Carma’s Corner: Blast from the Past—The Cage

It’s here; the calendar has turned, and across the top of the page, the infamous month is emblazoned: DECEMBER. If I could infuse my words with music, I would insert “Joy to the World” or perhaps “Deck the Halls,” but, alas, I can’t. Imagination will have to suffice. It isn’t obvious that December stirs some excitement in this heart, is it? For me, December has always been a month when the duty of dishwashing was accompanied by off-keyed carols, when shopping became a quest for a great surprise, and when snowflakes were merely the fulfillment of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

With December here, I have decided to take a step back, entertain a blast from the past, and compose some of my memories into text. For the next few weeks, I’ll share moments from my Christmas chronicles: one funny, one fond, and one forgotten. My hope is that my words will encourage some reflection—on memories as well as the True Reason for these memories.

The Cage

It had been nearly a perfect Christmas--or for lack of a better term: a Kodak Christmas. At eight years old, I couldn’t imagine my Christmas any better; my family and I had enjoyed a splendid candlelit dinner; the Christmas story had been read, and items from my wish list were scattered around me. The celebratory evening was complete: tummies were full, hearts were inspired, and holiday cheer in gifts was enjoyed. But behind the tree, one large box remained; the label read: TO: CARMA, FROM: MOM AND DAD.

Excitement was bubbling within when dad placed the package in front of me. I slowly began tearing the paper while dreams of a dollhouse and Barbie swimming pool danced through my head. As the paper fell to the floor in scraps, a shiny gold metal object began appearing. After a few big rips, I exclaimed, “It’s a…... bird cage?!?” There it sat in all its glory—complete with bird food, bird toys, and even a bird bath.

“Do you like it?” Mom excitedly asked. I looked at her and then back at the cage.

“Yeah,” I slowly responded, “but what am I going to do with it?”

“Well, you will have your own cage now when you babysit CC,” mom explained. CC was my sister’s parakeet that lived in Orange City and only came to visit on the holidays. I hardly thought my own cage was necessary, considering CC rarely visited and usually came with his own cage.

“Oh, ok,” I quietly said, trying to think of what I was going to do with an empty cage, bird food, bird toys, and a bird bath. No ideas readily came to mind, and at eight years old, all I saw a wire cage; I didn’t see the excitement of potentially taking care of CC; I didn’t see the responsibility I had with all my own supplies. All my excitement dissipated.

Dad quickly handed me another box, but this box was filled with scratching and peeping. I carefully peaked inside and to my surprise there sat a parakeet.“Oh, I have my own bird,” I said. I gently lifted the feathered creature from the box and set him in the cage. The cage was no longer empty; it no longer housed my disappointment, but it became a home.

Today, I can still remember the swing from excitement to disappointment to excitement again; I can smile now, knowing my parents were probably amused at how hard I tried to conceal my disappointment. I know I failed. But that empty cage has taught me a lesson—sometimes the most mundane events/things have the greatest potential.

Over 2,000 years ago, there was an empty stable; it was complete with stalls, animals, and straw. It was ordinary, but God saw potential… and he took the ordinary and made it extraordinary. Through the night, the stable was no longer empty; it became the birthplace of a King, eternal royalty. The animals became the first witnesses of the Son of God, and the hay became the cushion for the Prince’s bed.

So… when just an empty cage appears, remember its potential goes beyond all possibilities, just as that plain stable became sacred so many years ago.

Carma’s Corner: Beyond Turkey, Stuffing, and Sweet Potatoes

I’ll readily admit that composing a narrative about the holidays is no easy task. While readers may think the holidays provide an abundance of topics and descriptive details, writers struggle to capture an original concept regarding the holidays. What can possibly be written about Thanksgiving that hasn’t been penned before? There’s always the traditional Thanksgiving feast, but I’m fairly confident that bird has been roasted in every language and dialect. There are always the long-anticipated football games, but touchdown victory dances with inflamed egos are not justly captivated in printed text. There’s always “the counting of blessings”, but this list should be written, revised, and amended all year, not just on Thanksgiving.

As I review my list of Thanksgiving topics: feast, football, and blessings, I feel that none of these subjects fully epitomizes the holiday of Thanksgiving for me. Food is not a priority for me; it hasn’t been for the last six years. I have the luxury of having Thanksgiving dinner any day of the year—preparation time: 1 minute. Dinner consists of one six-ounce can, one glass, and one wild imagination—bon appetit. As for football, I know enough to hold my own in a discussion, but as with food, football is not a priority either. I can enjoy a good game and even get excited, but I won’t hesitate to call myself a “fair-weather fan”. And finally I come to blessings… blessings are gifts to be received and shared. Without blessings, there would be no Thanksgiving.

The simple truth of Thanksgiving is found in the word itself: “thanks for the giving” and “giving thanks”. It’s in the word that I find the basic heart of Thanksgiving; the entire holiday can be defined and summarized within its own name. Thanksgiving isn’t about how much food can be consumed in one day; Thanksgiving isn’t about the latest, unbelievable touchdown; Thanksgiving isn’t even about trying to make the “counting blessings” list longer than last year. Thanksgiving in its barest form is a season to be thankful to God for the gifts received and to give Him thanks for the gifts to share.

As like any other year, I’ll attend the feast; I’ll watch the football; I’ll count my blessings, and it will be an amazing day celebrating with family and friends… for I know in my heart that Thanksgiving in its barest form is a season, lasting far beyond the turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes!

Carma’s Corner: The Simple Things

“Auntie Carma, we’re going to have cuppy-cakes (cupcakes),” Ruby exclaimed, much to the dismay of her mom. In less than two seconds, the birthday surprise was disclosed and broadcasted to the wrong person. But for a two year old, a secret was far less exciting than sharing the joy and excitement of cuppy-cakes.

Although my birthday was spent in view of snow-sparkling mountains and looking glass lakes, the anticipation of cuppy-cakes trailed us all day. It wasn’t until around 8 p.m. that the day was made complete; the cuppy-cakes were served, and in less than 5 minutes of devouring the treat, a sheer smile of delight tickled Ruby’s cheeks. Her expression spoke volumes; her day couldn’t have ended any better than with a colorful-iced, surprise-filled cuppy-cake.

This cupcake joy brought to mind one of my college writing assignments. For the assignment, I was instructed to find a simple thing in life that brought me delight and compose one descriptive paragraph in such a way as to bring delight to my audience. I remember struggling with the assignment; I couldn’t find a small, daily event that delighted me. Of course, I had favorite family vacations, outstanding birthdays, and other wonderful events. But the assignment demanded “the simple things.”

As I watched Ruby inhale her cuppy-cake, I couldn’t help but smile, realizing at that moment what I had missed in my struggles with that assignment a few years ago. I didn’t have the eyes or heart of a two year old. I didn’t see going to the park as the highlight of my day; I wasn’t thankful for pasta, the post office, or the library; I didn’t find having ice cream as an occasion for the dance of joy. Somewhere along the road of maturing, life seemed to hide these simple delightful things and replaced them with daily stresses.

In the eight days I spent with Ruby, I learned that when sad times come, maybe singing a song will bring some cheer… when the day is going slow, maybe fixing a puzzle will move time faster… when the world is shattered with a “no,” yogurt and gelato brings great comfort… and when friends are nowhere around, open a book and meet some new friends. For, it is in these simple things that the greatest delights of life are found!!

Carma’s Corner: Turning Thirty

There’s no denying it. In a few days, I’ll reach milestone 30. While 30 may strike fear and anxiety for some people, I find excitement, joy, and thankfulness to be the overwhelming feelings. Why do I have to fear 30, or why do I have to be anxious about 30? No reason. For me, my age will represent 30 years of goals achieved, blessings counted, and dreams aspired.

When I was young, I never dreamed of celebrating my 30th birthday. With countless pneumonias and infections, I quickly learned to enjoy my healthy days and to endure the difficult days. There were numerous times when I didn’t talk about my life in terms of years—but in terms of days. During those times, I remember my simple plea: “I want to do things.”

At nearly 30 now, God has blessed and continues to bless my life with countless opportunities “to do things.” He has allowed me to achieve my college and graduate education; He has shown me His beautiful handiwork at the banks of the Pacific Ocean, Atlantic Ocean, and the Gulf of Mexico, not to mention Niagara Falls and tops of some mountains; He has provided me with a job that utilizes my education and talents; He has introduced me to a variety of people and cultures. My simple plea has exploded beyond my imagination!

Reflecting on my 30 years, I see how God heard my plea as a child, took my hand, and has been leading me on an adventure beyond my wildest expectations. I’m not saying the adventure has always been fun; there have been multiple bumps along the way, and I know the bumps will continue to come. But with God leading, I’m confident the adventure will go on, even with the speed bumps.

I don’t know what my 30th year will hold. I don’t know what lessons I’ll learn; I don’t know what things I’ll do; I don’t even know what bumps I’ll have to maneuver. But I do know it is only because of God that I can celebrate my “turning thirty.”

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (the conclusion)

For the last nine weeks, I have shared the story of Nathan Hendricks, a tale of bravery, defeat, and struggle. Nathan’s date with Gangucha stripped his life of independence and confidence, and he is left with dependence and uncertainty. After months of grueling therapy and “learning to live”, Nathan is asked to return to the rodeo to watch his dad ride. Despite his frustration and anxiety, he eventually agrees to watch his dad. Nathan Hendricks will once again take the spot by the fence—not as the excited little boy—not as the young, successful rodeo star, but as the man who will always be remembered by the rodeo.

Three Seconds

“As soon as we can get you ready,” she says, throwing down the towel on the counter.
Nathan finds the drive long and yet too short; a million thoughts race through his head. What will everyone think of my wheelchair? How will everyone treat me? Will I be able to handle sitting on the sidelines again? He doesn’t know the answers, but with each passing mile he’s coming closer to them. As his mom pulls on to the rodeo yard, Nathan sees the usual frenzy of men putting on gear, clowns making the crowd laugh, and horses sunning themselves in the corral. Everything seems surreal. I belong to that world, Nathan thinks. I owned that world, but now my chair owns me. A knock on the window startles Nathan from his thoughts; he looks over and sees Jake. Nathan’s mom rolls down the window.
“What are you doing here?” Nathan asks, smiling.
“Your old man is riding Gangucha,” Jake says, pulling out the wheelchair. “We’ve got to hurry; he’s about ready to ride!”
Nathan looks over at his mom and says, “He can’t ride Gangucha; he’s going to get hurt. I can’t watch that!”
“Maybe you should just believe in him like he did with you,” his mom says, as she and Jake lift him into the chair. “I have no control over what bull he rides.” She snaps the seatbelt into place. “All right, you’re ready to go; you can catch a ride home with dad.” She gives him a quick pat on the shoulder before jumping back into the car.
“Are you ready for a bumpy ride?” Jake asks, as he begins pushing the chair over the grass.
“Just sit me over there by that railing. That way you won’t have to push me very far.”
“Don’t you want to see your dad before he rides?”
“No, he’ll know where to look to find me. Besides, he’s going to need the time to focus himself before riding Gangucha.” Jake shoves the brakes forward and kneels beside Nathan. For a few moments, neither of them speaks, but both stare ahead at the empty ring. Nathan looks around and notices many people staring at his chair; a tinge of anger and resentment boils within him. He knows those people no longer see him as Nathan Hendricks, but they now see him as the young man who played with Gangucha a little too long. They don’t understand, Nathan thinks. They don’t know what it feels like to straddle a raging bull; they have never experienced the challenge and exhilaration of a successful ride; they don’t know what addicting force pulls at a rider.
“Hey, there’s your dad,” Jake says, pointing to the left side of the ring. Nathan looks over and sees his dad standing on the gate and looking over Gangucha. Nathan hears the thumping of Gangucha against the sides of the chute; he knows the “devil” is in ill-temper.
His dad glances over at the railing, and for a second, their eyes meet. He smile and tips his hat before descending onto Gangucha’s back. Nathan looks away; he still can’t believe he’s going to watch his dad’s ride. Why did I come? I’m the one who’s supposed to be on that beast; I’m the one who’s supposed to bring his fall. A roar of cheers erupts, jolting Nathan from his thoughts. He watches as the gate swings open and Gangucha emerges in a whirlwind.
Nathan peers at his dad; he’s sitting firmly: feet securely wrapped, hand tightly positioned, arm held high. Gangucha pivots right, then left, back legs kick, and then twists again. Nathan watches the clock…one second, two seconds, three seconds; he looks over to his dad and sees him willingly dismounting.
“What in the world?” Nathan says. “He had a good ride going. Is he hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Jake answers.
Nathan looks up and sees his dad running towards him. He reaches the railing, leans over, and says, “There’s your three seconds, son!”

The End

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

Reality hits; Nathan realizes that his future will not include walking. The life he once knew of independence and excitement will be exchanged for dependence. A wheelchair will replace the bull riding, a new kind of ride that Nathan does not want to take. Will Nathan find the strength to embrace his new identity, or will his new identity give him a ride into despair and frustration?

Three Seconds

“Just remember your dad and I will always be here for you, no matter what!”
****

As the weeks melt into months, Nathan finds his time filled with grueling therapy, a training harder than bull riding conditioning. The simplest tasks of sitting in a chair, eating, and dressing are tiring and awkward. He no longer sees the athletic physique, balanced posture, and strong muscles that he once had; his body now consists of stiff, thin limbs and numbness. Everything he knew as Nathan Hendricks is gone: the handsome young rodeo star, the hardworking ranch hand, the fun loving, carefree friend, and his dad’s pride and joy. He is frustrated with the new Nathan Hendricks: the invalid.
****

“Hey, Nate, I gotta ride today. Jackson is out sick,” dad says. “Want to come along?”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Well, I need someone to cheer me on. Come on, it will be just like old times.” Dad sits down next to Nate, scoops up a bite of cereal, and puts it in Nate’s mouth.
“It’s not like old times, dad; it will never again be like old times. I’m not that little boy anymore; I’ve ridden. I’ve felt the sweat; I’ve smelled the bulls; I’ve had the rush. I can’t go back to that little boy by the fence!” Nate looks away. His dad sits silently for a moment before getting up from the table. Nate hears a few muffled whispers in the back room, a door slams, and then the shaky rumbles of his dad’s truck. He looks down at his half-eaten bowl of cereal; a year ago that same bowl of cereal would have been devoured, the chores would have been finished, and he would have been on his way to a rodeo before 9 a.m. He glances at the clock – 10 a.m. He is not finished with breakfast; he is still sitting in his pajamas, and he is clueless as to whether or not the chores are complete. He doesn’t care. Nathan knows life will never return to old times.
His mom walks into the kitchen, sits down, and begins spooning up the remaining cereal. She is quiet; Nate is thankful for the silence. As she places the last spoonful in his mouth, she says, “I really think you should have gone along with your dad today.”
“Mom, I don’t want or need to hear this right now!”
“I know what you don’t want to hear, but I also know what you need to hear. You need to hear that your dad lived for those Saturdays at the rodeo; you need to hear that he loved to see your smiling face at the fence; you need to hear that he was scared when you started training, but he wanted to support you; you need to hear that he spent every night with you in the hospital; he’s always been there for you; he’s always believed in you. That’s what you need to hear!” She grabs the cereal bowl, stands up, and walks to the sink.
“What time is he riding?” Nathan quietly asks.
“About noon, I think. I can drop you off on my way to town, if you wish to go,” Mom says, grabbing a towel from the drawer. Nathan watches as she gently wipes the dishes and places them in the cupboard; she makes no eye contact with him and says no more to persuade his decision. Nathan knows that his mom knew she had already convinced him to go.
“What time are you leaving for town?”
“As soon as we can get you ready,” she says, throwing down the towel on the counter.

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

When Nathan awakes, questions race through his head, but his parents provide few answers. Anger and frustration set in; his dad tries to console him by noting he had a solid ride with five seconds. But Nathan is determined to ride again to bring the proper fall of Gangucha. Will Nathan’s determination be enough to see him back on Gangucha, or will his determination be needed for something not yet known?

Three Seconds
Nathan reopens his eyes and looks at the empty chair beside the bed.
****
Nathan opens his eyes and sees his mom sleeping in the chair beside the bed. His mouth is dry, but he notices his headache is less severe. A surge of fear rushes through him when a rhythmic beep ripples through the room: beep, beep, beep, beep. His mom remains motionless, almost seeming dead to the noise. Nathan soon hears a few quick steps before the beeping is silenced. He shifts his eyes to the left and watches the nurse punching buttons on a monitor. She looks over and says, “Hey there, you’re awake.”
“Yeah, I just needed a quick nap.”
“Well, a quick nap never hurts anyone, but you’ve had us worried,” she says, pushing one last button.
“I only slept an hour. What was there to worry about?”
“Nathan, do you know what day it is?”
“Of course, it’s Tuesday, the same day when I started my nap!” Nathan responds with a yawn.
“No, it’s Friday, November 6; you went to sleep on Tuesday, October 16.” Nathan is silent. “Let me wake your mom; she is going to be so thrilled. She hasn’t left your bedside since the Tuesday that you remember.”
“Can you wait a minute?” Nathan asks. “Can you tell me what the doctors have been saying? I know you will be straight with me.”
The nurse grabs her chart, flips through some pages, and reads, “Doctor Kovensky and Doctor Murdall have determined that you are suffering from a serious neck and head injury.”
Nathan’s mom shifts in the chair and quickly stands up when she notices the nurse beside the bed. “Is everything all right?” she asks before seeing Nathan’s open eyes. “You’re awake!” Tears roll down her face as she leans over to kiss his forehead.
Nathan watches the nurse quietly slip out of the room; he wants to ask her some more questions, but she escapes under the fussing of his mom. He looks at his mom and says, “Has it really been three weeks?” She nods her head. “Where is dad?”
“He’s doing chores at the ranch, but he’ll be back tonight. We’ve been here every day and night.” She pulls her chair closer and sits on the edge of it. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I’ve been better, mom. But my head doesn’t hurt as much.”
“Is there anything I can get you? Some ice chips, maybe?”
“Can you tell me what is really going on?” Nathan asks, looking into his mom’s eyes.
She leans back, runs her fingers through her hair, and slowly says, “The doctors are 95% certain that your injuries will not allow you to walk again. But there is so much out there today…there’s electric wheelchairs…there’s assistive feeding devices…there’s even animals who are trained to help you…there’s…”
“Mom, mom, I don’t care about those things; why didn’t you just say I’ll never ride again?” Nathan feels a tear slip out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not fair; it’s just not fair! I rode Gangucha well; I was only three seconds short, mom, only three seconds!”
She stands up and puts her hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Honey, everyone knows you rode that bull well; your record will forever be remembered.” She is silent and looks out the window. Nathan senses her intense regrets even in her silence.
“I’m sorry, mom. It’s not your fault.”
“Just remember your dad and I will always be here for you, no matter what!”

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

In the previous column, Nathan Hendricks wakes up in an unfamiliar world, a world filled with antiseptic and rhythmic beeps. He quickly becomes aware of his helplessness when the grip of nausea attacks him. With a nurse by his side, he learns a few days have passed since he last opened his eyes. But Nathan still doesn’t remember or know many of the details surrounding the last few days. It isn’t until he sees the red handkerchief does the past come reeling through his head. Will his inner strength be enough to get him through the unknown, his future?

Three Seconds
A tear slips out of the corner of his eye; he remembers part of the story now.
****
“Nathan, Nathan, can you hear us?” a cowboy said. Nathan slowly opened his eyes to a circle of faces leaning over him.
“Uh-huh,” he moaned. His lips and tongue felt like coarse sandpaper, but that was all he could feel. The stabbing pain he felt when landing had subsided. I think I’m all right, probably just got the wind knocked out of me, he thought.
“You’re going to be fine,” dad said, gently placing his hand on Nathan’s shoulder. Nathan couldn’t feel his dad’s touch; he could see his dad’s hand, but there was no sensation.
Am I going to be fine? Nathan thought. There is something definitely wrong. He remained silent about what he was feeling or not feeling. He could read the worry in the eyes above him, and he didn’t want to add to their grief.
“An ambulance is on the way,” a voice called in the distance. A few seconds later, a new pair of eyes was above him; it was Jake, Nathan’s best friend. “How ya doing, Nate? Help is on the way!” Jake and Nathan had been friends since the first grade; their friendship started when Nathan noticed Jake sitting alone at lunch. Nathan sat down beside him, and it wasn’t long before they were laughing and teasing the girls who walked past them. Nathan always thought of Jake as his little brother, even though they were the same age. But Jake was little. His height of five foot and weight of 130 pounds was small to Nathan’s six foot and 200 pounds. Whatever Jake lacked in stature he made up for in energy, enthusiasm, and wit; he would do anything for Nathan and always had some joke to make him laugh.
“I thought you couldn’t make it today,” Nathan whispered.
“Your dad called and said you were riding Gangucha. I wasn’t going to miss your showdown with the devil; I can potty train myself some other day!” All the faces in circle slowly turned and looked at Jake. “I’m kidding, guys; I’ve almost mastered it.” Each of the guys slowly took a step backwards. Nathan smiled, knowing that Jake was just trying to relieve the tension.
A siren was heard in the distance and grew louder with every passing second. It wasn’t long before a flourish of new people hovered over him, shoving out all the familiar faces. Someone gently untied the red handkerchief from his neck and replaced it with a brace; another person was pumping a blood pressure cuff, while the other was listening to his chest. “Pressure is a little high,” the man said.
“Airways are clear,” the lady said.
“I think he is stable for transport,” the other lady reported. “We’re going to slide a plastic board under you, Nathan.” Nathan closed his eyes as the medics gently pushed the board under him; for the first time he felt fear wince within him.
“Hang in there,” Jake called.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” dad said. “You’ll be fine; you’re in good hands now.” He gently tousled Nathan’s hair and then turned away. Nathan could read the fear in his dad’s eyes, but he felt a little better knowing that he wasn’t the only one who was scared. The medics slowly lifted the stretcher and began the trek across the ring. A single clap was heard in the distance until it erupted into a chorus of applause around the ring. Nathan closed his eyes; he didn’t deserve the applause, not this time; he had been beaten.
The stretcher jostled a little as the medics pulled it into the ambulance. The doors were slammed shut, and all was quiet. Nathan sighed; he was tired. Nathan heard the ambulance sirens blaring, but he was too exhausted to even question the medics on what might be wrong with him.

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

It’s no question; Nathan Hendricks’ world is rallying between consciousness and unconsciousness. His conscious world is filled with uncertainty, and the unconscious world holds the unknown. But his familiar world of bull-riding tumbles to an abrupt halt when Nathan lands with snapping in his ears. Little does he know, his fall from Gangucha is just the beginning to the world spiraling out of control. Will Nathan adapt to the uncertainty or succumb to the unknown?

Three Seconds
He shifted his eyes to the side and saw three pair of cowboy boots running towards him.
****
Nathan’s eyes pop open; yellow-tinted darkness surrounds him. His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other; he sees nothing but shadowed objects and dim fluorescent lights filtering through the curtained doorway. The room smells of lemon toilet bowl cleaner and spearmint mouthwash; his stomach churns. He doesn’t know if the pit of nausea is from the sickening smell or the dull ache in his head. A rhythmic beep interrupts every few seconds. He closes his eyes, struggling against the whirlwind in his stomach.
“Hendricks looks solid riding the well of Gangucha. Gangucha is on fire today, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, Hendricks is struggling a bit…and he’s over the well!” The words echo through Nathan’s head, and Gangucha’s fiery eyes flash across his mind. He opens his eyes again to find the same dusk-lit room, the incessant beeping, and the sterile smell. He moans; he isn’t in pain, but a wave of fear suddenly embraces him.
“Can anyone hear me?” Nathan calls. His throat is raspy, and he finds that it takes all his strength to utter a whisper. A few minutes pass; Nathan neither hears nor sees anyone. The storm in his stomach rumbles. “Is anyone around?” The curtain rustles and puddles of bright light land on the bed.
“Nathan, did you call?” Squeaky footsteps follow before a short, petite nurse flips on the light above the bed. Nathan squints; the light burns his eyes. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to be sick,” Nathan says. “I can’t seem to get up or turn to my side. Can you please help me?” He now feels the full fury released within him; he silently prays for a few extra minutes, not so much for himself, but more for the nurse.
“I’m sorry, Nathan; I can’t help you do either,” the nurse replies.
“How am I supposed to…?” Nathan feels the tide quickly rising, and the tidal wave crashes to shore within a second. The nurse grabs a few towels and a tube that screeches with suction. She sticks the tube in his mouth and holds it there while the storm unleashes its power. After a few minutes, the waves subside; the nurse removes the tube and wipes up the overflow.
“Do you feel better now?”
“A little. What day is it? What time is it?”
“It’s about 2 o’clock in the afternoon on Tuesday,” the nurse says as she shoves the dirty towels into a plastic bag. “I believe your parents stepped out a few minutes to get something to eat at the cafeteria. They should be back shortly.”
“How long have they been here?”
“They haven’t left your bedside since you came in on Saturday.” The nurse washes her hands and picks up the plastic bag. “Is there anything else I can get you? Would you like the TV on for some noise? Do you want me to turn off your light?”
“No, I’m fine, I think.”
“All right, give a holler if you need anything.” She quickly slips through the curtain and disappears into the world beyond the bed rails and doorway. Nathan stares up at the ceiling tiles; his thoughts clash together, making reality a jumbled mess. He silently prays for some small symbol, anything to bring his world into a focus. He moves his eyes to the left, and there he sees it draped over the bed rail, the red handkerchief. A tear slips out of the corner of his eye; he remembers part of the story now.

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

In last week’s column, Nathan was in and out of consciousness; the extent of his injury has not been determined. When Nathan once again succumbs to the darkness of unconsciousness, the narrative begins telling of Nathan’s impending date with Gangucha, the greatest feared bull. Will Nathan’s training and experience aid him in his fight against Gangucha, or will Gangucha’s fight give Nathan something else to fight for? Cowboy up!

Three Seconds

He closed his eyes, released his hold on the chute, and tried to envision the ride.

****
A grinding noise suddenly pulls Nate from the world of darkness; he isn’t so sure whether the noise or the pain awakens him. A surge of excitement rushes through his body; he has pain. This is the first pain he has had since…he can’t recall the last time he had pain. He looks up, but sees nothing but a glaring light; he tries to look to the side, but his head doesn’t turn. “What is making that racket?” Nate wonders.

All of a sudden a shadowed, blurry figure stands above him blocking the penetrating glight. “Oh, Nathan, I didn’t realize you were awake. I’ll have one of the nurses get you something for pain.” As quickly as the figure appeared, he disappeared into the unknown surroundings. Nate lay quietly in silence; he feels numb, except for the excruciating pounding in his head. “Where am I again? What happened? Why do I have such a headache? Where is everyone?"

“While you are awake, Nate, I want to explain what I am doing,” the blurry figure said. “I’m putting a halo around your head and screwing in pins to keep the halo from moving. The halo is meant to keep you immobilized while your fracture heals.” Nate closes his eyes; he hears the words; he understands the words, but the effects of the words are not comprehended. He reopens his eyes and sees another dark figure standing by the first one; the second dark figure makes a few quick movements, and it isn’t long before Nate realizes his world is once again fading into blackness.

****
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, next up is Nathan Hendricks on Gangucha Fury,” the announcer said over the PA system. Nathan opened his eyes and took a deep breath; he pushed down his hat and gave a quick nod to the cowboy waiting to open the gate. Nate heard a slight creak in the gate, and in a second he was out in the ring. Gangucha jerked left, then right, then up, and then down; Nathan tightened his legs and squeezed his hand around the bull-rope. The beast twisted, turned, jumped, and bucked; every jolting movement jarred Nathan’s body, and he realized he wasn’t going to conquer Gangucha.

The bull-rope began slipping through Nathan’s fingers; he curled his fingers tighter, but in that instance, Gangucha lurched up and landed on his front haunches. Nathan felt the rope rip from his hands and his body launching through the air. The crowd was silent and a blur; Nathan saw everything around him in fast-forward, but he was moving in slow-motion. “Land well and run like hell” echoed through his head; there was no doubt that he was going to run! He landed with a loud snap in his ears; he tried to raise his head, but a stabbing pain pierced through his head.

Everything around him went into a tailspin. He closed his eyes, praying for extra strength to run. But strength didn’t come; movement didn’t come; he was stuck helpless in the middle of the ring. The pain intensified and throbbed down his neck. “What in the world is wrong with me?” he thought. He shifted his eyes to the side and saw three pair of cowboy boots running towards him.

Carma's Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

In the last column, I started telling a story, the story of Nathan Hendricks. Nathan is a young man who grew up watching the rodeo and cheering on his dad. But now at 17, Nathan is pursuing his passion of riding the bulls. It’s his passion that has brought him to face the legendary bull, Gangucha Fury. Let the showdown begin…

Three Seconds

“I’ll be at the fence. See you after the fall of Gangucha!”

****
The bright lights slowly dim to perpetual darkness; the craziness and noise fade into a soft murmur; the poking, prodding, and pain diminish in intensity, and the essence of life feels like a game of jeopardy. Nathan’s senses dissolve into nothingness. Questions are fired at him: “Nathan, can you feel this? Do you have any allergies? How tall are you? What exactly do you feel now?” He knows the answers, but he isn’t able to give them.
“Keep him immobilized,” the doctor commands. “We don’t know the extent of the damage, but we can’t risk moving him for x-ray either.” The nurse gently tugs the sheet up to his shoulders; he notices that he can’t feel the sheet, but only sees it through a blurry haze. Everything suddenly goes silent, and the darkness overwhelms him.

****
Nate grabbed his chaps, vest, gloves, and extra pair of cowboy boots from the pick-up truck. He strapped on his chaps that bore the red and black design of his dad’s ranch brand, HH. His dad gave him these chaps for his sixteenth birthday; it was his first pair that was custom made for him. When Nate first started riding, he always used his dad’s old chaps, but now with his own chaps, he truly felt he belonged to the sport. He slipped the protective vest over his arms and fastened it tight. The vest was so heavy; he often wondered whether the vest did more harm than good. “How in the world can I be balanced if I am so top heavy?” Nate thought to himself. He jerked on his boots, pulled on his gloves, and topped off his costume with his black cowboy hat.
Nate started walking toward the bucking chute when he realized he forgot to put something on. He raced back to the truck and snatched up the red handkerchief lying on the front seat; he tied it around his neck. He never rode without the handkerchief around his neck. His mom had given him the handkerchief. She said, “You wear this every time you ride. Just think of it as me giving you a hug every time you fall.” His mom never came to the rodeo; it wasn’t that she didn’t support him; it wasn’t that she didn’t have time; it was that she just couldn’t bear to watch her son get defeated by an animal. He had showed her all the protective gear; he had the stats to prove that he was good; he told her, “I had the best teacher, mom. Don’t you trust dad?” But nothing he did or said convinced her to come, so he carefully donned the handkerchief each time.
Nate arrived at the bucking chute to find a very ill-tempered Gangucha. “So you are the lucky one who gets to ride the devil,” one of the cowboys said.
“I’ll consider myself lucky once my ride is over!”
“Smart kid. I’ll tell you something…don’t try to do any showboating out there. Just land well and then run like hell.”
“You don’t have to tell me that I need to run!”
“All right, Hendricks, you’re up,” a rodeo hand called. Nate grabbed the top panel of the chute and climbed up; he looked down at Gangucha. The bull was restless, kicking his hoofs every which way. The rodeo hands did their best to calm the bull enough to allow Nate to straddle him. After a few minutes of angry chaos, a ranch hand shouted, “Get on now!”
Nate carefully and quickly lowered himself onto Gangucha’s flank; he pulled the bull-rope and began wrapping it around his hand. It was less than a second before Gangucha’s body shifted up and down and sideways. Nate grasped the side of the chute trying to steady himself. “What in the world am I doing?” he thought.
“Are you sure you want to do this, boy?” a cowboy said from the other side of the chute. Nate looked down and yanked the bull-rope tighter; he was going to do this; Gangucha was just another bull. He closed his eyes, released his hold on the chute, and tried to envision the ride.

(To be continued…)

Carma's Corner: Three Seconds

It’s no secret. I love words. I like stringing words together and rearranging them to create stories where the characters’ fate is solely dependent on my imagination and use of words. For the next few columns, I have decided to take a little detour from the usual “Carma’s Corner” and share one of my creative narratives. The following narrative is one of my favorites, and I hope it’s as enjoyable to read as it was to write. The story and characters are fictitious and merely a product of the imagination.

Three Seconds

Bright overhead lights shine down; people in uniform bustle around the elevated bed; needles are shoved into available veins; neck is placed in a brace and strapped to the bed; whispers are heard outside the curtained doorway; alarms and buzzers sound together in a coarse rhythmic tune. Commotion, noise, and physical pain fill this world, a world that will become all too familiar to Nathan Hendricks.

“Fracture in neck…extent of damage unknown…future uncertain…” These words echo and fade in Nathan’s head as he rallies between reality and the world of the unknown. The world of the unknown is silent, painless, and dark, but this serenity is occasionally dissolved into the chaos of reality, a life where Nathan would have to fight only to survive.

Fight has always been part of Nathan’s life; it isn’t that he struggled with delinquency; it isn’t that he didn’t get along with others, and it isn’t that trouble always found him. The truth is Nathan diligently searched for the greatest fight, the fight of a dirt snorting, hoof pounding bull. The larger, the angrier, and the wilder the beast, the more Nathan loved it. But did his passion drive him to hold on a few seconds too long, one too many times, or will his passion precisely be the antidote in his impending fight for life?

****
“All right, Nate, your score is sitting in the 60s” dad said. “Do you think you can give us another strong ride?”

“I will, dad, I will,” Nathan said. It was a bright, brisk October Saturday, a day where the wind nipped at the skin, the sun gave enough heat to bring sweat to the brow, and the air tenaciously held on to the lingering smells of summer. Nathan loved these fall days; he lived for these days. It wasn’t so much that he liked the season of fall as it always marked the beginning of classes, homework, and countless activities associated with school. But fall also brought the rodeo, and that was what Nathan lived for.

He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t part of the rodeo. He recalled countless Saturdays clinging to the fence and stretching as far as he could just to peek over the top panel to watch dad “play with the bull.” At four years old, he didn’t understand much about the rodeo, but he knew most Saturdays was dad’s play date with the bulls. Nathan was a bubbling teapot on rodeo days; he would get up, pull on his jeans, yank on his favorite black and red flannel shirt, and tug on his black cowboy boots before the sun even roused from its slumber. Saturdays was their day, a day filled with popcorn, soda pop, riding ponies, laughing at the clowns, and most importantly cheering for dad.

Standing in his jeans, red flannel shirt, and black boots, Nathan could still see that excited little boy, hear his shrieks of joy, and feel his endless energy. But at seventeen the excitement, joy, and energy rush no longer came from being a part of the rodeo; the high resulted from being in the rodeo. Dad willingly took on the role of watching from the fence line when he had properly handed over his skills for playing with the bulls to Nate.

“You ready for this,” dad said, slapping Nate on the shoulder. “Gangucha is an arm jerker. Other riders are saying he’s in bad temper today.” Gangucha Fury had a noteworthy history, one that all riders liked to talk about, but few dared to endure. Most riders would swear that gGangucha was primarily the devil, while others confessed that devil was too tame of a word. Gangucha looked like one of hell’s angels with his wild eyes, burnt red coat, and yellowed horns that appeared to be glazed with the venom of death. If the sight of him wasn’t frightening enough, his size of 1700 pounds was sure to bring any rider to his knees, whether it was in prayer or absolute terror.

Nate sighed as he peered into the bull pen; his date with destiny was standing off in the far corner of the pen. Gangucha stood quietly; he wasn’t being disturbed, but Nate knew this tranquil nature was only momentary.

“Yeah, I’m ready; he’s just one more bull to ride. Gangucha hasn’t met Nathan Hendricks yet!” Nate stepped away from the fence. “I better get ready; I ride in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be at the fence. See you after the fall of Gangucha!”

(To be continued…)

Carma's Corner:For the Love of...

It’s no secret; baseball season is in full swing! Crowds clamor to a stadium to watch their favorite team in a game that has been most commonly tagged as “America’s Favorite Pastime.” Amidst the ballpark hot dogs, cracker jacks, and ice cold drinks, fans heartily cheer, laugh, and support their team. For nine innings, life is about the next crack of the bat, home run, or amazing play; life takes a seventh inning stretch, often a welcome reprieve from the daily stresses.

When I was young, I couldn’t wait for the ninth inning. For me, the ninth inning meant there were only six strikes standing between me and a favorite TV show. My dad liked baseball; he liked the Minnesota Twins, but he would watch any game. At that time, I didn’t find baseball to be on my “top ten list of TV watching”. I found three hours to be a long time to sit and watch a ball being thrown back and forth. Oftentimes, dad would spare me the boredom by occasionally checking the score and then switching the channel to my program. For this graciousness, I was thankful.

As the years went by, baseball mysteriously didn’t seem as boring or as long. But then I realized baseball hadn’t changed… I did. With my dad’s help, I recognized strikes, balls, pop-ups, sacrifice bunts, and even designated hitters. Baseball was suddenly more than just throwing a ball back and forth; it was a game of strategy and talent. With my growing understanding of the game, dad and I enjoyed many games on television and even a few at the Metrodome. The Twins were “our team” and not the Yankees. It was certain…dad had successfully passed on the love of the game to his little girl.

Dad has been gone nearly three years now. But I still continue to faithfully watch “our team”… and, of course, not the Yankees. I’ll admit I don’t know all the rules of baseball; I don’t understand all the technical lingo, but dad taught me enough to genuinely enjoy the game. So I watch… for the love of the game… and for the love of my dad.

Carma’s Corner: From Jeans to Propriety and Back

As the heavy wooden door creaks open, the year 2010 spins and vanishes before me, leaving me in an ornate, detailed foyer. I sit quietly under the intricately painted vaulted ceiling—year 1883. Suddenly, my jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers feel out of place; I realize for the moment I no longer belong to 2010—aside from my modern day attire. But I have become a guest of the McHenry Mansion in Modesto, California.

The mansion was constructed in 1883 by Robert McHenry, a prominent local banker and rancher. He and his wife, Matilda, resided in the mansion from 1883 to 1896. In 1896, Robert and Matilda’s only child, Oramil McHenry, moved in and lived there until 1906. After the McHenry era, the mansion was converted into apartment housing in 1923. It remained apartment housing until 1976 when the Julio R. Gallo Foundation purchased it and donated it to the City of Modesto for restoration and community use.

The first stop on the tour is a small, narrow room most commonly known as the “calling room.” Elegant straight chairs line the edge of the room; drapes that fall to the floor cover the windows, and a tiny, silent fireplace sets against the far wall. If a guest arrived to visit the McHenrys, the guest would be escorted into the calling room, given a “calling card”, and instructed to wait to see if the McHenrys were seeing guests. The average visitation time was a half hour. I look at the chairs and can’t help but wonder, “What if someone had traveled a great distance only to find that the McHenrys were not accepting guests that day.” I realize those chairs have stories, if only they could talk.

After the “calling room,” it’s onward to the formal parlor, living quarters, and then the library. Since the mansion was constructed during the Victorian Age, each room is furnished and decorated with items appropriate to the time period. The formal parlor is filled with fancy furniture, exquisite paintings, and even oil cloths resting on the arms of each chair. Apparently, Mrs. McHenry provided these doilies to her male guests to place behind their heads so the hair oils wouldn’t stain the back of the chair. I smile while thinking, “I wonder what Mrs. McHenry would say upon seeing me with my sneakers on in her formal parlor.”

The next stop is the living quarters. I quickly scan the room for something comforting, but I find nothing. The room appears very similar to the formal parlor; all the furniture looks as though if someone sits down… his/her legs should be crossed. My eyes drift to the piano, the only comforting and fun aspect of the room. In place of television and technology, the McHenrys found entertainment in the piano. It wasn’t uncommon for the couple to host dances within their home. I glance at the piano keys and strain to hear the distant chords of music and laughter. I hear nothing. But I know those keys could still play the music that the McHenrys enjoyed in 1883.

It isn’t until the library that I find my love. The room is sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a reading table, and a desk. But my eyes are immediately drawn to the book shelves along the wall. The shelves hold the greatest of Charles Dickens and all the other well-known British authors. I realize then these books connect 2010 to 1883; I read and study these narratives just as the McHenrys had.

Other highlights of the tour include a fine dining room (large enough to seat 20 people), a small, well-stocked kitchen (only person to see the kitchen was the Chinese cook), two bathrooms with provisional indoor plumbing (a rarity in that time period), and two bedrooms complete with double beds (people were smaller in that time). The basement and fourth floor are not open for viewing, but these floors were used as servant quarters.

As the front door swings open once again, the bustle of 2010 greets me. My jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers no longer feel out of the ordinary. The door gently closes behind me, closing the world of proper etiquette, sophistication, and propriety. But for a few brief moments, year 2010 and year 1883 converge together—through a young lady wearing jeans… surely the propriety of her day.

O What to Write of March’s Plight

“Ah, March! We know thou art kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, and, out of sight, art nursing April’s violets.” --Helen Hunt Jackson

I will admit that I have struggled with gathering my thoughts to write this column. It’s not that I had a lack of ideas; it’s not that I couldn’t formulate the ideas into written word, but I coveted originality.

Oh, I could write how March is deemed as the month observance of the American Red Cross or Woman’s History. But these topics would confine me to history, statistics, and possibly one example story. I then researched the special days of March—March 1 being National Pig Day to March 31 being Tater Day. Then, I had the all familiar suggestions of St. Patrick’s Day, Spring, the lion and lamb, and the ides of March. I had ready responses for each topic thrown at me.

“I’m not Irish. What would I write about green beer, shamrocks, and pots of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

“The calendar may say Spring, but the dirty snow piles say otherwise.”

“I really don’t understand the whole lion and lamb connection with March. Why doesn’t May come in like a goat and go out like a horse?”

“Ah, yes… the ides of March. William Shakespeare wrote, ‘Beware of the ides of March.’ I’ll beware of the ides once I know what it is!”

The month of March was clearly mocking me… as well as my blank computer screen. It then occurred to me that my struggling was somewhat representative of March. March is a month of the unknown or of transition. It doesn’t know whether it wants to be Spring one day and Winter the next.

March holds an element of uncertainty. The vast majority of people don’t like uncertainty. I’m no different. I like my days planned, my assignments before me, and especially my writing outlined. But is uncertainty really that bad? The word does possess negative connotation. It gives a sense of being not in control, a feeling abhorred by society.

Uncertainty allows for the unexpected. How would life be different if every detail of a day would be known before it happened? Would life be as exciting? Would the same emotions be experienced? I would venture to guess the overwhelming emotion felt would be fear—not of the unknown, but the known.

March can be ugly. March can be threatening. March can be uncertain. But without experiencing March, the April violets can’t be relished. In times of life’s uncertainty, hold on to the promise of April violets.

Going for the Gold

The countdown is on. In just a few days, thousands of athletes and spectators from around the world will gather in Vancouver, British Columbia to participate in the winter Olympics 2010. Over the next couple weeks, hopes will be fulfilled, dreams will be inspired, and unfortunately talents will fall short. But whatever may transpire in Vancouver, one thing is certain; athletes and spectators will be united in a single quest, most commonly known as “going for the gold”.

What makes the gold medal so desirable? Does the desire exist because the medal is made from expensive metal? Or is the desirability found in the medal’s undeniable prestige and superiority? I would venture to guess that value, prestige, and superiority play a part in the medal’s irresistibleness. However, out of all the athletes represented, only a few will take the highest platform, only a few will join in the singing of their national anthem, and only a few will end their quest with a gold medal. For the others, the gold medal will be nothing more than a lost hope.

I will never have a gold medal. I don’t plan skiing the powdered slopes in perfect formation; I will never land a triple-lutz with grace, and I don’t see myself breaking any speed records in skates. I am physically not able to perform any of these events. A wheelchair is not conducive to snow and ice, and it hardly does anything with precision and excellence. Hence, the quest for a gold medal is not in my future. But the “gold” in my life isn’t found in a gleaming medal; it is found in my family, friends, and faith.I didn’t have to beat the clock or get a perfect score to receive my gold.

My gold was a gift, one specifically chosen for me. Is my gold valuable? No, it’s priceless! Does my gold bring prestige and superiority? No, it brings happiness and support. I know my gold isn’t exactly lustrous, but it shines brightly for me every day. It sparkles when mom gets me up with a smile; it dazzles when my friends treat me like anyone else; it twinkles when my faith pulls me through the day. It’s the only gold I need.

I will not be going for the gold in Vancouver or anywhere for that matter. But that is okay because my “gold” keeps me going!

Mounds of Powdered Sugar

Over the last six weeks, Sibley has been landscaped with mounds of powdered sugar, sparkling, spiked icicles, and even frosted trees. If one didn’t know better, it would appear that the community had been transformed into a magical candy land… without, of course, the colorful tiled path, Peppermint Stick Forest, Lollipop Woods, or Ice Cream Floats.

When I was little, I always thought the snow piles looked like mounds of powdered sugar. Well, the piles were powdered sugar until I was sitting in one. To my disbelief, the “sugar” was cold, wet, and not at all sweet. But it was fun to play and dig in it! When I wasn’t playing in the snow, the piles instantly became mounds of powdered sugar once again.

As I have grown, I hate to admit that I have lost some of the child-like wonder and imagination. My childhood “mounds of powdered sugar” have become nothing more than mountains of snow and ice. The “sugar” image has been replaced with countless hours of snow removal work, slippery sidewalks, and even postponements, which certainly don’t sweeten life.

What is some of the “sweetness” of snow? Despite the fact that snow still creates a lot of work,it is beautiful. The pristine white covers all the withered grass and shriveled leaves. Its wetness can bring chatter and giggles when sledding down a hill or building a snowman. The intricate lace snowflakes can stir up a sense of awe and amusement.

Every once in awhile, when I’m traveling down a road or looking out the window, reality will break, and I’ll still catch a glimpse of my childhood mounds of powdered sugar. I realize then a part of me will always find a little sweetness in the mounds… even when I’m tired of trying to get around in the snow.

Take a little time. Play in the sugar. Enjoy the sweetness.

No Place Like Home

When one thinks about Christmas, what images come to mind? Is it a gently falling snow that transforms the outdoors into a winter wonderland, or is it light-lined homes that look as though they have been snatched from a Christmas movie? Do the images include rosy-cheeked families gathering, frosted trees, sleigh rides, carolers, gifts, and late-night stocking stuffing?

A few days ago, a friend and I were discussing how Christmas is often depicted with a wintery scene; however, this snowy Christmas picture is also carried into the songs of the season: I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, Let It Snow, Frosty the Snowman, and Jingle Bells. My friend and I couldn’t help but wonder whether snowy scenes on Christmas cards and winter-themed carols have as much meaning in Arizona or Florida as in Iowa.

If asked last year whether I could celebrate Christmas under a palm tree on a sandy beach, I would have answered with a resounding “Yes!” But this year that resounding “yes” would be marked with hesitation.I never realized how much setting affected my feeling of Christmas until last year when I traveled to North Carolina a week before Christmas Day. My friends and I were welcomed with warm weather, Southern hospitality, and good times.

As Christmas Day neared, I found that I had to keep reminding myself that Christmas was only four days away. It didn’t feel like Christmas. I was surrounded by great friends, saw the decorated homes, heard the familiar carols on the radio, and enjoyed some of their Christmas traditions. But something was missing for me.

I didn’t find that something until I pulled into my snow-packed driveway; it was home. Suddenly, it felt like Christmas was two days away. Suddenly, everything that I knew as Christmas was before me. This was Christmas. This was home.

On that first Christmas, Jesus had to leave His home and come to a fallen world, where He would eventually be despised, mocked, and crucified. He suffered so that one day we can celebrate in our eternal home.

On that day, I will say, “I will celebrate. This is home!”

Christmas Magic to Majesty

With Christmas quickly approaching, a magic appears to fill the air. The magic is seen in the snowflakes gently falling outside my window, the marathon of carols playing on my radio, the lights bedazzling homes around town, and even in the trees twinkling in windows. The everyday world is transformed into a winter wonderland where people greet one another with cheery smiles and holiday wishes.

When I was a little girl, I loved the “magic” that Christmas created. Of course, I knew Christmas magic truly didn’t exist, but for one month I felt life came as close to magical as possible. My home was etched in sparkling lights, covering the weathered spots; the glowing tree would bring excitement with its growing pile of gifts; evening dishwashing would be accompanied with a chorus of carols; cookies and candies would bring temptation and smiles. Life felt and looked as though it had been plucked from a storybook.

Now at 29, I find it more difficult to see the magic of Christmas. I still see the snow, lights, trees, and gifts; I still hear and sing the well-loved carols, but I find my child-like awe of these things has been replaced with a greater understanding. As a child, I was taught that Christmas was Jesus’ birthday. I believed it; I participated in the Christmas program at church, but yet the lights, trees, and presents were so much more exciting and magical than the birthday.

I realize now that Christmas magic has only occurred once, or perhaps I should say Christmas majesty. It didn’t happen when I was a little girl either; it occurred over 2,000 years ago in a dilapidated stable. There were no gleaming strings of lights, but there were radiant angels in the sky singing, “Glory to God in the highest." There were no tinseled trees, but there were shepherds and wise men on bended knee. There were no parties and jolly carols, but there was silence and a piercing cry of a newborn, the Son of God.

Because of that cry, Christmas can be celebrated. Because of that cry, I am here to celebrate Christmas… not so much the magic but the majesty of it!Don’t get me wrong—I still enjoy the lights, trees, gifts, and carols; I still like the cheery aura surrounding the Christmas season. But I don’t allow the magic to overtake the majesty of Christmas… for the magic only lasts one month, but the majesty has endured for over 2,000 years!