Forever. Amen.

Another Christmas has ended and I am thankful for many blessings. I had family, and love, and more memorable moments than I could ever count. But there is always one moment for me that I anticipate each year, and that stands out more than any other each Christmas. That moment is when my mom softly squeezes my hand as we finish praying the "Our Father" during Christmas Mass. Holding hands, as the congregation prays... "For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen", my mom always gently holds my hand just a bit tighter over the words "Forever. Amen."

Growing up, attending Mass every Sunday was not so much required as it was just a normal part of our living. As much as eating, and sleeping, and breathing - we went to church on Sundays. As I look back over the many hours that I've spent in a pew sitting between my parents, it is their hands that I remember most clearly. My mom's hands holding the missalette and guiding me with a pointed finger to our current place or the current hymn, when I had lost my place. My mom's hands folded in prayer as we kneeled side by side. My dad's hands - often good distraction for a child during Mass. Whether he was cleaning his fingernails with his long pocket knife or playfully "trapping" my hand to the pew as we stood in a silent hand-wrestling competition, he was always present and always open to the humor of a moment.

I pay a lot of attention to hands. For years, I've taken pictures of people I love - and I always like to pay special attention to focusing solely on their hands. Our hands tell our stories and they are where our character is revealed. When I think of any person that I know, that I love, one of the first images that I call to mind is always that of their hands. Though drawn to these images, I was never really able to articulate what caught my interest until sometime this last year when my Dad sent me an email about an old woman who  relates the story of her hands and I realized, her thoughts were exactly my own. Our hands have touched, have experienced every thought, emotion, and action throughout our lives. They are marked with our stories. They are as imprinted and scarred as our hearts are with all the memories of our lives.

I look forward each year to attending Christmas Mass with my mom - though it is late at night, often times brutally cold outside, and always after a full day of holiday celebration. I look forward to it each year for that one moment. When our hands are connected and she gently squeezes mine - telling me with her hands in a way that is stronger than any words, that she loves me. I have many photographs of the hands of those in my life, but in my minds eye, the image of hands (and of love) that is most prevalent is that of my hand in my mom's hand...and all the love that is there. Forever. Amen.

My Hands...

Mom's Hands...

Dad's Hands...

Following is an edited excerpt from the email that my dad sent me with the old woman's story of her hands...

"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. My hands have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when, as a toddler, I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband. They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They have wiped away tears, clenched in anger, and trembled with grief. They have held my children and grandchildren. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly, it will be these hands that God will reach out to when he leads me home and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God.'

So John and I got kicked out of Bethlehem. True story.

So John and I got kicked out of Bethlehem on Friday night. I am not making this up. Of course, it wasn't the real Bethlehem - but instead, was a Living Nativity in Longville, MN. The idea is that you drive past a series of vignettes where actors are recreating the story of Christ's birth. It sounded interesting to me so I talked John into driving through on our way out to dinner that evening. 

I thought it was strange that the first vignette we saw was the stable scene and I thought it even more unusual that the "Baby Jesus" was laying in the manger while Joseph leaned on a near-by wall talking to one of the wise men, and Mary stood in the opposite corner drinking a coffee. John asked what I thought so far and I said "I think it would be more believable if Mary wasn't drinking a Starbucks". 

The second vignette was the Inn that turned them away - with a sign on top that read "NO RMIN" (honestly, you can't make this stuff up.) The innkeeper seemed to scowl at us as we continued on our way.

At the third vignette, the shepherds stood in the nearby field with their sheep. We slowed down as one of the shepherds approached and signaled to roll down the window. He very kindly said "I'm sorry but Bethlehem is a one-way street and you are going the wrong way. Would you please back out the way you came in?"

"Oh man," I said to John, "we just got kicked out of Bethlehem!"

Well, by now, my interest was certainly piqued so I convinced John to drive through once again - the right way this time. Yes, it made much more sense this time. There was Luke writing the gospel, and then Mary and Joseph journeying on their donkey. We then again, came upon the shepherds in the field and as we rounded the corner, a light came up on the Angel proclaiming the birth of Jesus. There was a man dressed as the angel strapped to a tree no less than 40 feet above the ground. Fantastic!

We drove past the innkeeper again and then were back to stable. Now everything was as it should be - Joseph stood by protectively as Mary held the baby in her arms. 

We had been thrown out of Bethlehem, but thankfully we found our way through eventually.

On a much more serious note, as we left, the image of Mary looking down at her child was an image that I could not shake from my mind. On a day when so many mothers had tragically lost their children. I think I needed the Living Nativity on Friday. I needed to be reminded about what this season is really about. And, more importantly, I needed to remember that sometimes we need to put down our coffee. Sometimes we have to be fully present in the moment. And, always, we need to hold closely those we love.

Don't Honk. I'm Pedaling As Fast As I Can.

The 1960’s era cherry-red Plymouth (or Dodge or Chevy, I don’t know for certain) was only remarkable for a few reasons that I can recall. First of all, it was owned by my Grandma Hart, and second, because it was always one of the first things we saw parked in her tiny garage when we came to visit her in Pine River. And finally, because the rear bumper was decorated with a bumper sticker that always made me smile, “Don’t honk. I’m pedaling as fast as I can.”

My Grandma had a terrific sense of humor – she laughed at the world, and was also never afraid to laugh at herself. She loved to tell stories and she surrounded herself with things that would make people smile – cartoons all over her refrigerator, quirky knick-knacks and such. She was an artist – painting, sewing, and crocheting were just a few of her many talents. My Grandma was also a lifelong learner – she never stopped having an interest in a wide variety of topics. And she fed her hunger for knowledge with constant books by her side. While Grandma could be completely fantastic through the eyes of a little girl due to her love of dolls, comfort foods, and laughter, she was in fact a very no-nonsense woman with a strong dose of common sense. Grandma was a hero to me and the traits that I so admired in her are things that I try everyday to model in my own life. She taught me so many lessons about being a strong woman and about being a good grandmother. I remember one of the very last times that I visited her in the hospital. A nurse came to check on her while she was sleeping and I was sitting by her bedside. The nurse asked if I was her granddaughter and I nodded. Then, she asked, "how many grandchildren does your grandma have?". The question struck me as I thought for just a moment and then replied “My grandma has many, many grandchildren. But she always made me feel like I was the only one.”  The nurse said “Ah, that sounds like a very good grandma.” Yes. She was. And she continues to teach me lessons even now.

I thought of Grandma one day at work this week, as I was rushing to figure out which priority was truly most important and working to get all the priorities accomplished, scrambling as fast as I can to get it all done. While also thinking about all the holiday tasks that have to be completed at this time of year: gift buying, wrapping, sending cards, entertaining, events, etc.  As everything rolled through my head, I suddenly clearly saw Grandma’s car in her garage and that bumper sticker saying “Don’t honk. I’m pedaling as fast I can”, and I smiled just like I used to do everytime I saw it 30 years ago. I know that if she were here, Grandma would remind me that of course some things NEED to be done, but some of the stuff is just…stuff. It isn't really the priority. She would remind me that this time of year should be about honoring what is really important – remembering all the people who have impacted my life, and loving all the people who are part of my soul. She would tell me to focus on what is important and maybe not to “pedal as fast as I can” but instead, to “pedal only as fast I need to”. There is a difference.

So, thanks Grandma, once again, even after you are no longer here with me, for continuing to teach me lessons. I will keep pedaling through this holiday season, but I plan to pace myself – accomplishing what has to be done while focusing on what is important.  Don’t Honk…I’m Enjoying the Moment.

PS: Because many of my readers are family, I'm sharing the following story with you as a post script. Years ago, I asked Grandma to write me a story about what Christmas was like when she was a little girl and this is what she shared…

"Each year about 3-4 weeks before Christmas, Ma would board a train for Chicago. There, she and Pa would buy our Christmas presents and each year some new tree trimmings. About 2-3 days before Christmas, my brother Leo would get the Christmas tree and set it up in the living room. Then a goose was killed and dressed. Ma usually made our Christmas dresses for the school program and of course knitted stockings, always black. We generally had new shoes ordered from Sears. On the day before Christmas, chores were done early. After supper, the dishes were done and the old tin tub brought in and everyone had a bath, then we hung our stockings and we kids were sent to bed. The older girls scrubbed the kitchen floor with lye soap and a scrub brush, then the tree was trimmed and presents were arranged. We were wakened to come see what Santa brought. I can still see the tree, the top almost touching the ceiling, all the candles lit, and all the gifts around it. One trimming I remember most was a fragile little red bird with a feather tail and if you blew in the beak, it whistled a bird call. One year, my sisters Lillie, Rosalind and I got a fur neck piece to fit over our coats and a muff to match. I remember it most because we were allowed to wear them to school and one evening, we were trudging home through the snow and a neighbor driving a team and wagon with a load of fresh sawed lumber, stopped to give us a ride. When I was boosted up, I leaned on the lumber and got my muff all full of resin from the lumber and got soundly scolded when I got home. Usually in our stockings by the chimney, we had a small bag of candy, an apple and an orange but one year my brother Leo filled our stockings with apple and potato peelings. He got scolded for that! My sister, Bessie, would come with her husband and children for dinner. Then we got to play with our toys while the older ones visited. I always remembered the house where I was born as a big house. Years later, as an adult when I saw it again, I was amazed how small it was and wondered how we all fitted into it!"