Looking past the picture

One of the frequent criticisms of social media is how perfect and flawless everyone makes their lives look, and how that portrayal can cause serious anxiety and stress if your own life doesn't match up.

My family has often joked that I don't know any short stories, but for a long time now, I've enjoyed using social media to tell the story, citing that I saved 1000 words by just posting a picture. But a picture doesn't tell the entire story, so forgive me for going back to my long-winded ways. It's the only way you'll know the story behind this year's Christmas tree photo.

We are using the current tree for the 13th year in a row. Last year, as the joints got weaker and the artificial tree was shedding more and more needles, it was beginning to look ragged. The pre-lit lights were a thing of the past, as they stopped working around year 2 or 3, but the tree was perfectly good, so we would use our own strands of lights. We decided last year when we took it down, that we would try to get one more season out of it, so I decided that I would like to flock the tree to give it a little more bulk and hide the bare spots that had shed needles.

Pinterest and YouTube to the rescue. After reading several articles about how easy it was to flock a tree, and watching video demonstrations, I chose the product and rolled up my shirt sleeves. The articles suggested that it was a job best done outdoors, but with unpredictable weather in Ohio, I opted for the garage.

The procedure is fairly straightforward. You mist the sections of your tree with plain tap water, sift the white flocking powder onto the tree, and then mist again to set the powder.

All while sporting a Martha-Stewart-esque smirk of what a good thing it is.

About three weeks ago, I commandeered our garage, drop cloth in tow and started to flock the tree. Soon, the garage was filled with a fine white mist, making the space look like a haunted house fog machine. Then I understood why the instructions suggested that I should probably be wearing goggles and a dust mask.

As I set the flocking to the branches, it did indeed stick pretty well. To everything. Including the soles of my shoes, about 1/4 thick of white paste-y goop on them. Nevertheless, I was committed at this point. Section by section, I flocked and made junior high jokes, about what a flocking mess it was, and what the flock, etc. Finally, I was finished. The instructions recommended that I let the tree dry at least 24 hours, I opted for 48, determined not to haul the mess into the house. Hubby was unhappy enough with the garage mess in his man-space. Forty-eight hours later, again with a determination to contain the mess outside the house, I took the leaf blower to the sections, hoping to blow off any loose flocking. (that wasn't part of the instructions).

Satisfied that all the loose flock was gone, I carried the sections into a spare bedroom until I was ready to decorate the tree. There the sections lounged in their snow simulated glory until Friday, for the day after Thanksgiving decorating.

It was as if Jack Frost took a page from Hansel & Gretel and left a trail of flock as I carried the sections to the living room. As I assembled the tree, I started to cough and wheeze and remembered the dust mask. Every time we touched a branch, our living room simulated a snow globe. We realized that putting a lot of lights on the tree would probably create 8-10 inches of living room snow, so we opted for a handful of big LED lights.

My husband brought the shop vacuum in the house trying to keep up with the indoor blizzard but as the exhaust from the shop vacuum hit the tree, more snow flew as he was cleaning up the initial flurry.

Our junior high flock jokes stopped being funny and we possibly mispronounced flock, substituting a "U" for the "LO". Cursing and sweating, coughing and wheezing, and trying to contain the mess, I resembled a "Before" image for a Head & Shoulders dandruff control advertisement.

If you've read this far, I appreciate your dedication to the whole story as much as I was dedicated to finishing what I started. At one point, I almost ran out and bought the new tree, but sometimes you are so far into an adventure, that you must stay the course.

I do like the way our tree looks and I am grateful that we no longer have a dog to brush by the tree with every prancing footstep. It's a perfect storm waiting to happen.

I will never again flock the halls, the tree, or any other part of our decorations. The irony when you really step back? We get so caught up in appearances that it's easy to forget that there probably wasn't a whole lot of snow the first year in Bethlehem, and there certainly weren't baubles and beads hanging off tree branches.

Instead, was something more precious and beautiful than all the gold, frankincense, and myrrh in the world.

Instead, there was a promise.

"When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy." ~Matthew 2:10.

Wisdom from the past

I've been thinking about my Grandma Ree today, my grandmother on my mom's side.  Today is her birthday, 5 days before mine. She was born 105 years ago, in 1914.

When I was a little girl, I used to go and spend the week of Easter Break with her. Grandma was a devout Catholic, and every day we would go to the Stations of the Cross and say the Rosary. But we also would make cookies and play cards and visit.

Grandma Ree was always a widow in my eyes. My grandfather died before I was born, and she was this strong, fiercely opinionated woman who did everything she could for the people around her.

When I was about 6, she moved with my Uncle and his family to Texas, when he had a job opportunity. After that, we didn't have our Easters together anymore, but she would come up every summer for a month and about every other Christmas. And like a good granddaughter, I took up my rosary beads during those times, and she took up Ouija Board games with me.

We always called her "The Yellow Rose of Texas", because, within a few years of moving to Texas, my uncle and his family moved back, but Grandma stayed. She had made quite a life for herself in Arlington. She worked as a housekeeper and nanny for several members of the 1970s Texas Rangers baseball team, including relief pitcher Sparky Lyle and third baseman Buddy Bell. We had so much stuff that they'd autograph for us. I wish I had realized the value to future collectors. In the day, we just shrugged.

Anyway, over the weekend, I was cleaning (something I've been doing a lot more of these days for some reason) and discovered a perfectly formed letter that she sent me on my 14th birthday.

It was right after my parents divorced and from a distance, she sensed my struggles and would send me the most heartfelt letters.

Here is an excerpt from 1980 to her 14-year-old grandchild,

"Dear Kim, The events of these past few years have forced you to grow up much faster than I would have liked. You are now faced with new responsibilities. You have matured much this past year and I feel certain you are quite capable of handling whatever life hands out to you.

Learn to sift out the bad things and adhere to all that is good.

It is my sincere prayer that your character will be flawless, that your heart will be full of love for your fellowman, and that you find peace of heart...

(left out the part about going to church and saying the rosary...) 

Grandma is proud of all your past achievements and will be cheering you on to a brighter and more secure future.

Remember we all love you. Stay sweet and lovely always.

God Bless You, Grandma Ree"

I just want Grandma to know, I found her letter yesterday and I think her prayers were mostly answered. She was so wise. Thank you for all the love over the decades and happy birthday to our beautiful yellow rose of Texas.

We all love you, too, Grandma Ree.

The happiest day of my life

I'm looking forward to a special weekend.  Both our children now live out of state, but tonight they both are heading back to the homestead for the weekend for a special wedding.

I've come to increasingly appreciate those snippets in time when we are all together, because they become more rare with time. We gave our children wings. we must watch them fly.

But this weekend is special. A young lady, who I've known since she was 2, when her and her mom were in our preschool "Twos Class" at our church, is getting married. Just as becoming friends with a fellow mom was a milestone, seeing the first of our Twos Class marry is another milestone.

While I contemplate "I'm old", I simultaneously consider, "Wow, I've watched the generation grow up!".

In 2007, my grandmother was 94 years old. We had just relocated to a new home, less than a month prior. It was late October. I hadn't taken photos of the house, but hoped to have them in time for Christmas. Other scattered family members were in town to visit, so we had an impromptu reunion at her assisted living facility. It was an "Indian Summer" type of day. We sat outside in the sunshine, several generations visiting. My oldest was 12 years old and practicing her knitting, which I had taught her from the way Grandma had taught me.

Grandma was so delighted to see her great-granddaughter knitting. In fact, every moment of that afternoon was so delightful that her announcement at the end of our visit still resonates.

She said, "This is the happiest day of my life."

Say it again for the people in the back, At over 94 years old, having seen a lifetime of joy and sorrow, that moment, she confidently announced it. "This is the happiest day of my life."

I never have forgotten her words. They were spoken the last time I saw her alive. On her HAPPIEST DAY.

I've thought about that a lot since that day. I have no doubt that she had many happy days. I know she did. She had 4 children, a wonderful husband, and not so modestly speaking, terrific grandchildren. She was our matriarch and she was adored. She had celebrated births, weddings, and accolades. She lived an incredible life.

Yet, somehow, that particular day, she said, was "The Happiest Day of her Life."

Then I realized, she just grew happier. If you were not happy yesterday, you would be today. If you found a reason to be happy each day, it stands to reason, that each day would be the happiest day of your life.

Grow happy, increase joy, love your life.

Because if you're like my grandma, you can announce with sincerity, "This is the happiest day of my life."

I dedicate this post to my grandmother, Gertrude. She was amazing and I strive to live each day to be happy. I'll always miss you, Grandma. You are the queen. 

Is there an answer?

Today, I spent the day in an inner-city classroom teaching 4th-grade students the basics of entrepreneurship.

We discussed some local success stories, some youth success stories, and how with a good business plan, they also can grow up to be entrepreneurs. We even discussed that 4th grade isn't too early to start and I heard ideas for babysitting, lawn mowing, cookie baking, and dog walking. I was charmed by my single-digit aged students and their enthusiasm was contagious.

I also talked to a young person with an old soul and a story that we forget is commonplace once you leave the cloistered suburban life. The story is so compelling that I want you to hear it and think about it for a while. Consider what the days and nights are like for this person who is not even 10 years old.

During a classroom break, I asked her if she was looking forward to summer. My student said that she was not sure what summer would be like, but that she would be going back and forth between her mom and dad's house. I nodded and said, I know that can be tough, my parents divorced when I was just a little older than you are.

She nodded and must have felt at ease with me because I heard a story that shocked me, but I just listened. She went on to tell me about a tremendous age difference between her parents. Her father is 25 years older than her mother. He had a stroke last year. And she said that she loves him because he does the best he can for her, but cannot do as much as he used to. She also said he has had trouble finding a job, not just due to the stroke, but also because he used to be in prison. She said that he beat a man with a baseball bat in a restaurant. I inhaled sharply upon hearing this but also didn't want to compromise her need to talk with my shock.

I asked her if she had any brothers or sisters and my well-spoken friend said she had several half-siblings. That her mom was expecting a baby in October, and then she said she hoped it would be better than her two-year-old sibling who was born at 24 weeks and spent months in the hospital.

I resisted the urge to fill in any blanks and took what she shared with me at face value. It was a stark reminder that we rarely know nor can we even begin to imagine the story behind the people we assume so much about so often. We assume that we know what the life of a student in an inner-city school is like. We assume we know solutions for families and how they should live. We assume far too much about people we know nothing about.

This is what I know. This young lady told me how she has a brother that she loves, even if she has not seen him since she was two. She said, "Because that's what family does." She told me that she loves her dad because he does his best. She said she hoped her mom's pregnancy was easier than her last one because that was scary.

As a writer who loves a good story, I wish I could have sat and talked all day with my new friend. I asked her if she ever wrote about what she saw and knew. She told me that she writes every day, and pulled out a torn spiral notebook sheet filled with tidy cursive writing filling all the lines. She had titled it, "The Story of Me".

I encouraged her to keep writing because when she was a famous entrepreneur, people would want to know her story and that some people may even want to know it before then. Like me.

And I realized, I want to tell her story. I want you to know the story of a quiet young lady, with a serious gaze and dark eyes. Just in case she gets too busy surviving to tell the world her story of an old soul. Old before her time, but filled with love and goodness.

Because we should never assume. Instead, let's hope. Let's wrap this young woman and hundreds like her around our nation in our collective optimism. But let's do more than hope.

Let's listen to their stories. Maybe, somewhere... there is an answer.