Friday Tidings

It was right before my high school’s holiday break, when I was called to the school office. The secretary pointed to the counselor’s office and I tentatively walked in. His smile reassured me that I hadn’t somehow gotten myself in trouble.   He asked, “What are your plans over Christmas break?” “I’d like to go skiing a couple times, and be with my friends.” I didn’t mention how I couldn’t wait to escape school and homework. My counselor had other ideas. He held out some seeds in his hand. Confusion must have registered in my eyes, because he said, “As a teenager you have more seeds in your hand than I do. You have years ahead to plant and see what will grow.”  I nodded, unsure of where this was going. He didn’t wait long to explain. “You have a couple weeks that can make a difference in some kid’s lives—if you want to plant some seeds of hope. Christmas break for some kids isn’t all that fun or easy. I was wondering if you could volunteer to be a big sister and friend to som

As a child, I remember waiting each year for the classic Christmas story, The Night Before Christmas to be read to me. Mom always tucked the book away after Christmas, not bringing it out until mid-December. I sat on one side of Mom, and my sister on the other, and we listened to the story night after night. Then in a flash of time, I found myself in adulthood reading it to my children. My voice had the same intonation as my mom’s when she’d read it to me. My grandson was next as I read the famous story. Now he’s almost an adult. I just read it to my granddaughter this year. Her great-grandmother’s voice came through my own as I recited the familiar words. There is a perfect season in a child’s life when the hardest things to deal with are eating vegetables and having play time end. Children are the reason we do so much of what we do. We know that they depend on us, and even when it can be thankless, it’s purposeful. They are the next generation—the lives that will carry on afte

It’s interesting to see what keepsakes are tucked away in the Christmas decoration boxes. I have a tree festooned with four generations of ornaments. It represents many of my family’s journeys and each ornament has a story. But also tucked away in the holiday decorations is a gift I made for my parents when I was a six.  In December of my first year of school, I made a green-painted Plaster of Paris candle holder. Mrs. MacArthur, my teacher, was incredibly patient. Over 25 children were simultaneously using gobs of messy plaster. I personally dumped the green paint on the floor when I knocked it off my desk. But Mrs. MacArthur only smiled and bent down to mop it up. I won't mention how much glitter I spilled as I sprinkled it over my teacher's careful glue design. It was a top-secret mission—taking several weeks before it was crudely wrapped and on its way home for Christmas morning. I could hardly wait to have my parents open it. Each Christmas thereafter, Mom would bri

We walked through the nearly empty home. It had been my father and mother-in-law’s place for a couple decades, and had been the epicenter of many family gatherings.  We faced the final thing to pack: my mother-in-law Bernadean’s favorite antique hanging lamp. We’d waited until now for good reason. We both were scared.  It was super fragile, with a delicate bowl-shaped, hand painted globe.  It had already been broken and repaired twice. The first break had been right after it was purchased—when my father-in-law had tried to move it from its packing box. He searched for an antique specialist to fix it. Then years later, my husband Tom broke it when he had taken the lamp down to make room for extra medical equipment in his parent’s bedroom. It cracked along the same seam as before. Tom found another expert to fix the intricate glass. So here we were—in his parent’s empty home, all the decades of belongings had been packed and moved, and now we paused in front of the hanging antique lam

Three jars and three golf balls helped me visualize something I’d felt but didn’t quite understand. Dr. Caroline Leaf, a neuroscientist and neuropsychologist, explained that grief is like the ball in each of the jars. At first, the ball takes up almost all the space in the small jar—as does our grief when we lose someone, or we face a devastating loss. It nearly fills us with its ever-present feelings. We shed tears that come without warning, or we often cannot think of anything besides the one who is no longer here. With time, grief takes up less space—it’s still there. In fact, as Dr. Leaf explained, it hasn’t changed—it’s us who have changed. We’ve grown around it—it takes up less room in our souls. The ball in the largest jar is the same grief—but taking a fraction of the space. It can still be felt—ask anyone who has lost a child, a spouse, or someone so loved that life is never the same.  Life isn’t the same. The golf ball-sized grief remains the rest of our days. Grief does