Monday, December 21, 2009

A Great Christmas Story

I do not have a great Christmas story to tell. Every year when the newspaper asks for stories, I want to write one, but I'd have to make a tear-jerker up. I didn't grow up in the Depression, just hoping to get one orange. My mother never spent weeks knitting me an ugly sweater that taught me the true meaning of Christmas.

There was the year I decided there really must be a Santa Claus because I got a talking doll, and I knew things were tough that year because my youngest sister had just been born and my oldest sister was about to get married.

But that's the whole story.

There was also a time when I had a dream on Christmas Eve that my present came out of the fireplace rather than down the chimney--and it was just a woman's high-heeled shoe.

But the next morning, everything was as magically sparkly as always, and a new doll in a buggy awaited me in the living room as usual.

The only true Christmas story I could really tell would be one of consistency. Despite my parents' various economic struggles, every Christmas was pretty much the same. There was always a new doll and a game--or something equivalent. The stockings were always filled with candy and nuts, with an orange in the toe.

Maybe the fact that one Christmas was pretty much like the others IS the great story. In my childhood, Christmas magic could be counted on, year after year.

It is easy for me to see springtime as symbolic of the Resurrection as the flowers grow, the earth thaws, and trees come back to life. I appreciate the natural reminder that there's always another chance for a new start.

But, until I heard the great talk given at church yesterday by one of my neighbors, I didn't realize as well as I do now how snow on a green tree points directly to Jesus and his mission. The whiteness of snow--quite possibly the whitest thing I have ever seen, mercifully covering the leaves we missed raking, the weeds we never got around to pulling. Under snow, our yard looks as good as everyone else's. It's the great winter equalizer.

Snow covers everything indiscriminately, making everything look pure and beautiful. Snow and rain wash the earth, shape and form it--just like the atonement and repentance purify and shape lives. Trees especially look beautiful under snow--both evergreen trees and others. Looking at trees, I think about eternal life, wood, the cross. Snow and trees. If anything around here speaks of sameness in winter, it's snow.

I joke that I'll give each winter 100 days, and then it had better be gone. This is how I cope. That midwinter can be a reminder of the Savior too has somehow escaped me before. But in the bleak moments of life, Christ is what is solid. Christ is what purifies. Christ's sacrifice makes waiting out trials worth it. All can seem dead, but there is beauty even in the stillness. In the seemingly empty winter world, there is still the stuff of purification, of life.

Christina Rossetti's poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter," which is actually a Christmas carol, says, ". . .water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter long ago."

Sameness. Christmas. Life, death. Over and over. New chances to do it again, to do it better. Christmas miracles. No story here, just reflection.

There is something about sameness, even the sameness of winter days, that you can trust. Being able to trust in Christmas and all it means--what greater story can there be?

Friday, December 4, 2009

Be Sure to Lock Up, Princess

I remember having homework in seventh grade. Maybe occasionally in fifth--when we were making maps. But certainly not before that. Yet, my oldest child had so much homework in kindergarten that I could hardly get it done.

I was a single parent then, and, by the time we got home from the day care center after work, we had exactly one hour until the younger child's bedtime. One hour in which to fix dinner, eat, bathe two kids, and put one of them to bed (with lullabies). The older child--not much older, needed to go to bed a half hour later, so the constant flow of homework--the kind he couldn't do by himself--was a problem. Finally, in frustration, I wrote a note to his teacher, explaining that I had already done seventeen years of schoolwork by then and really didn't need any more.

Things have only gotten worse. Not only does my current kindergartener have homework, I had to join a website so I can download it!

My second-grader's teacher explained it to me at parent-teacher conference. It's not her fault: the parents demand it. This is amazing to me. According to this, parents in my neighborhood do not want to spend any time with their children. Their focus is on Ivy League colleges or something. By puberty.

This teacher actually sent home a letter to parents before Thanksgiving break stating that there would be no "extra" homework for the three days off and suggesting politely that a nice family activity could be found.

I look at it this way. An elementary-school-aged child already spends 6.5 hours a day in school. That's almost as long as a full-time job. And they're children!

I have fond memories of how I spent my time after school: playing dolls with Kathryn in her spacious, only-girl-in-the-family bedroom. Bonding with my siblings over Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch amidst chair-saving and other power plays. Playing jacks on the cement front porch until the edge of my right hand was black.

All four of my elementary-school-aged children have homework, but my fifth-grader's load is ridiculous. Frequently, I have to stop myself from asking her to set the table, because she is slaving feverishly over homework and is miles from done. If I ask her to practice piano, she gives me a pained look. Reflected in her eyes is her teacher, a woman who gives assignments requiring public library books the night before they are due, requires AP format, and deflects any discussion by blaming the child.

We walk around avoiding this family member, not daring to include her in our conversations. There is no such thing as play for her. Not on a school night. Meals and baths are rushed to the point they are almost unrecognizable.

Increasingly, I find my life revolving around her homework load. Some nights, I cannot even get my own things done.

Recently, although she was crazy-busy from the time she got home and barely ate dinner, my fifth-grader had to stay up an hour-and-a-half past her bedtime in order to get her homework done. One hour-and-a-half past her bedtime is one hour-and-a-quarter past my bedtime. I'm a state employee in Utah.

A fifth-grader is too young to be the last one in the family to go to bed.

I put in twenty-one years of school myself. By the time my baby graduates, I guess I'll have completed, let's see, 112th grade.

My daughter doesn't complain about her homework load. She likes her teacher. I asked her why she had so much to do--maybe she hadn't done much at school? She showed me a list a page long of her assignments for that day. She had done a third of them at school. When had they been assigned? Half of them were daily assignments, she said. Several had been assigned that day.

So this was the point at which I sat down to type my second can-we-get-the-homework-under-control letter to a teacher. I flattered her at first--what an excellent teacher she must be with so much to share, how highly she must value a good education. But can we wait past fifth grade for the college-level stress?

A healthy life requires balance. For children, an all-schoolwork week is not balanced. I say thirty hours a week of school is enough. I trustingly send my children off to their teachers for more than half of their waking hours, and I hardly ever interfere with the teachers' time. Selfishly, I would like some of my children's time at home to be my time.

And some of the time should be their time.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Deadly Chess Game

One stupid move can kill you.

We don't like to believe that, but it's true.

I've known since I turned up as a little kid in a large family that I don't think like everyone else. Shy and observant by nature, I spent a lot of time, even then, watching people and drawing conclusions. Even the Myers-Briggs personality testing says I'm an INFJ, which is rare.

The I and the J are the most significant. What they mean, in an nutshell, is that I am introverted rather than extroverted and that I form judgments easily--that is, I tend to think everyone should play by the rules. (I'm really working on making the judging a positive rather than a negative thing.) As far as being introverted, I am no longer so shy that I cannot function in society, so, well, I like it. I don't need as much external stimulation. I make my own amusement. Heck, if I had twelve months of solitude, I could finally get the six books in my head out.

I rarely turn on a TV or a radio. I just don't think about it. I do read newspapers and whatever else amuses me, and I spend a lot of time with the information in my head. I love people and have a long list of those I love to spend time with, but I am also content with my own company.

I realize many people need more stuff going on to keep them from being bored, and I'm cool with that. But, in defense of introverts, I am glad that I don't need the Jazz to win in order to be happy. I am less likely to become depressed over an outside event over which I have no control. A nice way to put this that my extroverted husband came up with is to think of myself as an emotional mammal, as opposed to an emotional lizard: I create my own warmth and don't need to be out sunning myself on the rock.

So, while I'm thinking my thoughts that not everyone else thinks, I find myself wondering about thrill-seeking people who end up dead. Perfectly nice, promising, talented people making stupid moves that cost them--and others--dearly. Not that I don't make stupid moves, too. I do on a daily basis, but they are usually closer to home and less likely to be lethal.

It seems like there are constant news stories of people going out to Mount Hood and getting stuck in the snow, for example. It's great that there are rescue teams, but I always think about the misery of the rescuers, too, as they go out to the same dangerous or cold location and risk their own lives. Rescue missions are expensive. Some involve over 100 rescuers and thousands of man hours. At an estimate of $20 an hour, that would cost more than I paid for my first house. But thrill-seeking humans don't seem to think about that. They hike or crawl or drive or ski out to a place of no return, and it takes a lot of others to follow them and bring them back.

There are news stories about these individuals at least once a week, yet I've never heard anyone speak up and say, "Hey! What are we doing?" So I'm sticking my neck out and saying it. Am I the only one who thinks doing dangerous things or getting stuck out in the wilderness is nuts?

By kindergarten, we're told not to go farther than we can find their way back, not to accept rides or candy from strangers, to stay put when lost, to wear a helmet, to stuck to our buddy and not wander off alone. By the time we're adults, we have heard all the rules like not swimming during a lightening storm, not hiking alone, not using electricity in the water, not driving drunk, being prepared before we set out. We've all heard of people who have died in accidents.

Yet, something in us seems to resist these warnings. We don't think they apply to us, in this situation. Or something. But why wouldn't they? When they said, "Never do. . ." they meant, well, never. Maybe as we grow up, we gain too much confidence in our abilities, or in our good luck. I think it's great to stretch ourselves to find our limits, but then we need to accept our limits when we find them. I had a yes-you-are-too-mortal wake-up call this fall, so I know.

Maybe some high schools didn't require enough reading of Jack London stories in high school. There's a reason humans went from living in caves to building houses. There's a reason we learned to grow and store food rather than chancing it all winter, that we have constantly improved our technology to make things easier for us. The civilizations we have created protect us from the elements and other dangers. Houses are safer than cliffs.

I am always sad to read these stories. I think not only of the person who suffered the tragedy, but the people he or she left behind to suffer in their absence. Except for people who were minding their own business in their homes when a tornado, flood, or out-of-control vehicle came and crashed into their world, the tragedies usually seem to have been preventable. If people would follow the rules.

A decision to ignore a rule usually turns out to be one insignificant moment in time, but should we count on that? It can also leave a young woman a widow on Thanksgiving Day, a toddler with no father for the rest of her life. Is a thrill worth that risk? What am I missing?

The use of the word "tragedy" in these situations reminds me of my college days when I studied classical literature. A tragedy, as opposed to a comedy, was a story in which the hero had a "tragic flaw." Something--pride, greed, ambition--in the personality or mind of the person led him to his inevitable, horrible end. The plays and stories were intended to show that following a tragic flaw, instead of the rules of society that keep people safe and in line, would destroy you.

Going out to challenge the wilderness just doesn't appeal to me. I have no doubt it would win. But what I really don't like is when people ignore obvious rules and then blame God for the outcome. I do believe that sometimes He will step in to help us. But not every time. He gave us our free agency, but He also gave us our brains. I believe, in my humble opinion as a nobody, that if we create a huge problem while making bad decisions, the consequences of that are on our own heads. I cannot imagine a world where God would step in every single time we are about to be foolish and stop us. How would we ever mature past the age of fourteen months?

Some people are fatalists. They believe that, no matter what they do, they won't die if it isn't their "time to die." And that when it is their time, they could be sitting in the chair with a safety belt and a helmet on watching TV and it would still happen. I would love to find out--so if you're walking in old tennis shoes along the edge of a really narrow, high cliff, and you decide to close your eyes as you walk, it's God's fault when you slip? What if you somehow did survive a stupid decision? Would God have to come up with something else in order to kill you at that time?

So He allows us to be stupid if we want to. But I think if I showed up on His doorstep after riding a motorcycle without a helmet, for example, He would ask me what I'm doing there. I think He would show me the tears of my grieving children and I would have to weigh that burden against the reason I chose to be stupid. I don't think Death by Stupid Decision equals one's "time to go." I think it is more accurately describes an untimely death, a waste, a tragedy, even, perhaps, a sin.

I think God would ask me why I exchanged my life for a thrill, why I didn't play it safe enough to stick around so He could use me to do some good in the world. That puts a whole new meaning into hiding one's talent in the earth.

We are involved in a real live chess game. Our choices do impact our fate. The dark queen almost certainly will take your queen if you put it in the wrong place at the wrong time.