CHRISTMAS GIFT

Oh, my, what a gift from God.

Actually, it's a gift in two-parts. It began when I told an aide about my mother's jingle bell necklace, with a white bell decorated to look like a reindeer. She wore it every day during Christmas. I lost track of it since, and I miss it.

A couple of days later, the aide returned--with a jingle bell necklace. I have worn it every day, with many happy thoughts of Mom. The warmth is increased when I realize the aide really listened to me, and gave me something from her heart to mine.

A thoughtful, wonderful gift.

What happened last night gave me chills.

My roommate gave my grandchildren stuffed animals. I asked my granddaughter, Jordan, what she would name her bear.

Now, her mother says Jordan said "Kaylie," the name of her best friend at school.

What I heard was "Katie." And my heart stopped.

My daughter, Jolene, named all of her dolls "Katie."

In case you don't know. . . or have forgotten. . .Jordan was conceived when Jolene died. Aunt and niece share a special connection.

Hearing the name "Katie" from Jordan's lips felt like Jolene had come down from heaven to wish me a blessed Christmas.

Thank you, God, for the gift of family, on earth and above.

A TALE OF THREE CHRISTMASES

They [the scholars from the East] could hardly contain themselves: They were in the right place! They had arrived at the right time! (Matthew 2:10, MSG)

The first two chapters of Matthew give us a glimpse behind the Christmas story. The first Christmas. Or maybe the second--Jesus was probably about two years old.

And of course Jesus wasn't born on December 25th.

But, the Christmas story happened in real time and space. And people chose to believe or not, each in their own way, even back then.

We looked at Joseph a bit in chapter 1. The angel appeared to him a dream, and gave him very specific instructions. He obeyed. No questioning the dreams. No complaints. He speaks through his actions, not his words. Although he was asked to believe the impossible, at least the message was clear.

Then we have Herod. God sent the message to him via three foreigners. The message was confirmed in Micah's prophecy. An unlikely source--but he gave it enough credit to assassinate them when they returned to Jerusalem. Herod could have joined them in worship of the Messiah. So could the priests.Instead of rejoicing in the birth of Israel's Messiah--the hope the priests at least claimed--Herod feared it, and sought to kill the Messiah. Instead of obedience, he wanted the death of the threat.

Finally we have the wise men. The Message calls them "a band of scholars." The traditional number three is assumed because of three gifts, but the exact number is unknown.

They had no direct revelation, but they were students of God through nature, especially the stars. Somehow they also knew about Israel's king, and his importance.

With nothing more than an interpretation of the sky--no verbal instructions at all--they invested a lot of money and four years of their time (going and coming) into worshipping Israel's Messiah.

What do we choose to do with the Christ of Christmas today?

My son told me that he was going to ask friends, "Why do you give gifts at Christmas?"

In one of those proud-moments-to-be-a-mother, he went on. "I remember that you taught us that we give gifts because God gave us the greatest gift of all, His Son."

He went on to mention those who said they did it to show love for their families and friends, or because of the gift of the wise men. Or even just because of the tradition and the commercialism that urges us to buy, buy, buy.

Today we have the three ways of receiving God's message.

We have His message in the Bible, and we can choose to obey.

We have His unwritten message in the songs of Christmas, in the traditions in which I see the gospel about the Great Gift, the Light of the World, the eternal life represented by an evergreen.

If we are Christians, we hear His message in our hearts, since He lives within us.

Why do you give gifts at Christmas?

A NOBLE CHRISTMAS

Joseph, chagrined but noble, determined to take care of things quietly so Mary would not be disgraced.

Disappointment. . .failure. . .humiliation. All three of those emotions visit me, during the ups and downs of Christmas and on into the crushing deadness of January, "cold within and without." (One of my favorite opening lines, from Bolt by Dick Francis)

Disappointed . . .because no matter how much I tell myself that I can't expect anything for Christmas, because my remaining family, Jaran's family, celebrates Hanukkah instead, my heart wants more. Disappointed when the few things within my control go wrong.

Failed. . .when my plans fall through, for buying and giving presents, for sending cards, for going to church or having my daily quiet time or any of a dozen projects.

Humiliated? When my family comes and I'm in bed, undressed. When I wait too long or can't get away and soil myself. . .

All of those are true but none of my reasons comes close to what Joseph must have felt when he learned his betrothed was pregnant. With someone else's child.

In the kind of quiet and strong goodness Joseph exhibits over and over, he doesn't go public with his pain. He doesn't seek to judge Mary. He does decide to end the betrothal. And when God tells him to marry her, in spite of the pregnancy, he doesn't hesitate. In spite of all the public humiliation which would come their way. In spite of the gossip which was bound to peg him as the baby's father.

Joseph. Chagrined I understand. Noble I strive for.


I wrote this several days ago. When I read it again today, I realized how close it hit me to the mark. I feel as though I have fought a battle. Feeling very "chagrined." God can and will heal my heart and restore my spirits.

CHANGING BELLS AT CHRISTMASTIME

The nursing center where I live has changed hands. Which means a change in procedures, several of which I just don't like.

I understand (even if I'm not crazy about) having a roommate. State pays for double rooms. Period. Residence is so low at the moment that we can stay in half the building and so they moved us all around. I have a roommate. She has even more things than I do, so things are tight, and she's a chatterbox. :) We'll adjust (I hope).

They are making all the aides wear one color, the nurses another, and so forth. I feel badly for them. And I'll miss the whimsical scrubs, from Eeyore to rainbows to hopeful sayings.

Now they've assigned us seating in the dining room. In a world where I have very little control, getting told where to sit when I eat goes one step too far.

In spite of all of that, I am happy.

I turned in my latest book (Saving Felicity, coming next August) on Thursday. Oh, it feels so good!

A publisher has asked for a full manuscript from me. So the one that was turned down by the one publisher may find a home. (Now to find time to edit it. . .)

I told an aide about a jingle bell necklace my mother always wore, decorated to look like Rudolph. Bless her heart, she brought me a jingle bell necklace, said she looked for a red nose without luck, and also brought a box of chocolates!

I brought out my foot tall gold wire Christmas tree to put on my nightstand.

I got to see my grandbabies open their presents.

And I'm reading a charming Christmas story, A Merry Little Christmas by Anita Higman.

Even sharing my table with the same people is a blessing. I try to involve everyone in the conversation (even the rarely verbal Wanda). And today I mentioned how I knew two of the women were huggers, and maybe we should share a hug at lunchtime. They were more than eager for a hug. Their faces lit up like Christmas (how's that for a cliche? LOL) And I felt like I made a difference in their lives today.

And a very brief Christmas thought.

The angel told Joseph to name Mary's son Jesus, "for he shall save his people from their sin." When Mary gave birth, Joseph named him--what else? I never questioned it before--Jesus. But this year I was struck. By naming the baby Jesus, Joseph expressed his faith in his Savior. And that is beautiful.

GOLDEN RULE AT WORK

I have a few pet peeves when it comes to nursing home life.

Okay, maybe more than a few. :)

Often, I overhear the aides saying, "Jones want to get up for lunch."

"Jones" is Annie Jones. (not a real name). But the aides often refer to patients by their last names. I respond, "I prefer that you call me Darlene. I will accept Mrs. Franklin. But please don't call me 'Franklin.' I am not now nor was I ever a female version of my (ex) husband."

The issue is: See me as a person. Not as a last name (or even worse, in hospitals, as room numbers) At worst we should have a cordial working relationship and at best, we can be friends.

This week I have received a few reminders that respect runs both ways..

How about the time I hollered an after-thought to my request for aide out the door. The nurse passing by asked, "how about a please?"

Oh. Duh.

Or the morning I screamed in the shower--throwing a toddler-like fit--that they shouldn't ask me to walk on the wet floor. This aide does everything she can to make me comfortable. After I finished my fit, she asked, in her broken English (she speaks about a little more English than I do Spanish): "Do you not want me to be your aide any more?" And the next day she asked someone else to help me. We worked it out.

Today was another one of those times. I watched the clock go past eight (when my meds are scheduled). . .past nine (the legal deadline for delivery for meds scheduled at 8) . . .until nearly 10. I prepared to confront Janie.

When she walked through my door, I gave her a piece of my mind. She looked ready to cry, mumbled some kind of excuse, and left the blood pressure cuff on my wrist while she counted out my meds.

While I waited, I realized that I had overlooked the person behind the job. I hadn't greeted her, hadn't asked after her health, or made any friendly gestures before launching into my tirade.

When she came back in, bearing gifts of pain killers and cough syrups and other such wonder pills, I said, "let's start the morning over. How are you today?" We affirmed our friendship for each other.

Treat others the way you want to be treated.

Even in--especially in--a nursing home.

Most of the aides get it.

It's time I got it, too.

ENABLING OR NOT?

This week I faced a crisis in conscience.

I was asked if any of the staff had ever made any sexually inappropriate comments to me.

My mind flew to one individual. I associate "sexually inappropriate" with rude and crude. He is anything but. He is funny, quick-witted, always cheerful, in a good mood, and willing to help.

But his tongue gets the better of him sometimes. I have, in fact, told him on more than one occasion, "That kind of remark could get you into trouble."

I guess it did. Someone else reported it, and the staff was asking others for corroboration of her story. (I assume it's the same individual. They don't say, but he's no longer here so I put two and two together.)

At first I said, "No." I justified my answer partly because I can't remember the last time he said something like that or when he said it.

But overnight I wrestled with the question. I had lied, because I like this person, and because he's good at his job.

And just the same as I shouldn't report someone only because I don't like them, I shouldn't let my affection stop me from reporting wrong behavior.

Worse than that, I realized, my silence was the same as enabling an alcoholic to drink.

And perhaps worst of all, my silence hurt my fellow resident (identity also unknown.) Being a known troublemaker (I suspect I also know the identity, but not quite as certain) doesn't mean her rights should be violated.

I did what I felt was right and, as a result, lost one of the highlights of my days.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

One of the most colorful characters at the nursing home is a lady I'll call the Storyteller. She has a loud voice and speaks in a sing-song style that is grating to here. She dominates any room where she is present.

What's more, she tells the same stories, over and over. Once she starts with, "I had four brothers," we can repeat the rest of the story with her, word for word. I have to believe most of her stories are true, because the details remain consistent.

It comes as no surprise that she is not the most welcome table mate. I consider a meal spent listening to her my good deed for the day. She welcomes anyone who actually appears to care for her. She has led a difficult life and her mental problems keep her from realizing the care her family lavishes on her, making her lonely and unhappy. I sympathize.

A few months ago, she received a doll. She brought the doll with her everywhere. She laughed at the man who asked why she didn't feed her baby. Her granddaughter gave her an outfit so the doll could change clothes. Our storyteller slept with the doll.

One day, when she woke up, someone had stolen in during the night, stolen the doll and left her with her two-year-old daughter. Her mother-in-law had taken custody of her baby and the Storyteller just got her back. She showed off her baby to everyone, every bit as proud as a new mother.

I tried to point out it was still a doll. Where was the belly button? Pointless question, of course.

At lunch today she was discussing problems with another resident, our Dancer. She wanted to give the baby a bath and she was begging her husband to bring her a bottle.

The overnight decline into clear delusion has saddened me. Having crossed that line, I doubt she will return. Instead, she will continue to decline further and further into a world where past and present are intertwined.

With the Lord's strength, I hope I hope I can continue to be a friend, whatever reality the Storyteller finds herself living in.