A Boy and His Transformer

I bought my first Christmas gift in October — two, actually.

I’m not one of those early shoppers, but these two were necessary somehow. Little Drummer Boy and I were in Wal-mart looking for a meager prize befitting a 4-year-old in reward for something or another. As we rounded the corner of the car section, there it was. The Transformer Aisle. I tried my best to escape it, but LDB was mesmerized. Disney World has nothing on the Transformer Aisle in the eyes of a 4-year-old boy , at least not this particular boy.

Among the multitude of Transformer options, I was amazed at how many LDB recognized and how much he knew about them. I must admit that my only frame of reference for Transformers is the big boy underwear LDB loves and the need to turn OFF the Super Bowl last February as a result of LDB seeing one of the movie’s advertising spots. Needless to say, that particular reference was a little unimpressive. But, apparently one of his preschool friends is the consummate authority on Transformers and had been kind enough to share that knowledge with my little guy. J’s tidbits of information and Quiver’s modern-day version of “more than meets the eye” were all the requirements for a full-fledged Transformer love. Apparently.

As it turned out, 12″ versions of the robots complete with sounds and movement and eyes that light up all blue and menacing when you push the buttons were conveniently located on the bottom shelf of Transformer Aisle. Thank you, Wal-mart and your mass marketing machine. The toys had Mommy red flags all over them–mean voices, weapons of mass destruction, weapons of any kind, scary sounds. But, Little Drummer Boy was enamored. I let him know that they were too expensive for the “prize” we really came for and that I would think about them for Christmas. That’s all it took.

There were two transformers I vetoed right off the bat. They were all black with even weirder names and only mean monster-like sounds. I just couldn’t do it. But, I was more open to the other two. I guess Little Drummer Boy could tell because he began his sell pitch: “Please! Can we please, please get it for Christmas?” “They only kill bad guys.” “I won’t push the buttons.”– all very transparent attempts to comply with Mommy’s toy idiosyncrasies, while letting me know how much his heart was set on Transformers. I knew right away that this was a desire from which he would not be distracted. Time and distance from the Transformer Aisle would not squelch his memory or longing for these particular 12″ varieties.

It was the first toy Little Drummer Boy had ever really, really wanted–at least wanted for more than the ten minutes he was faced with the experience of being enticed by it. It was the first time it had actually registered in his mind that he would be getting presents for Christmas. We left the store with his hopes firmly in tact and my delimna brewing. LDB wanted something and I had the power to give it to him. Was there really anything else I needed to know?

Don’t you wish that’s how it always worked? Somebody wants something, and they have the audacity to ask for it, to actually articulate that desire, that need. I think the world might be a very different place if that’s how it most often happened. Unfortunately, it’s a little unusual for people in this world–the ones in my house, the ones in line at my Wal-mart, the ones in my InBox and in my neighborhood. It’s sadly unusual for folks to exercise the courage to say what they really want, what they really need. But, the reality is that hearts’ desires are often common between us at our most basic. It’s simply up to me to pay attention sometimes.

I’ve been thinking about gifts lately, it being the Christmas season and all. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the far-reaching impact of gifts given inspite of yourself and the responsibility borne by those who are gifted, which we all are. We all have a sphere of influence at our disposal. The question is whether we are willing to engage it. We all have the power to give the gifts people we know (and those we don’t) really want. Mercy, freedom, shamelessness, forgiveness, absolution, courage, time, words, affirmation, attention, kindness, love. They are gifts relatively easy to give, if I don’t mind giving myself.

The gift of myself is the most natural one of all, but so often like those Transformers, I must do it inspite of myself, inspite of my own idiosyncrasies, my own self-absorption, my own hang-ups and hot-button issues, my own needs. I’m learning slowly but surely that it can be done. If I’m willing.

Back to October. Little Drummer Boy’s questions and hopes remained alive. He must have asked me fifty times a day, every day: “Can we just go LOOK at the Transformers?” “After tomorrow will it be Christmas?” “Can I please get those Transformers for Christmas?” The next week I went to Wal-mart on my lunch hour to buy my first Christmas presents. A twelve inch wing-spreading, trash-talking “Optimus Prime” AND a yellow bad-to-the bone “Bumblebee” Transformer. Wrapped in plastic bags, they found a place on the top shelf of our storage closet.

Fast forward to Friday, Christmas Day. I love the moment of truth on Christmas morning when my gifts get to see all the presents I’ve chosen for them and through much love (and a little frustration) unpackaged and carefully arranged for their wonder. When Little Drummer Boy rounded the corner of the couch and saw his particular stack, the shiny, red bicycle was completely lost as his smiling expression mouthed, “the Transformers.” He just turned around and looked at me. Then, before even approaching the gifts, he stopped to give me a hug and say “I love you, Mommy.” He hasn’t stopped pushing the buttons and banging their heads together since.

Yep, I caved. To mass marketing, to total boy-dom, to overpriced merchandise, to fighting robots, to epic battles and impending doom.  I completely gave myself to the innocent attempts to comply with cease-fires, to the sweet smile and “I love you, Mommy”… to a boy and his Transformers. And, it was worth it. Giving gifts inspite of yourself almost always is.

8th Day of Thanksgiving: From Point A to B

Yesterday I was privileged to sleep a little later. Quiver is normally an early riser anyway, and he was kind enough to keep a handle on the boys’ excitement while I slept. In case you’re wondering, two preschool boys whispering to one another “Shhh! Mommy’s asleep” is never as quiet as they intend it to be. But, I always love the conversations I hear through our walls when I’m in that almost-awake state.

Saturday’s conversation from the bathroom involved Quiver telling Little Drummer Boy the story of MY life over shaving and teeth brushing. I’m not sure how it started, but it was a much-simplified account of places and houses and times. LDB seemed to assume that he was present in Mommy’s tummy for everything before the world he now knows. I couldn’t help but smile as Quiver quickly attempted to move the conversation along from the explanation that no, LDB was not actually in Mommy’s tummy for the whole of my life. “Where was I?” If anybody wants to take that one, please go right ahead.

I can tell that Little Drummer Boy has been trying to wrap his mind around time and places lately. The boys and I recently drove through my hometown on our way somewhere, and he was amazed that Mommy lived there as a girl. He was amazed that Mommy ever lived anywhere but our house. He was amazed that Mommy was ever anything other than what he knows me to be. Sometimes I’m amazed myself, and when confronted with those other things, it can be quite a heart-searching ride. Last week he asked me WHEN I was a girl. My first reaction was:  17 seconds ago, never, too many years gone by, and all of the above. My answer was “a while back.” That’s the best I could do at a weary 10:16pm when all the really profound questions come out of his mind and all the really dumbfounded answers come out of mine.

At their young ages, my gifts are sort of in a perpetual state of now that I sometimes envy. Last weekend’s trip to the zoo could just as easily have been this morning. Saturday can always be tomorrow morning. They are slowly growing to treasure experiences, to remember them and place them in context, to see their impact on the structure of life. I find myself growing in that same way again.

This Thanksgiving season, I’ve been looking at the signposts in my life–those moments and situations, like the crescent moon, when I realized “I don’t have the whole picture, but I know it’s there.” Putting those experiences in context, I can see how much bigger a life is that one single decision, than a series of decisions–how much bigger God is. The path from point A to B sometimes detours through points C to Z, and we are quick to call the pitstops “mistakes.” We find ourselves somewhere we never thought we’d be, and in assessing the destination, we overlook the path.

I am so thankful that God is a God who reveals Himself often most eloquently and immediately in times of wandering. I’m so thankful that He isn’t found only at the destination, but at all points in between.

The song is true. Often the times you lose your way are the times when you find out who you really are and what you’re about. When you realize you’ve overlooked something, sometimes you learn how to really see. The “wrong turns” in my life are moving me toward a more humble way of seeing the world and the people in it–a real view that can’t coexist with cliches and simplistic truisms, a view where faith MUST meet the road. It’s a blessing that’s been hard-wrestled. And I’m thankful for it.

Oh Happy Day 111309: Seasons

Happy Friday, again! My Oh Happy Day gratitude project has seriously fallen through the cracks over the last few weeks, as has my “5 grateful things” habit that was intended to fuel it. Nonetheless, with the Thanksgiving holiday looming, now seems like the perfect time to revitalize my own version of “thank God it’s Friday” in post form. On Sunday I’ll be beginning this year’s 12 Days of Thanksgiving celebration with a post each day leading up to the national holiday. I can’t wait to see what I learn this year about the power of a thankful heart.

I’ve been thinking about seasons this week. It’s easy to notice the changing of seasons in Fall as the leaves begin their display of colors. The changing of seasons in life is not always as easy to spot. Yesterday I drove Little Drummer Boy and Bug to see Disney on Ice in Tupelo, Mississippi–about 75 miles through mostly farm lands. We saw combines harvesting and cows grazing and big trucks rolling and seasons changing. I’ve always thought that Mississippi didn’t have much of an Autumnal show of color with our mild climate, at least not the kind of show you see in cooler locales. But, lately I’ve realized that our trees have their own display, if you only know where to look.

More often than not, our Fall color comes in varying shades of greens and reddish browns, sliced by a gray entanglement of bare branches. This backdrop makes the less prolific Sugar Maple, Crape Myrtle, Bradford Pear or Ginko simply shine with vibrance. The bright reds, yellows and various in betweens they produce become jewels in the normal Mississippi sight line. It’s all in where you look.

Last November, only Little Drummer Boy and I went to see Mickey Mouse ice skate. It was a special Mommy-toddler day where we caravaned with the rest of his class from preschool. When we returned, we visited McDonalds–just the two of us. It was a rare pleasure. Yesterday, Bug was with us and it was just as special, only with a few signs of seasons changing. Signs that have been sneaking up on me for a while.

Bug wasn’t old enough last year, and LDB spent his visit to the “show” sitting in Mommy’s lap. This year, LDB was content to sit in his seat beside me or stand to see better. He covered his ears when the music got too loud rather than look to Mommy with concern. It was Bug’s turn to sit in my lap with the wide-eyed wonder of new and uncertain experiences.

Last year, LDB was awed by the Tinkerbel “show light” we got and the cotton candy–a memory that hasn’t faded. He decided early on in our planning that Bug should get one this year. They both got a “Nemo” light this year (yes, we contributed to the massie Disney machine, much to my chagrin), but a year older meant Little Drummer Boy was somewhat more savvy in his understanding of his purchasing power. He wanted another toy as well, so of course, Mommy obliged for both boys. We’ve slowly become more and more aware of the culture around us. Seasons change.

Last year, I was hard-pressed to convince Little Drummer Boy to leave the McDonald’s booth to play on the big slides. It wasn’t because he was afraid of the toys, it was because sitting next to Mommy was more of a treat. This year, I was hard-pressed to get both boys to come sit at the table long enough to scarf down their chicken nuggets. And, even though I could see the delight in their eyes as they catapulted out of the slide chute and came running to Mommy for a hug, I also saw the turning of the leaves. LDB still looks back to say “I love you Mommy,” but he’s off. Simply sitting beside Mommy to share french fries isn’t all there is anymore.

The seasons are changing. I can see their independence growing and their immersion in the culture around us expanding–the things that pull them and push them from my arms into the unknown. But, this is still a Happy Day post. Though the changing of seasons inevitably involves a bit of mourning for the old, it also bears an eager anticipation of the new. I’m very thankful that God offers us the promise of changing seasons–in nature and in life. All life, be it leaves or humans, is created to grow, to change, to move toward its destiny–or die. Those are the options. To hold back the change would be to do my gifts a great disservice in inhibiting their launch toward the people God made them to be. With the promise of seasons, we can see change. We can see growth. We can see that much is temporary and refine what isn’t. We can see ends and beginnings, both of which have their own blessing.

“In everything there is a season. And there is a time for every event under heaven–
A time to give birth and a time to die; A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.
A time to kill and a time to heal; A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance.
A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones; A time to embrace and a time to shun embracing.
A time to search and a time to give up as lost; A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear apart and a time to sew together; A time to be silent and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate; A time for war and a time for peace.”

(ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

Oh Happy Day!

The Perfect Cookie

A couple of weeks ago, I spent the evening making cookies for Little Drummer Boy’s preschool “tailgate party,” one of the perks of living in a college town. This particular Mississippi State Bulldog affair warranted some sweet combination of maroon and football. I decided round cookies would suffice since we don’t have dog bones or footballs in our cookie cutter collection. (I can’t believe those have escaped us somehow.) So, on Wednesday night, I baked the cookies without much fanfare. Yes, I used a cookie mix for my dry ingredients and the cutter-less prep meant that I could just drop them on the cookie sheet rather than rolling them out. Baking was accomplished in short order, and I saved the icing for the next night.

Faced with relatively round cookies and the need for some Bulldog spirit, I decided the best route was to ice them in maroon and pipe little football shapes on top. Ok. So, Thursday night was icing night. This time Little Drummer Boy was enthused to help every step of the way. He planted himself on his little chair right next to me with a “what are you doing now?” with each new activity. Icing footballs had won out over Miss Piggy, Lightning McQueen and even a few tractors and firetrucks. That’s tough competition for a half-homemade cookie.

He called it brown. It looked like the 80s favorite “dusty rose” to me–most definitely not maroon. They were not even close to the perfectly round, perfectly smooth, Bulldog-topped numbers you see at Kroger around these parts this time of year. The football shapes, piped with one of the only two remaining screw-on tips I could find, prompted a “what’s that” from LDB, and the gray “laces” were a little spider web-like. (To my credit, the gray was spot-on. I didn’t go to art school for nothing.) But, with my little enthusiast contributing, every explanation was met with a “those are cool” as he was pasted to my side during the whole process. The experience warranted more than one “these are for MY party” with all the joy of knowing Mommy was making something just for him. Fueled by a four-year-old’s staunch belief that Mommy can do anything, we pressed on. Two and a half dozen cookies later, Little Drummer Boy’s encouragement through the process was undaunted regarding what could very charitably be described as pink cookies with spider web-covered ovals on top. And then, the lure of helping to take out the garbage pulled him away.  We were done. Perfection in all its flawed glory.

The naysayer in me said “just go pick yourself up a clear plastic container from the nearly-fresh bakery section.” But, you know, my mother never bought decorated cookies. You couldn’t buy decorated cookies in those days — at least not at the Kwik Shop where we grocery shopped. I remember Mama’s cookies as being perfect. I’m sure in reality they were far from it, but the illusion in my mind isn’t tarnished with age–only more wisdom from my own motherhood. You see, even then, the perfection was in the moment, not the cookie. It was in how fun my Mom made it to get down the plastic cookie cutters, to add food coloring to the ready made icing. To toss the sprinkles or red hots or whatever confection she thought would give them that special touch. Even to do something else while I knew Mama was making cookies for my party was fun. The painstaking yellow triangular Jack-o-lantern eyes, the snowmen’s colorful scarves. The process created a perfectly sugared up, worn out, flour dusted, counter cluttered moment–and some pretty good cookies, too.

Perfection of the kind that produces NCAA regulation football shapes is highly over-rated. And more and more these days, I’m finding satisfaction in letting perfection slide. I want to spend my energy building the perfect moment, not the perfect product or the perfect person. The perfect moments of standing with Mommy at the counter, stirring the bowl, licking the spoon, proudly presenting the blue plastic platter filled with cookies to the class–the moments will be remembered far longer than the mauve-colored icing that should have been maroon. Perfection is in the process and the joy of effort, the imperfect outcome of moments spent on what matters. Yum.

Gift Tag: Sing!

It’s hard to muster up a song sometimes. The tiredness of the day, the busyness of the schedule and the frustration of the combination sometimes just sucks the song right out of me. Then, I hear the simple, sweetly spoken request. “Sing!”

Our nightly bedtime ritual includes a beloved lullaby CD that I made for Little Drummer Boy and Bug from iTunes downloads several years ago. The CD is worn and the sound is crackly from use. The songs are so familiar that any time we hear them on the radio, a chorus of “our bedtime song!” follows in unison. Each night as each boy takes his turn reading with Mommy, then climbing in bed, I cover them with blankets, rub their backs and start the music. Invariably on the weariest nights, the nights when supper was late on the table and baths took longer than expected, the ones when I’ve been the most impatient or the most haggard, I hear it. “Sing!”

It’s hard for an impatient heart to sing a song of peace. It’s hard for a hurried heart to sing a song of rest. It’s hard for a heart screaming with a million and one distractions to sing a quiet song. Still, in this heart of indulgence toward my precious gifts, I try. I sing. “Come to Jesus. Come to Jesus. And live.”

Something happens when I ignore the resistance amid yawns. When I lay aside the fatigue and the irritability and offer the frequently off-key and misregistered melody of “yes” to my little ones, I find that my heart actually opens to believing the lyrics anew, to embracing the words I impart. And in my spirit, I say “yes.” I sing.

Sometimes God allows me a special blessing akin to the one He enjoys from His children. Every now and then my gifts sing along–their minds following and anticipating, but only able to release the last words of each line. Often the only word they sing clearly is “Jesus.” Their tender hearts, unstained by cynicism and self-consciousness, sing out to Him. Ever open, all that they are calls out to all that they know of Him. In that moment, unhidden, it’s His name. In song.

And in that moment, opened by their openness, I find that I sing. Broken down and revealed, in desperate restlessness, pronouncing peace, I sing. To these gifts. To this God of all seasons, of all days. And, all that I can know of my heart calls out to all that I recognize of Him–summarized. In His name.

I sing.

Untitled Hymn by Chris Rice (our personal favorite)

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!

Now your burden’s lifted
And carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!

And like a newborn baby
Don’t be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk
Sometimes we fall…so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!

Sometimes the way is lonely
And steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can’t contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!

And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory’s side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!

Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)