1993

The year that John and I got engaged, we spent the Christmas holiday at the farm.  I had already met most of John's extended family at Thanksgiving, which was when we had announced our engagement, and it was John's turn to meet my clan.

I'm not sure that I adequately prepared him for this experience.  I think he was a bit overwhelmed at the volume: of activities, of people, and of noise (there are not very many introverts in my family, especially on my Dad's side).

What John remembers most from that first Christmas (aside from the amazing ability of my family members to effectively participate in multiple conversations at one time) was how much time we spent in church.  Christmas Eve service.  Christmas morning service.  Sunday morning worship service.  New Years Eve service.  New Years Day service.  Sunday morning worship service.  Throw in a family gathering or two (also at the church) and I think we were in church every day we were there.

I remember being surprised that John was so surprised at this.  This was the Christmas ritual that I grew up with.  The air that I breathed.  It was becoming clear to him just how important church was/is to my family.  And to me.

From what I understand, the church I grew up in no longer has all these services.  Likely, I'm guessing, that's because people like me wouldn't attend them all anymore.  While I have fond memories of the candlelight choir services, Sunday school nativity programs, solemn (and German!) New Year's Eve and all-too-early New Year's Day services, my life and community has grown beyond the church in ways that mean other activities and people also share priority.  To be clear, I'm not saying that my church commitments (or my faith) have been replaced, just complimented - by relationships and activities outside of it. 

Though many things have changed over time to be sure, many of the fundamentals remain and continue to be important to both John and me and our boys, as well as our respective families:  the importance of relationships, life-giving and life-deepening activities and the role of church, both our community and our faith.

I must say I was relieved that, after that first Christmas, John still (and with the full knowledge and understanding that only multiple family gatherings can provide) chose to be with me.  And by extension, my family.

And we're still celebrating, 17 Christmases later.

Christmas dreams

Let Christmas not become a thing
Merely of merchant's trafficking,
Of tinsel, bell and holly wreath
And surface pleasure, but beneath
The childish glamour, let us find
Nourishment for soul and mind.
Let us follow kinder ways
Through our teeming human maze,
And help the age of peace to come
From a Dreamer's martyrdom.  

- Madeline Morse

(Thanks, Maura.)

Béal Feirste

I've been thinking lately, again, about our year in Northern Ireland.  Five years ago we had Christmas there with our friends in North Belfast.

Christmas pageant at Fortwilliam and the whole bit.  Drinks with friends at the pub.  Neighbourhood children knocking on our door singing, "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat...", hoping for a couple of P so they could run down the hill to the shop for sweets.   Ryan.  Demi.  Janet.  Sean.  Where are they now, I wonder.

Our time in Belfast was complicated.  It's taken a long time for me to understand what happened there.  Why we had to leave before we really wanted to.  Why things ended differently than anyone had expected or hoped for.  And why there was so much pain - both for us and for the people who had become our friends, our family.  I'm not certain I do understand it.  But I see it now with the perspective of time and distance and I no longer feel that pain in the same way.

Yesterday, I received an unexpected email from an old friend from Belfast, a friend I had lost track of.  She emailed a quick Christmas hello and tacked on a birthday wish for me.  I'm not sure why this touched me so much.  Perhaps it was the thoughtfulness of remembering my birthday after all these years (something many of my friends and family here understandably forget, due to its proximity to Christmas).  But really, I think it's just good to know that old friends there still think of me sometimes.  Because I sure think of them.

Mi familia

En mi familia, hay mi padre, mi madre y mi hermano.

15 years ago, when John and I were studying Spanish in Colombia, this was one of the basic sentences I practiced in conversation with our tutor, Ingrid.

Today, this sentence would sound more like:  En nuestra familia, hay mi esposo y nuestros hijos.  Además, hay nuestros padres, nuestros hermanos y hermanas en la ley y sobrinas y sobrinos.

And they were all at our house for an early Christmas this last weekend.  And it was grand.

Frintschoft

They descend today, my kin.  The first batch from the east, then on Friday they come from the west.  Our first Christmas together in 9 years.  Our first Christmas with all the kids.

Didn't get all the baking done.  Didn't get all the meal planning done.  Didn't get all the shopping done.  Didn't get all the cleaning done.  But I did get some of each of those done.  And some is enough.

I'm excited about having my family for Christmas.  It likely won't be perfect - I'm not perfect and that's not surprise to them.  It won't be perfect but it will be just right.  Especially because we all here.

The finest of wines

There's nothing like an old friend.  The kind of friend you've known forever.  The kind you don't have to pretend with.  The kind of friend who just knows you.  And calls you on your bullshit when necessary.  I feel lucky to have a handful of such friends.

It's hard to imagine navigating life without them.  Throughout the years, drawing on one or another of their perspectives and insights as part of some kind of eclectic cosmic wisdom without which I would be lost.  It's true, we all see in the mirror dimly, but it helps to have a few kickass friends holding the mirror at just the right angle.

This morning I was thinking about someone I know who does not appear to have any old friends.  No one to be a shoulder for the tears.  No one to tell it like it is.  No one who knows her from way back.  I'm not sure why this is, because she is a lovely, sincere and earnest, totally likable, lovable person.   I wonder whether part of that is her choice.  She just hasn't claimed them. 

I wonder whether my old friends are aware that I have claimed them, placed them in special reserve, high on the shelf, the finest of wines.  I think they know who they are.  If they don't yet, they will soon.  I will tell them.  Cheers, my friends.

Happy ponies

Every day at 3:25 pm, I trot the 1.5 blocks to the local school, mug of tea in hand, to pick up the boys.  I have learned that the mug of tea is absolutely critical for me to maintain a non-hypothermic body temperature.  The boys and their friends love to play in the school yard after school lets out, which is great in spring and fall.  Not so great when it's sub-zero, which really is most of the school year, let's face it.

ANYWAYS, today was a day like any other.  Sipping my tea, waiting and watching the kids play in the snow.  Andreas and his best friend, sitting in a drift, talking and licking the snow off their mitts.  Nicholas and his 2 best pals having fun playing out some kind of drama that includes slow-motion fight scenes, complete with slo-mo sound effects.

Having fun, that is, until they tumble within earshot of me, which is when Nicholas becomes conscious of my proximity.

I think we should stop now, guys,  he says in a hushed voice.  My mom is right there.  And she doesn't like violence.

Then he suddenly brightens.  And declares quite clearly: Boys, it's time for HAPPY PONIES!

Apparently, his friends have received these instructions before because they clearly understand what is expected of them.  They begin at once to frolick and prance all over each other, mewing some kind of sing-songy something.  Then they begin to giggle.  Then they run off.

I'm not sure why this little vignette delights me so.  Perhaps there's assurance in knowing that Nicholas still cares what I think.  Perhaps it's the silliness of 8 year old boys frolicking and prancing.  Perhaps it's just the very idea of happy ponies.  I don't know.  But I love it.

Google

Mom, do you know why medieval architecture favours the spiral staircase?

These and other equally intriguing questions have been coming my way since our 8 year old's interests have waned from all things marine toward a variety of more mature pursuits including medieval history, Greek mythology, chemistry and geology.  He calls them bigger kid interests - it seems he relegates his marine biology days to the realm of the juvenile...?

Mom, which do you think would be more difficult to manage - a long bow or a cross bow?

I generally wholeheartedly endorse any interest that either boy brings forward.  Even, reluctantly, if it means learning about the various methods by which medieval knights eviscerated one another.  It gets a bit challenging for my ego, however, when it's clear that I have no capacity to answer the questions that come to me.  Even to fake it. 

Mom, which is the harder mineral - pyrite or olivine?

Worse than that, is when I get a question that I should at least be expected to answer at a primary level.  And still I embarrass myself.  I tell them that they should not judge their own level of intelligence on their assessment of mine.  It skews the baseline.  And makes them feel smarter than they really are.

Mom, what's E=MC2?

God bless Google.  That's all I can say.  When I was a kid, it was to the stately set of World Book Encyclopedia, with their gilded gold, Bible-paper thin pages, that my mother ran when my brother and I came to her with questions.  Google wasn't even a word let alone an idea.  How far we've come.

Perhaps it's just me but I really wasn't interested in learning about medieval architecture when I was in grade 3.  I honestly doubt that I was even aware of the medieval era until sometime in high school.  And even then, I didn't care about it.  Nor did I care about the periodic table of elements (still don't) or the ranking of mineral hardness (nope, just don't care).  But I love the fact that Nicholas does.  And he cares a lot.  

I can now tell you why spiral staircases were an essential component in a castle's defense against enemy attack.  I can tell you about the difference between quartz and amethyst.  And I can give you a (very) basic overview of Einstein's theory of relativity.  A world of information, literally at our fingertips.

But another question, posited a few days ago by Andreas, stumps Google.

Mom, how do you know that you love somebody?

One of the things I love about hanging around kids a lot is that they make you answer questions like this.  And force you to be thoughtful about how you answer it.  A question too big for Google and just big enough for me.