Things I Have Taught Our Kids

Things which make my children laugh, yet I remember as true:

• I walked uphill both ways to school, in three feet of snow, after milking the cows and doing the chores . . .
• I was a pretty good basketball player in Grade School. In my mind I scored from anywhere on the court and always under duress. Actual statistics can be cruel . . .
• When I was a kid life was simpler. We never had much, but we always had enough. Homemade ice cream was a staple of summertime evenings and swimming in the pond was a nice way to end a hot day of baling . . .
• We never baled hay unless it was at least 100 degrees, with 95% humidity, the hay shed was always nearly full so that we had to stack every bale directly under the tin of the roof, and all the bales weighed at least 100 pounds each . . .
• If I got in trouble at school it was guaranteed I got in trouble at home. Period. 
• The school bus ride back and forth to school was a country boy's first hot box of socialization and, often, the place where rank and privilege were first taught . . .
• Mom and Dad always knew what we did, even when we were sure they didn't . . . and now I know that because I understand they first did some version of everything I did long before I ever imagined it . . . the same way we, as parents, do now . . .
• Don't ever underestimate the power of a Dad's hand on your backside or the safety of a Father's embrace when you are in need . . .
• Mom sees what you do behind her back, including the faces you make while she is lecturing you, but continues to love you anyway . . . and is quite capable of leaping over that chair and wiping that sneer off your face with the hardened side of her hand OR pulling you into the embrace of her love at any moment . . . 
• A grandparent's job is to quietly dispute a parent's teaching about what the five food groups are and how much of each to consume . . .
• A grandchild's job is to encourage their grandparents in their work . . .
• Before there was cellular technology, we used our imaginations in games, rode bicycles to our friends homes, played outside by the hour, shook hands when we met, talked with each other, and believed that it was okay to disagree, even to fight, but also imperative that we make amends . . . after all, in the country we needed each other . . .
• A handshake was a form of contract and was understood to be binding . . .
• Your word was your bond - and you always knew who could not be trusted . . . 
• Lawyers were really only needed to do legal descriptions of land and property transfers or to deal contractually with people whose handshake or word you couldn't trust . . . which says something about the number of lawyers today . . .
• Especially when in town, when a funeral procession passed you always pulled over in a show of respect for the deceased and their family. Always . . . 
• When country folk wave at you with just their index finger in that slow back-to-forward motion they are being friendly . . .
• There is always enough food on the table for visitors, family and friends, regardless of when they show up . . .
• There are always enough chairs for everyone to have a seat at the table . . . 
• Visitors, friends and family have first choice of all dishes on the table . . .
• Your friend's parents had as much authority over your behavior as did your parents . . . 
• Even if you aren't caught in a lie, it is still a lie . . . the same with the deductions you take on your taxes . . . 
• One of the most telling ways to recognize integrity, respect and honor in a person is in the way they farm their land and keep their home place . . . the cleanest places aren't always the best and the messiest aren't always the worst, but where there is pride in the job there is heart for others . . .
• There are few smells more wonderful than newly worked soil, freshly cut alfalfa or corn pollinating on a hot Summer afternoon . . . 
• Every person has the right to remember their history in the manner which gives their life the best light - allowing, of course, that there will be an intersection of Truth and Accuracy somewhere in the general vicinity of where your story goes . . .
• Always remember: the person to whom you are busily telling your story also has a story to tell you, which is why God has given you one mouth and two ears. Listen more than you talk . . . which is a good place to end this rambling . . .

I pray you see a bit of yourself in where I have been and am in this journey . . . and give thanks to God for allowing you the joy and responsibility of passing your experiences on to the next generation, which kind of makes me wonder how their stories to their children will begin . . . 

Only time will tell . . .

Wrinkled Wrapping Paper Christmas

Mom tried always to use new wrapping paper for our Christmas gifts. I know because I saw the tubes and neatly packaged stacks of it in the closet where she hid them for her elf-like work when we were out the house. It was also in that closet that Mom kept her favorite sharp scissors, tape, bows, bow making ribbon and . . . the occasional gift, though I won't tell you how I came to know that. That story is its' own sweet memory for telling at another time.

Yet, this day, I am remembering the wrinkled wrapping paper which occasionally surrounded Mom's gifts to us kids. I am holding one of those gifts in the hands of my memory even as these words are being written, turning it from side to side, admiring how Mom's careful eye made every corner seem as new, every former tape mark disappear and every crease seem as a part of the design. No, Mom never ever just slapped paper on a box or a gift the way I am often wont to do, she chose carefully the paper, just as she had chosen the gift. Nothing accidental or happenstance here, especially when she used the wrinkled wrapping paper . . . for it was the wrinkles themselves which told you how much Mom was thinking of you. Let me explain . . .

First, Mom never threw anything away. Mom was a child of the Great Depression, the youngest of four children born to her parents three years before the Stock Market crash of 1929. In her eyes, everything was usable, reusable and usable again . . . and again, until it was no longer usable at all. People today know little of such a mindset.

Second, Mom never wanted her children to have to 'make do' the way she did, but she also didn't want us to grow up not appreciating everything we had. Whether what we were given was new, hand-me-down, grown-into or from somewhere else, we always knew from the look in Mom's eye to the way she wrapped our packages for birthdays, Christmas, Easter or whatever other occasion, Mom had made a very intentional decision about the gift and us. What was given and the way it was wrapped was always from Mom's heart to ours.

Lastly, in my mind, some of the most precious gifts I could ever receive were the ones wrapped in wrinkled paper, for the wrinkled paper gifts told me Mom had chosen to reuse some wrapping paper because, whatever the design or appearance, she thought it the best for the gift I was being given. Simply put, the wrinkled paper gifts took more of Mom's love to select, more of Mom's time to wrap, and more of Mom in every fold and tuck. Mom didn't just 'make it work' for the gift, she made it holy in her care. Even today, I miss the wrinkled paper gifts my Mom used to wrap for me . . . Oh, I still occasionally receive wrinkled paper gifts and even a few comic page gifts, but now it is mostly because that was what was handy or cute, rather than chosen just for me. I can tell the difference - and so can you.

Maybe that is the reason God chose to send God's dearest Gift of Love as a Baby . . . wrinkled, wrapped just right and carefully placed where all might come to know Him. Were Jesus just to 'appear' all smooth, starched, new paper, new tape and new ribbon, most folk probably wouldn't have given Him a moment of their time thinking Him unapproachable, too good for them or even beyond their understanding, No, instead of all that fanciness, God chose to come as a Baby with the wrinkled skin of an Infant, the crumpled Grace of new life placed in a manger, wrapped with the carefully swaddled cloths of Mercy, attended to by the Hand-smoothed folds and corners of Hope, all held together with the tenderness and strength of Angel's songs and Shepherds stories, then topped with the bow of Wise Men's gifts. God so loves you, so sees the Good in you, so believes in God's own vision for you that God takes the time to use what everyone else might regard as 'the least desirable', the wrinkled, to wrap the newest and best of Gifts in Life . . . for all people.

Today I am remembering the wrinkled wrapping paper which occasionally surrounded Mom's gifts to us kids . . . and am thanking God for a Mom who loved us so deeply that her life, her choices, even the manner in which she wrapped her gifts all pointed us to Jesus . . . and I am praying you a wrinkled wrapping paper Christmas, too.

Blessings on the Advent journey!