. It can’t be too tall or too small or too full or too scrawny. Also, evidently felling a tree is laborious work. I say “evidently” because that job was left to the head lumberjack, Jerry Ray, who hacked at the trunk with determination while the rest of us observed. The hardest part, which involved everyone, was lugging that tree to the house. Anyone who has ever chopped down a tree knows it grows exponentially in size and weight once it hits the the ground. Each cousin grabbed a limb or branch, and we hauled that tree for what seemed like miles. 

After much sweat and toil and more than a few scrapes, splinters, and blisters, we dragged that tree into my grandparents’ front yard. We stood there proudly awaiting the praise and gratitude such an accomplishment deserved. I was already picturing that tree in my grandparents’ living room, decked out in multi-colored bulbs and an assortment of shiny balls and dripping with strands of lead foil icicles. (Yes, those were a thing in the days before the danger of lead was known.)

The grown-ups assembled on the porch, staring at the tree. I think they were surprised we’d managed to chop down a tree of that size and wrangle it all the way to the house. But instead of praise, we got, “That tree will be dried up by Christmas.” 

Crestfallen, we’d never contemplated that possibility even though Christmas was over a month away. But led by Jerry Ray, we weren’t defeated. He insisted—and we all agreed—if the tree were placed in a bucket of water in the garage, it stood a good chance of still being green at Christmas. 

To my delight, when our family returned to Malakoff for Christmas, a sprawling cedar, adorned with lights, ornaments, and deadly icicles, touched the ceiling of my grandparents’ living room. An array of gifts encircled it on the floor. When questioned, our grandparents assured my sister, brother, and me it was the same tree the cousins had harvested. 

For years, I believed that explanation. But recently it popped into my cynical, grown-up mind maybe it wasn’t the same tree. Knowing how hard their grandchildren had worked, had my grandparents obtained another tree and told a white lie to spare our feelings? I’ll never know for sure. But it’s Christmas time, and I choose to believe it was the same tree.

Thank you, Jerry Ray, for the beautiful memories. Although we didn’t get to see each other often in the latter years, I feel your absence deeply. But, as with that Christmas tree, I choose to believe. I picture you in your heavenly home, happily providing great adventures.

 

Christmas morning at my grandparents' house ca. 1958, '59. 

I felt very safe, seeing that my brother was well-armed. 

                                          

Wishing everyone memory-making adventures this 

Holiday Season!

Wishing You a Slippery Slope Kind of Christmas

When I saw a cute little amigurumi mouse on Facebook, it immediately brought to mind one of my favorite children's books series If You Give a Mouse... by Laura Numeroff. 

These charming stories perfectly illustrate the "slippery slope" theory--you know, how one seemingly harmless act can quickly get out of hand. I'm afraid, this is exactly what is happening to my crocheting. So taking inspiration from the series, I composed my own little slippery slope story.

 

If you give a mouse a crochet hook,

  

he’s going to want some yarn.

When you give him red yard,

 he’ll also ask for green ...

 to make himself a Christmas outfit.

If it doesn’t snow, he’ll want some white yarn

to make a snowman. 

Then he’ll ask for sparkly white yarn, 

 because all magical unicorns are sparkly,

And, of course, he’ll need brown 

to make a wise old owl.

Then he’ll need white again

to make a cat, who’s grumpy because
she has no place to relax.

So he’ll need a tiny bit of tan

 to make a box.
(But the cat will still be grumpy.)

Then he’ll want some gray yarn

  to make a little mouse...
and some more red for a stocking
for his new companion to snuggle in.

He’ll need LOTS of lime green yarn

to make a grinch—a nice one who’d never even
think of stealing Christmas, and

finally,

he’ll ask for assorted colors of yarn

to decorate his Christmas tree,
where all his new friends can gather  
 

when he throws his Christmas Party!

WISHING YOU A "SLIPPERY SLOPE" CHRISTMAS WHERE 

THE MERRIMENT GETS TOTALLY OUT OF HAND!

'tis the Season

At ten till nine on the first morning of November, I was making my daily sojourn to the gym on one of the busiest streets in Edmond. It was a routine drive I’ve made for a number of years. I was driving the speed limit, minding my business when—BAM! A deer’s belly appeared in my windshield and just as quickly disappeared, leaving my windshield smashed to smithereens. 

I pulled my car to the curb, not all that shook up, as there had been no time to become alarmed. The event was over. The deer had vanished into a small thicket of trees beside the road, and I was unharmed. My greatest concern was that another motorist would plow into the back of my parked car because the emergency blinker no longer worked. Thankfully, a thoughtful driver soon stopped and stayed behind me with his truck’s blinker on until a policeman arrived. The driver also did a quick search into the trees, but the deer was nowhere to be found.

 

This is the only view I got of the deer. And it was there and gone in a flash!

As it turned out, my little Prius was no match for a deer. The windshield  was busted, the roof  above it dented, the side posts bent. There was also minor damage to a front light and the back of the roof. The motor was still in good condition, but the interior electrical system was kaput. The car I’d planned on driving for at least three more years was totaled. 

A Prius is no match for a deer.

 

 Back home, I sent a photo of my poor Prius to friend Nancy, who forwarded it to her son. His response was that the month of November has the highest number of car/deer incidents… because of the rut season. 

A quick google search informed me that rut season, which runs from approximately late October to mid-December, is when male deer go crazy. In their desperation to find a female and ensure the continuation of their species, they completely lose control of their mental faculties, doing things like jumping in front of cars on busy suburban streets. (I’m exercising extreme control here in not commenting on the males of another species.) To this deer’s credit, he’d--I’m sure it was a “he”-- timed his encounter with my car at the precisely correct time of year.

All is well now. The insurance check came, and with minimum amount of hassle, I’m driving  a new Honda CR-V, which I’m very much enjoying. The incident even inspired a little creativity in me. Borrowing the tune from a Christmas song I used to enjoy but now find slightly irritating, I’ve written a little rut season song. As far as I know, this has never been done before. I think it makes a nice segue from one season to another. Feel free to sing along.

(To be sung to the tune of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Also, I'm assuming the deer was a whitetail because that's what is most prevalent in these parts.)

Grandma’s Prius got run over by a whitetail, 

headed to the gym November first.

The whitetail disappeared into the woodland,

but if the car is any sign, that impact hurt!

(This is the slow part.)

Now the Prius is in the junkyard,

pulled there by a towing truck.

No one got a good look at the whitetail,

but we’re sure it had to be a love-starved buck.

HAVE A SAFE RUT SEASON!

Need a Spiritual Boost? Hallelujah!

Have you ever had one of those Sunday mornings when going to church wasn’t at the top of your  Things-I-Want-To-Do list? I’ll admit to many of those throughout my lifetime. On some of them I gave in to that negative feeling and stayed home, doing my own mini- church—reading a devotional, listening to hymns and praise songs. Other times I completely indulged my secular side and carried on as if Sunday were any other day of the week. While I wasn’t struck by lightening or any other form of divine reckoning, I didn’t get the spiritual boost I needed to help me through the week. 

Yesterday was almost one of those Sunday mornings for me. The week had been busy. A couple of deadlines were looming. And, frankly,  I just wasn’t in the mood. But having no truly good reason or excuse to stay home, I decided to go—reluctantly and not with the greatest of attitudes.

As often happens when I make the right decision in spite of myself, God showed up in an unusual way. I’d recently finished my latest audiobook, so my default listen on my drive to church was K-LOVE (a religious music station). Not surprisingly, a song with a lot of hallelujah’s came on, reminding me of another book I’d just read—Eugene Peterson’s This Hallelujah Banquet. 

In the last chapter of his book, Peterson expounds on two words—hallelujah and amen. He explains that hallelujah is a Hebrew word meaning “praise God.” I kind of knew that, but Peterson’s further explanation was refreshingly new. “The word has lilt and exuberance to it. Its meaning is expressed in its sounds….There are happiness and delight in it. Praise is supported by the liquid, undulating sounds of the syllables.” These statements struck a resounding chord with a word nerd like me. I’d decided to make an effort to repeat hallelujah more often—especially at those “meh” times in my life.

Peterson goes on to explain the life-affirming meaning of amen. It means “yes!” It is “the basic, overwhelming, eternally fixed word of God to you . . .Yes, I love you. Yes, I accept you. Yes, I want you. And . . .  our best word back to God is yes. Amen.”

So the song on the radio made me think of hallelujah and hallelujah made me think of amen and by the time I arrived at church I was in a much more worshipful state. And God just kept on working. The opening hymn, “All Creatures of Our God and King,” contained no fewer than eighteen hallelujahs (if you sing all four stanzas). And then the congregation sang “Revive Us Again.” I’ve sung this jubilant old hymn many times, but this was the first time I truly noticed the second line of the chorus: “Hallelujah! Amen!”

There they were! Those two words that had so recently come to hold more meaning for me were being sung right together. And that’s not all. (This is beginning to sound like an infomercial.) The choir sang the offertory that ended with a resounding hallelujah. And then the congregation stood and sang “The Doxology” which, as you know, ends with yet another emphatic and sustained Ah-men. (I'll bet you’re singing this to yourself—if not out loud—right now.)

You’re probably saying, “Of course, there were a lot of hallelujahs and amens. It’s not that surprising. You were in church.” 

You’d be right. But the amazing thing wasn’t the repetition of the words. It was that I now heard them with new ears and new appreciation. And whereas I’d been a bit of a grouch earlier, I was now prepared to listen to the sermon and God’s message with a happier and more receptive heart. The words had turned my “meh” Sunday into a day of meaningful worship.

This week, I’m going to practice saying those two words a lot to see if they have such a positive effect on the rest of the days. I’m trusting they will. Hallelujah! Amen!

In the Wind

As fellow writer Lisbeth says, "we have just so much ‘schtick’" when it comes to making presentations. So whenever I’m asked to speak, I try adjust my schtick to be to relevant and (hopefully) entertaining to the particular group I’m addressing. Recently, when my friend Rhonda asked me to speak to her ladies organization, I spent several hours honing my usual material into a customized presentation for them. I also spent a good deal of time practicing my delivery.

Since this presentation wasn’t going to involve Powerpoint, I decided to go old school and use paper notes. (Does anyone do that anymore?) But I figured paper would be less cumbersome than hauling my laptop and worrying about technology glitches—which have been known to occur. I know younger folks—that means anyone younger than I—rely on their phones these days, but for me that also presents its own set of problems. So paper it was.

The morning of the meeting, I gathered my books and promo material into a basket, adding my notes as the last item. As I loaded all my paraphernalia into my car, I double checked that the notes were there, and I distinctly remember thinking, “You’d be in a world of hurt without these.” A foreboding?

I arrived at my destination in plenty of time, confident I’d done all I could—including praying— to ensure my presentation would go smoothly. It was a windy day in Oklahoma—no surprise there—and I pushed my hair out of my eyes as I retrieved the basket from my car. I walked toward the building, greeting a few people on my way. Rhonda met me at the door and directed me to the meeting room.

I began setting up my display: books? check; bookmarks? check; business cards? check; newsletter sign-up list? check; notes? …. notes? NOTES???!!!

I frantically searched the basket. I flipped through the calendar I’d brought as well as several books. I inspected my money bag. Not yet going into full-blown panic, I returned to my car, certain the notes must’ve fallen out there. Nope. 

Now I was panicking. 

The phrase “in the wind” is traditionally used to indicate "about or

likely to happen" as in "a company takeover is in the wind." But I became familiar with a different meaning   two years ago when I read Rembrandt Is In the Wind (which I highly recommend) by Russ Ramsey. I’ve heard the phrase a few times since, most recently in a mafia movie: “I’m afraid Benny is in the wind.” It’s a great metaphor for gone, disappeared, vanished, scattered to a far corner of the earth never to be seen again. In the case of the mafia movie, it was code for Benny is resting at the bottom of a landfill. 

In the midst of my panic, that phrase came to me. The only logical conclusion was that on my way into the building, my notes had blown out of my basket. In my case, “in the wind” meant spread across five Oklahoma counties. 

I had a few minutes before my talk. I breathed deeply, waited for my blood pressure to lower, collected my thoughts, and once again prayed. In the back of the calendar I’d brought, I quickly jotted down what I remembered from my notes.

In the end, all went well. Fortunately, I remembered most of my talk since I’d practiced it so many times. I confessed my situation to the women gathered, a gracious and understanding group. As I spoke, I grew relaxed and felt I was talking with friends. 

When I was leaving, I laughed with Rhonda about the incident, and she shared with me something she’d recently learned in a Beth Moore Bible study. Moore had advised women that whenever they found themselves in a panicky situation to ask the question, “What’s the worst that will probably happen here?” 

I thought about that question and came up with my personal answer: Nothing that, with God’s help, I can’t handle—even when my best laid plans end up "in the wind."

Sermon on the Sitcom

You can credit this post to daylight savings time. It’s not that I forgot to set my clock forward, but that I didn’t feel like getting up an hour earlier. Fortunately, our church provides three Sunday morning services, so 

rather than attending my regular 8:30 service, I went at 11:00. 

That choice resulted in a little extra time that morning—time I could’ve spent in meditation or prayer, properly preparing myself for worship. Instead I chose to indulge in one more episode of a sitcom I’ve been bingeing on. (Spoiler alert! If you are not yet to Season 6 of Young Sheldon, you might want to stop reading here.) 

You’re probably wondering how a sitcom that is at times risqué and often irreverent could possibly qualify as sermon material. But if you’re a fan of the prequel to The Big Bang Theory, you know Young Sheldon presents some intriguing—and often hilarious—food for thought concerning many areas of life, including religion. It’s a lot of the ridiculous, a bit of the sublime.

The episode I watched that particular Sunday dealt with the sticky issue of a pre-marital pregnancy—the news that the Cooper family would soon be welcoming an unplanned new member. All the family were struggling in their own way with how to deal with this situation, but perhaps none more than Mary, the grandmother-to-be. 

Mary is the spiritual leader of her family. While her theology is sometimes a bit flawed, she has a good heart, and her faith is strong. She spends a lot of time in her personal prayer garden, trying to sort out with God the challenges of being a wife and mother in the worldly world of the 1990s. Her commitment to her church is also strong. She serves as church secretary and hosts a weekly Bible study. 

On the Sunday after learning of the pregnancy, Mary corrals her reluctant family into the church sanctuary. It’s going to be awkward. Mary knows the entire church now knows the Coopers’ little secret. But where better to sort out life’s trials than church?

I know sitcoms are supposed to make us laugh, but I was close to tears as I watched the Cooper family enter the sanctuary. I longed for Mary to find acceptance, comfort, solace in her Christian community but feared she would not. Sadly, my fear was realized. Mary and her family receive not just a cool but an openly hostile reception: disparaging looks, refusals to sit by them, refusals to join hands with them in prayer. To add insult to injury, the following week all the members of Mary’s Bible study cancel on her.

I wanted to blame this disappointing outcome on the show’s writers—Of course in the show-biz world there is no way they’re going to present Christians in a positive light.  But being honest with myself, I realized this wasn’t such a far-fetched, biased scenario—not in the 1990s and not today. 

I wasn’t finger-pointing at “other” Christians. I searched my own conscience for the times I’ve chosen judgment over grace—the kind of grace that doesn’t condone a difficult situation but offers understanding and the help to get through it. 

Duly convicted by my sitcom sermon, I proceeded to my church where I listened to another one taken from Psalm 23. That scripture passage assures us that God—unlike fellow Christians sometimes—will never desert those who trust in him. Like a faithful shepherd, he guides us through our most difficult trials and struggles—our personal “valley[s] of the shadow of death.”

I haven’t finished all the episodes of Young Sheldon yet, but as of the last one I watched, Mary has abandoned church. So far, she hasn’t been shown in her prayer garden either, suggesting she also may have abandoned God. But God hasn’t abandoned Mary, and I’m holding out hope that eventually her faith in him will be strong enough to overcome her disappointment with the church. And I’m wishing Mary Cooper could’ve heard that Psalm 23 sermon.

My Word for 2024 -- Meditate

In 2018, rather than making resolutions (which held a slim chance of being kept) I began  choosing a word on which to focus throughout the year. With the exception of 2022 in which I focused on songs, I’ve stuck to that practice and feel it has served me well. When the words are positive—joy, hope, community, shine, goodness—it is truly surprising how they can provide inspiration and encouragement throughout the year, even on those days that aren’t going so great. 

For 2024, I first considered the word abide. So many good definitions and Bible verses are associated with that word. In fact, just this morning, our pastor delivered a sermon on abiding, and I was tempted to revert to it. Rather than struggling with writing this post, I could just plagiariz borrow his words—giving due credit, of course.

But I stuck to my final choice: meditate. I arrived at this word because after checking the definitions of abide, I came to the conclusion that dwelling or remaining in the place I wanted required arriving there first. I thought meditation would be one good way--among others--to get to that place. To confirm this belief, I checked the definitions of meditate: 1) to engage in thought or contemplation; reflect 2) to engage in devout religious contemplation, or quiet spiritual introspection. Synonyms include ponder, consider, think, deliberate, study. Some scripture synonyms I found—continue, dwell, remember, muse, treasure, be absorbed, and, perhaps my favorite in The Message translation, “chew on.” 

Attempts at meditation aren’t new to me, but I admit I struggle. The problem comes from emptying my mind of all non-meditation-worthy thoughts. For some reason, the moment my mind receives the message I’m going to meditate, it decides to offer up for consideration every thought, situation, activity, worry, etc. it can conceive of. Eyes opened, eyes closed, deep breathing, different positions, different activities—they all help to a degree but I’ve yet to master the pathway to truly deep, meaningful meditation. Perhaps that's because the method isn't as important as the motivation and the focus of my meditating.

Perhaps how we meditate isn't as important as ...

why and on what we meditate.

I looked up Bible passages that instruct as to why we should meditate as well as on what we should meditate. Here are just a few of the many:

Why

“Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.” Psalm 1:1-3

“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Isaiah 26:3

“I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you.” Psalm 119:11

 On What

“I will ponder all your work, and mediate on your mighty deeds.” Psalm 77:12

“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” Colossians 3:2

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” Philippians 4:8

I’ll keep you posted on my journey. Perfect meditation is not my goal, and I know it isn’t a requisite for abiding. I suspect meditation and abiding go hand-in-hand rather in chronological order. Maybe working on my meditation will enhance my abiding...and vice versa. And maybe I already have my word for next year!