Christmas Eve 1954

I have decided to write a biography of my grandmother, Florence. What follows will likely become the Epilogue of the book (or perhaps the Prologue). I did not write this piece, but for me it embodies so much of what I am learning about my grandmother.

The author of today's guest post is my mother, Kristine, a rather amazing woman in her own right.

Christmas Eve 1953

"We're inviting a new couple in the neighborhood over for Christmas Eve, and we told them to have something for the program." These words in a letter from my brother a few years ago reminded me just what  Christmas Eve had come to mean to our family, and it brought back memories, too, of the influence behind those evenings.

Mother decided long ago that Christmas Day should be enjoyable and relaxing for her as well as the rest of us. So the traditional Christmas dinner with all its time-consuming work went out, to be replaced by what we simply called "Christmas Eve." Preparations actually began the day after Thanksgiving when the fruitcakes were baked and set in the basement to age. The week before Christmas, Dad made root beer and we kids capped the bottles. Candy was made somewhere along the way, and on the afternoon of Christmas Eve the ham went in the oven. After the traditional service at the church, we came back to the house along with relatives and one or two other families whom the folks always invited. After the meal came the impromptu program. I managed a piano solo. There would be poems, songs, maybe a story or two, and my slightly wacky aunt and uncle would always come up with something that would leave our sides aching from laughter. We ended with Christmas carols, and I was sure each year as I went to bed that it had been absolutely the best Christmas Eve ever.

Florence and Kristine

I suppose the one that I'll always particularly remember is the Christmas Eve of 1954, simply because we did spend it just as we had spent all the others. In May of that year Mother went into surgery for what proved to be a malignant brain tumor. The doctors took out what they could, but they couldn't get it all. For a few months after the operation she was much the same as she had always been. By the time school started, though, her arm and leg were becoming paralyzed--a consequence of the growing tumor--and she was spending most of her time in bed. Mother knew, of course, what was happening, though she never said much about it.

She called me to her room one afternoon in early November. She had just ordered Dad an electric shaver for Christmas. The store would call sometime in December, she said, and I was to go down and pick it up. She had asked Dad to get a record player for two of the younger kids, but since, as she said, he had a tendency to be a little forgetful, I was to remind him about it.

Two days before Thanksgiving she went into a coma, and four days later she died.

A day or so after the funeral, one of my brothers asked Dad if we would have Christmas Eve like always. Dad said we would. I personally thought he was out of his mind but went along with the plans anyway. Someone had made the fruitcakes, probably one of my aunts. Dad helped us with the root beer, and the ham was bought. The afternoon of Christmas Eve I got a call asking if we still wanted the electric shaver. I had completely forgotten about it. Dad had done a little better and remembered the record player.

Christmas Eve was more subdued that year, but it was lovely. There was a void, of course, but also an extra closeness that I don't think we've had any other time. We had only relatives that year, but people were dropping by all evening just to leave "a little something" for the kids. The living room was overflowing, and we were all a little overwhelmed. We'd finished singing carols and everyone had gone home, when I noticed a huge package in back of the tree and asked Dad who "that monstrosity" was for. He just laughed, but next morning a note was taped to the package saying, "Kris, this monstrosity is for you." Mother, remembering that I would be leaving for college the next fall, had told Dad to get me some luggage. She had seen that we were all taken care of. I don't remember what everyone got, but my sister and I still have pillowcases with tatted edges that she had asked a lady in town to do.

We've all left home now, and it's rare that we get together at Christmas time. But "Christmas Eve" still happens in our individual homes. There are variations: my brother and his family go out Christmas caroling--a tradition from his wife's family--and I've given up on fruitcakes which none of my family likes and now bake Christmas cookies which I don't like. We all, though, make it a point to invite someone over, just as Mother always did.

The Christmas of 1954 will always stand out in my mind, and the memory of what Mother did for us that year gives special meaning to the scripture: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these...ye have done it unto me."

The Gardener

For me, the most powerful image of Easter is an intimate garden scene. The crosses that towered on Golgotha under threatening skies two days before stand empty now, though the memory of blood and agony casts a shadow over flowers opening in the early morning sun. Mary stands outside the empty tomb, weeping, puzzled at the words of the angels, who proclaim, "He is risen." Her hands, carrying spices to anoint the body of her master, fall useless to her side. She does not understand, can only wonder while she lets the tears flow.

Turning, she sees a man standing before her. Perhaps tears cloud her vision. In her distraction, she sees only a gardener. "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away."

"Mary."

Just one word turns anguish to joy, despair to hope. For Mary, for the world, light has pierced the darkness. No angel choirs herald the event. No cheering crowds shout hosannas. One woman kneels at the Savior's feet in awe and joy and whispers, "Rabboni."

I have not touched the scars on those feet, and I can scarcely imagine the tenderness of the exchange on that resurrection morning. And yet, I have sometimes felt the Savior call my name, His voice gently wiping away the tears and doubt. I have had no visions on the road to Damascus, just a multitude of answered prayers, of unexpected rainbows and slightly dusty angels bringing "I love you" notes from the master gardener.

No More Waiting

After three days of casually glancing out my front window at the mailbox every few minutes, I opened the mailbox this afternoon to find a beautiful white envelope addressed to Elder Devin. There followed a chaotic quarter of an hour devoted to setting up a conference call among Devin in Utah, those of us at home, Dad at work and little brother at his playdate.

The verdict? San Antonio, Texas mission, reporting July 27th. Devin will be the third generation of Texas missionaries in the family. Now the fun begins!

Waiting for the Call

My son called yesterday to say that his mission call is in the mail. In a few short days, a white envelope will arrive to tell us where Devin will spend the next two years of his life. I will, of course, resist the powerful temptation to steam open the envelope, only to fake surprise later when we open the call together as a family. The transformative process leading up to this mission call has been powerful, and this is Devin's door to open.

In a way, I envy my son the certainty of a calling. It has been some time since I could claim any certainty about my "mission in life." When hiking, I relish the opportunity to wander aimlessly for a while, admiring the flowers and the view along the way. In life, however, aimless wandering soon leaves me restless, searching for the magnetic pull of a purpose. Amory Blaine, whose coming of age Fitzgerald chronicles in This Side of Paradise, reaches the far side of a period of disillusionment to discover a general sense of his purpose. The narrator explains:

"He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and would always want--not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable."

I learned long ago that no one is indispensable. However, that desire to be necessary resonates with me. For me, the need goes a bit further. I want to be necessary to people, but also to God. I crave the feeling that the universe somehow needs me. I like the idea of the interconnectedness of life. For instance, it's pretty nifty that for one in every five breaths I take I owe a debt of gratitude to Prochlorococcus, an oceanic microbe that no one even knew existed until 1986. More powerful is the philosophy that all human experience is intertwined: the present linked to the past and the future, individual lives all dependent on the weaving that binds disparate threads into complex patterns.

Still, demanding soul that I am, I want more. I want to know specifically how I can lift my corner of the universe. Long ago, I pledged to consecrate all that I am and have to God. It's a lofty pledge, noble...and sometimes rather vague. I find myself looking for a blueprint. Even a scrap of paper with a quick note will do, like the ones I tack on the fridge for my own children. "Dear daughter, I need you to spiff up that tiny spot in the corner over there. Use that cleaning bucket of talents I gave you--the blue one this time--and make it sparkle."

For whatever reason, God seems generally loath to hand out the task and the tools at the same time. Either he gives us a task and leaves us to figure out a plan of attack, or he helps us find our set of tools and talents and then leaves us to figure out a use for them.

Today I pondered this notion of consecration. I have found that when I give in to impatience and try to design my own calling, I invariably spin my wheels. I gain greater traction when I throw my effort into finding and developing my talents, sharpening the tools. If I listen hard and exercise what little patience I possess, eventually something nudges me down the right path. Perhaps the trick to consecration, then, sometimes rests in consecrating the desire to serve. Perhaps if I do that and stop obsessively checking my cosmic mailbox every day for a call, I will in time find myself serving in meaningful ways.

Falling in Love

I have fallen in love once again, this time compliments of my, um, electronic book reader. I refrain from naming the brand, since I haven't fallen in love with any particular features of the device but rather with the library I now carry in my purse. My psyche craves prose, and I have periodically neglected to feed the addiction, a sin of omission that always manages to set me just a bit off kilter and leave me yearning.

In the months since Christmas I have wandered the tunnels underneath Washington D.C. with Dan Brown in The Lost Symbol (a disappointment, I must confess) and followed the Count of Monte Cristo along his path of revenge and redemption (much more satisfying). I found Elizabeth Von Arnin's The Enchanted April simply delicious and Ruth Riechl's autobiography (Tender at the Bone) surprisingly intriguing. David Baldacci kept me turning pages, as he always does, and I sauntered through an unusual juxtaposition of Mark Twain's social commentary and Elizabeth Gilbert's introspective Eat, Pray, Love.

Then, in a nod to the literary studies of my college days, I opened F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise. The other authors gave me much to entertain and even to ponder, but I feast on Fitzgerald as if savoring my first truly satisfying meal after days of snacking on crackers and cheese. I read with a journal at my side and find myself forming essays in my head comparing the sentimental to the romantic or analyzing the development of Amory's character through the mirror of his relationships.

I promise to spare you the bulk of the literary analysis. Suffice it to say that, for me, literature fills an essential block in the food pyramid. "I have to have a soul," says Fitzgerald's Amory. "I can't be rational--and I won't be molecular." While I have my rational moments, now and again, I also have to have a soul. And that soul needs a steady diet of literature, nature, the full spectrum of emotions, a healthy dose of the spiritual, and moments of peace to write and reflect and pull it all together.

Corrective Lenses

While studying the other day, I chanced across the following scripture in the Book of Mormon: "But a seer can know of things which are past, and also of things which are to come, and by them shall all things be revealed, or, rather, shall secret things be made manifest, ... and also things shall be made known by them which otherwise could not be known." (Mosiah 8:17, bold added for clarification)

I have always assumed that "them" in the scripture refers to "seer," and that is probably correct. Grammatically, however, "them" more logically refers to "things which are past" and "things which are to come." Now that set me to musing. Given the seer's role in correctly interpreting the past and future, I don't think my musings are entirely inappropriate. That said, with all due apologies to seers living and dead, I'm not going to chat much about them today. Instead, I have been thinking in more basic and personal terms about the importance of viewing the present through the corrective lenses of the past and the future.

A talk in the LDS General Conference this past weekend reminded me of the story of Aron Ralston. The movie 127 Hours, released last fall, brought Ralston's story to prominence again, seven years after the hiker saved himself by amputating his own arm while solo hiking in a remote canyon in Utah. I knew the general story but had not heard Ralston's account of a vision that he credits with giving him the motivation to proceed with his nearly impossible task. Dying of starvation and thirst, his arm pinned under an 800 pound boulder for five days, Ralston carved his epitaph into the rock, filmed his last words to his family and waited to die. Delirious with the ordeal by this point, he describes the scene:

"I was at peace with the idea of me dying. But then I saw this vision of this little boy and it shifted me, it gave me hope to get out because this is my future son, I could see me interacting with him without my hand at some point many years down the road and I realised if I’m going to have that son then I have to get out of here, I WILL get out of here, it got me through that last night..." (quoted from an interview in 2010)

Aron Ralston's vision of things which are to come changed his view of his present circumstances, pushed him beyond his own natural capabilities. We may never have to saw away at our own arms to save our lives, but we do have opportunities in life to endure daunting trials, or even to relinquish an arm of sin, if you will. Our vision of the future, be it an eternity with loved ones or a more immediate promise of desired blessings, can give us the perspective shift we need to press forward.

Likewise, a thoughtful examination of the past (in contrast with an obsessive dwelling on remembered offenses or triumphs) can also unearth hidden pearls of wisdom applicable to present trials or conundrums. Some time ago, I received what felt like an inspiration or a premonition. It was an odd premonition, and my first inclination led me to discount it. But the feeling persisted, forcing my closer examination. I remembered other instances of inspiration and began to recognize a pattern in how the Lord communicates with me. Those patterns of the past teach me how to respond when the Lord presents me with puzzle pieces, and they guide my hand as I work to find the picture in the pieces.

True to lessons learned in high school English and popular culture, I subscribe to the philosophy of carpe diem.We do need to focus on today and live our present as wisely and as richly as possible. At the same time, our past and our future make that possible, strengthening our hand as we strive to seize the moment for all its glory.