A few months ago, I was searching through a file when I ran across a detailed program/schedule of the Smidt Family Christmas Eve. I couldn’t help but smile, remembering how I tirelessly outlined all the times of the events to take place that evening- from the candlelit dinner to bedtime. I gently placed the schedule back in the file, recalling my ambition and motivation for detailing such an evening.
It was a couple weeks before Christmas, and like all other children I was beside myself with excitement. The tree was decorated; cookies were baked, and wrapped surprises were slowly appearing under the tree with each passing day. With all the anticipation and excitement swirling within me, I wanted some way to contribute to the festivities. I couldn’t decorate the tree; I couldn’t bake; I couldn’t wrap gifts. How was I going to add my special touch to the holiday?
“What can I do?” I asked Mom each day.
After a few days of my asking, Mom came up with an idea. “I think you should make a program for our Christmas Eve… a schedule of sorts, so we know what we are going to do when,” she suggested.
That was it; that was something I could do! I pulled out six pieces of paper, my crayons, Christmas stickers, a ruler, and an ink pen. Mom wanted Christmas programs, so I was going to make sure these programs were decked to her satisfaction. I folded; I colored; I stuck my stickers; I wrote, and two days later, I gently laid six individual Smidt Family Christmas Eve programs on the front hall table. It was finally Christmas Eve, and in a few short hours it would finally be Christmas.
When I ran across this creation from 20 years ago, it made me smile, but yet at the same time it made me a little sad. In those 20 years since, it seems like the “finally Christmas” excitement and anticipation has slowly been replaced with an “already Christmas” feeling. As one gets older, one assumes more responsibilities; life changes, and days get busier with families, work, and appointments. Time seems to spin faster, and before long one is left saying, “It’s ALREADY Christmas.”
I’m no different. My yearly juggling act of family, friends, work, and other commitments becomes a highly entertaining circus act in December… and I’m left saying, “It’s ALREADY Christmas.” Gone are the days of “what can I do”; gone are the days of detailing a Smidt Christmas Eve program. Already Christmas remains.
I’ll admit I miss those days of having nothing better to do than wait for Christmas… and then exclaim on Christmas morning “It’s FINALLY Christmas!” But Finally Christmas will never be totally erased in my life because I’m continually reminded of the true Finally Christmas.
Over 2,000 years ago, on a quiet, clear night… there were heavenly hosts just waiting to hear the first cry from Jesus. Imagine waiting to declare the good news to the shepherds; I imagine the angels couldn’t wait to sing… even if it was going to startle those shepherds out of their cloaks.
Jesus cried. And behold angels appeared in the black sky announcing, “Unto you a Savior has been born; He is Christ the Lord!” Jesus was here; salvation had come to the world. The angels were excited and spreading the news of the joyous arrival… IT WAS FINALLY CHRISTMAS!!
May the angel’s excitement and joy invade Christmas this year… so Christmas morning may dawn with a chorus of “It’s FINALLY Christmas! Glory to God in the highest!”
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Carma’s Corner: Blast from the Past-Forgotten Christmas
It was Christmas Eve 2003, but all the familiar traditions of Christmas Eve were nowhere to be seen. The scrumptious, candlelit feast was replaced with boxed meals from a vending machine; the melodic “O Holy Night” was drowned out by discordant beeps and buzzes; the brightly wrapped gifts were substituted with finger pricks, and the angel’s joyful declaration came to me as “Your tests were positive for Type A Influenza”. There I sat in Avera Mckennan’s Emergency Room… on Christmas Eve.
After a couple hours of waiting, I was admitted and transferred to One East, an all too familiar wing of the hospital. As I was wheeled to my room, I caught glimpses of decorated trees, wreaths, and garlands in the hallway and waiting rooms, reminding me that Christmas was indeed tomorrow. Succumbing to the fact that Christmas would be different this year, Mom and I settled into the room. Right on schedule, an IV was inserted; x-rays were taken; blood was drawn, and respiratory treatments scheduled.
Around 10 p.m., I was finally told to get some rest, but with every muscle aching, my body didn’t readily welcome sleep. I tossed; I turned; I sat up; I went back to bed, but no position brought comfort or relief. Mom clicked through numerous television stations, searching for some distraction. The clock was nearly striking midnight when Mom came across a station featuring different choirs singing carols.
“Maybe we’ll just listen to the beautiful music,” Mom said, sitting down on the bed next to me.
“Hm-mmm,” I moaned. I closed my eyes, praying that Christmas would bring a better day.
I opened my eyes to find Mom sitting next to the bed. But the room was different; it was much smaller, and many machines surrounded my bed. Numerous tubes weaved over my body, and where they were connected I didn’t know. I didn’t remember having that many tubes when I fell asleep; I didn’t recall actually getting the tubes, but then again I was asleep.
"Where am I?” I whispered.
“You’re in ICU,” Mom explained.
“Oh,” I said, “then it must be Christmas today.”
Mom looked puzzled. “No, Christmas was three days ago. Don’t you remember?”
I didn’t remember; I had only closed my eyes for a few brief moments, and the next thing I knew Christmas was three days ago. I was later told that I had visitors on Christmas Day, talked to my sister on the telephone, and even said Merry Christmas. I had no recollection of these events; for me, Christmas Day had been lost and forgotten somewhere between late Christmas Eve and three days later.
To this day, I have no memory of Christmas Day 2003; it’s been erased. Of course, I have the stories from others regarding how sick I was, what procedures were done, and how Christmas was forgotten among the frenzy of keeping me alive. It bothers me a little that I missed Christmas Day 2003, but this forgotten Christmas causes me to think about one particular character in the Christmas story—the innkeeper.
In Luke 2, it is noted that while in Bethlehem Mary gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in clothes and placed him in a manger because there was no guest room available for them. Oftentimes, contemporary renditions of this story will have an innkeeper shouting “There’s no room for you here” and slamming the door.
I can’t help but think of a few questions: did the innkeeper forget about the young expectant girl on his door step, did the innkeeper ever wonder if the young couple found proper shelter, or did the innkeeper ever consider that this relatively forgettable girl was going to bring an unforgettable gift to the world? I don’t know.
Like the innkeeper, the True Reason for Christmas can be forgotten among the bustle of holiday activities. But remember Christ came to give something unforgettable—salvation to a world who continually forgets Him. Remember the Reason for the Season, and don’t be left with a forgotten Christmas!
After a couple hours of waiting, I was admitted and transferred to One East, an all too familiar wing of the hospital. As I was wheeled to my room, I caught glimpses of decorated trees, wreaths, and garlands in the hallway and waiting rooms, reminding me that Christmas was indeed tomorrow. Succumbing to the fact that Christmas would be different this year, Mom and I settled into the room. Right on schedule, an IV was inserted; x-rays were taken; blood was drawn, and respiratory treatments scheduled.
Around 10 p.m., I was finally told to get some rest, but with every muscle aching, my body didn’t readily welcome sleep. I tossed; I turned; I sat up; I went back to bed, but no position brought comfort or relief. Mom clicked through numerous television stations, searching for some distraction. The clock was nearly striking midnight when Mom came across a station featuring different choirs singing carols.
“Maybe we’ll just listen to the beautiful music,” Mom said, sitting down on the bed next to me.
“Hm-mmm,” I moaned. I closed my eyes, praying that Christmas would bring a better day.
I opened my eyes to find Mom sitting next to the bed. But the room was different; it was much smaller, and many machines surrounded my bed. Numerous tubes weaved over my body, and where they were connected I didn’t know. I didn’t remember having that many tubes when I fell asleep; I didn’t recall actually getting the tubes, but then again I was asleep.
"Where am I?” I whispered.
“You’re in ICU,” Mom explained.
“Oh,” I said, “then it must be Christmas today.”
Mom looked puzzled. “No, Christmas was three days ago. Don’t you remember?”
I didn’t remember; I had only closed my eyes for a few brief moments, and the next thing I knew Christmas was three days ago. I was later told that I had visitors on Christmas Day, talked to my sister on the telephone, and even said Merry Christmas. I had no recollection of these events; for me, Christmas Day had been lost and forgotten somewhere between late Christmas Eve and three days later.
To this day, I have no memory of Christmas Day 2003; it’s been erased. Of course, I have the stories from others regarding how sick I was, what procedures were done, and how Christmas was forgotten among the frenzy of keeping me alive. It bothers me a little that I missed Christmas Day 2003, but this forgotten Christmas causes me to think about one particular character in the Christmas story—the innkeeper.
In Luke 2, it is noted that while in Bethlehem Mary gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in clothes and placed him in a manger because there was no guest room available for them. Oftentimes, contemporary renditions of this story will have an innkeeper shouting “There’s no room for you here” and slamming the door.
I can’t help but think of a few questions: did the innkeeper forget about the young expectant girl on his door step, did the innkeeper ever wonder if the young couple found proper shelter, or did the innkeeper ever consider that this relatively forgettable girl was going to bring an unforgettable gift to the world? I don’t know.
Like the innkeeper, the True Reason for Christmas can be forgotten among the bustle of holiday activities. But remember Christ came to give something unforgettable—salvation to a world who continually forgets Him. Remember the Reason for the Season, and don’t be left with a forgotten Christmas!
Carma’s Corner: Blast from the Past—Frog Come
“No! No frog come,” I screamed and squirmed. I slowly propelled my trike in the opposite direction-away from the pursuant of the frog. I glanced over my shoulder; the frog was gaining at rabbit speed, and I pleaded all the louder “No frog come! No frog come!”
“Frog come! Frog come,” my older brother teased, shoving the frog inches away from my face with each taunt. At twenty-five, he knew that any green, slimy, and jumpy creature was bound to elicit screams and squirms from his little sister, especially when he chased her with frog in hand. He was right.
“No, no,” I protested, shoving my trike forward. At four years old, I didn’t see any enchantment in frogs; I didn’t believe one kiss would break the spell and turn the ugly critter into a dashing prince. If it was green, cold, and jumpy, it was not my friend; it was not meant to be anywhere near me, and it certainly didn’t have any hopes of becoming a knight in shining armor.
Once again, I looked over my shoulder to find my brother’s hands empty. “Wh-where did the frog go?” I asked.
“Looks like the frog got away,” my brother said. I signed; I had escaped the frog invasion unscathed. As I grew up, the frogs would periodically appear, and I would scream and squirm with each hopping reptile. But over the years I began noticing two significant rules to the game: the frog never reached his individual to torment, and the frog always got away before any ounce of genuine fear set in.
I can now look on the “frog come” game with fondness, although at the time the game was threatening. I still can testify that “frog come” still occurs, especially around Christmas. The frogs don’t come breathing, croaking, and tongue flicking; no, the frogs are specially wrapped and planted under the Christmas tree with tags that read: TO: CARMA, FROM: RANDY and TO: RANDY, FROM: CARMA.
The frogs now come as lawn ornaments, garden décor, plush toys, and even figurines. Some of the frogs dance and sing while others have buggy eyes and large scales; some of the frogs just sit like a bump on a log.I don’t mind frogs so much anymore; I dare say I like them, although I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t scream and squirm if a live frog happened to hop on my lap.
I once heard that the word frog could be an acronym for Fully Relying On God (F.R.O.G.). Without fully relying on God, my life would be meaningless; my disability would be unbearable, and my faith would be pointless. But full reliance on God didn’t become a reality until God’s own Son had to have full reliance when He was sent to earth as a babe.
Jesus was sent from heaven, from glory, from perfection to imperfection. Jesus didn’t come as a grown man who was going to save the world with one sweep of His hand. He came as a baby in human form; He grew into a child, adolescent, and adult. He experienced temptations and found His full reliance on God to be His greatest comfort while on earth.
If Jesus wasn’t willing to fully rely on God and come to earth, F.R.O.G wouldn’t have come.I’m fairly confident that “frog come” on the first Christmas too. F.R.O.G came to Mary; F.R.O.G came to Joseph, and Jesus was bringing F.R.O.G to the world for generations to come.
Somehow… my brother must have known that I would need extra ounces of F.R.O.G. in my life!
“Frog come! Frog come,” my older brother teased, shoving the frog inches away from my face with each taunt. At twenty-five, he knew that any green, slimy, and jumpy creature was bound to elicit screams and squirms from his little sister, especially when he chased her with frog in hand. He was right.
“No, no,” I protested, shoving my trike forward. At four years old, I didn’t see any enchantment in frogs; I didn’t believe one kiss would break the spell and turn the ugly critter into a dashing prince. If it was green, cold, and jumpy, it was not my friend; it was not meant to be anywhere near me, and it certainly didn’t have any hopes of becoming a knight in shining armor.
Once again, I looked over my shoulder to find my brother’s hands empty. “Wh-where did the frog go?” I asked.
“Looks like the frog got away,” my brother said. I signed; I had escaped the frog invasion unscathed. As I grew up, the frogs would periodically appear, and I would scream and squirm with each hopping reptile. But over the years I began noticing two significant rules to the game: the frog never reached his individual to torment, and the frog always got away before any ounce of genuine fear set in.
I can now look on the “frog come” game with fondness, although at the time the game was threatening. I still can testify that “frog come” still occurs, especially around Christmas. The frogs don’t come breathing, croaking, and tongue flicking; no, the frogs are specially wrapped and planted under the Christmas tree with tags that read: TO: CARMA, FROM: RANDY and TO: RANDY, FROM: CARMA.
The frogs now come as lawn ornaments, garden décor, plush toys, and even figurines. Some of the frogs dance and sing while others have buggy eyes and large scales; some of the frogs just sit like a bump on a log.I don’t mind frogs so much anymore; I dare say I like them, although I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t scream and squirm if a live frog happened to hop on my lap.
I once heard that the word frog could be an acronym for Fully Relying On God (F.R.O.G.). Without fully relying on God, my life would be meaningless; my disability would be unbearable, and my faith would be pointless. But full reliance on God didn’t become a reality until God’s own Son had to have full reliance when He was sent to earth as a babe.
Jesus was sent from heaven, from glory, from perfection to imperfection. Jesus didn’t come as a grown man who was going to save the world with one sweep of His hand. He came as a baby in human form; He grew into a child, adolescent, and adult. He experienced temptations and found His full reliance on God to be His greatest comfort while on earth.
If Jesus wasn’t willing to fully rely on God and come to earth, F.R.O.G wouldn’t have come.I’m fairly confident that “frog come” on the first Christmas too. F.R.O.G came to Mary; F.R.O.G came to Joseph, and Jesus was bringing F.R.O.G to the world for generations to come.
Somehow… my brother must have known that I would need extra ounces of F.R.O.G. in my life!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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!
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!
Monday, October 25, 2010
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!!
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!!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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.”
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.”
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