All week I’ll be thinking about what to get Carol for Valentine’s Day.
My friend Neil Warren, founder of eHarmony, says that you shouldn’t get the same old thing for the loved one in your life. You should show a little imagination. Forget the long-stemmed roses or the standard box of chocolates. Use your creativity.
About the only time I did that was when I forgot all about Valentine’s Day (sometimes we husbands forget, at our peril). At the eleventh hour, and I mean well past eleven o’clock, I scrambled through my bureau, hoping not to wake up Carol. There at the back of a drawer I found these pink heart-shaped Post-It notes. Never mind that Carol probably gave them to me three or four Valentine’s Days back.
Like a Christmas elf or the Easter bunny, I started writing every nice thought I could on the notes and then used them to create a path from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen. At the end of the trail I made another card that said it all: “I love you.”
“Wow, Dad,” said our son, Timothy, seeing the display the next morning.
“That was great, Dad,” said William, our older son.
“You remembered!” Carol said, giving me a kiss.
“Just barely,” I said under my breath.
I promise to be a little more organized this year, but here’s a comforting thought: the Holy Spirit grants all sorts of creativity to anyone trying to say “I love you.” My friend Neil is probably right. Do something different. Surprise your mate.
It was really rainy day and I wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on outside my window. I guess I was staring at the smaller window of the computer screen. Midday I had to go outside to meet someone for lunch. I took the elevator down and looked outside. Poring rain. And no umbrella.
If I’d only paid a little attention. If maybe I’d even checked the weather forecast before I left home. But no. Always in a hurry. Dashing here and there. Totally oblivious. I didn’t have an umbrella in my office. Didn’t have a raincoat. I could see myself turning up at the lunch meeting as wet as a drowned rat.
In our building in New York, Guideposts editorial offices are on the 22nd floor. And here I was down in the lobby, staring at rain. Florence is the lady at the desk in the lobby and I figured maybe she would have some suggestions. “Florence,” I asked here, “where is a place I can buy an umbrella?”
“Borrow mine,” she said.
“Don’t you need it?” I said.
“Not until 4:00 when I leave.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Of course.” She handed me the biggest, widest, sturdiest umbrella I’d ever seen. “Take it.”
I did. It was a Godsend. I arrived on time for my lunch meeting, perfectly dry. I didn’t even leave it at the restaurant (why are umbrellas so easy to leave behind?). I returned it to Florence with greatest appreciation.
Sometimes it is the kindnesses that you least expect that make for a perfect day – even if the weather is awful.
We were at a rock concert and I was asking myself, “Why are we supposed to stand when we pray?”
First of all, the question. At our church, sometimes we sit when we pray but often we’re expected to stand. That morning, when we did, I wondered if there was a reason for it. Did it help a person get in touch with God?
The question was still in the back of my mind at the rock concert. I have to confess the concert was Carol’s idea. The band is one of her favorites and they were playing at a theater ten blocks from us. How could we not go?
We were, of course, almost the oldest people there. The kids sitting next to us were college students. In fact, they’d driven all the way from Morgan State in Missouri. (Hi, Zach. Hi, Julie.)
The music was great, the band in top form. The audience was psyched, soon everyone was dancing in the aisles. By the second song, the crowd was on its feet. “Down in front,” I wanted to shout. Then I joined in. Standing up and doing my own 50-something version of a dance.
That’s when it hit me: We pray on our feet because it’s a way of celebration. Everyone stands up at church just the way these kids do at a rock concert because they’re grateful and full of joy. It’s a way of showing our enthusiasm.
“Great concert!” I told Zach and Janet. “Have a safe trip back.” It was a prayer I said on my feet.
I was reading a psalm on the way to work. Psalm 30. It’s got some great lines in it, one of my favorite, “weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”
I thought about how wonderful that was, that the tough stuff only lasts for a while.
My commute is on the New York subway and this day I actually had a seat on the A train. I could close my eyes and think about all the terrible stuff going on in the world – the devastation in Haiti, people out of work, a friend in the hospital – and remind myself: it doesn’t last forever. Joy comes in the morning.
I started to get into a pretty good mood, hopeful and at peace. I had to get off the train at 59th to change to the D train. I stepped into the car and took a seat, closing my eyes again. All at once I heard a strident voice calling out, “READ THE BIBLE!” “Oh, no,” I thought, “it’s the Bible lady.” She’s always pacing the cars, haranguing the passengers, yelling at everybody to read the Bible. I can’t begin to tell you how loud she is.
“I wish she’d shut up,” one of the passengers muttered.
I echoed the thought. (I know, I know, I had just been reading the Bible myself.) Then she started reading a passage I recognized. I settled down and listened to the words: “…weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.” All their sweetness came out and she was transformed in my eyes.
In some countries people throw out old pots and pans on New Year’s Eve to get ready for the new. In our neighborhood it was the “Second Annual Electronics Recycling Event.”
Who knew there was such a thing? Carol had spotted this one coming weeks in advance. An environmental group had commandeered a corner of the park for Saturday morning and we were invited to bring our gold, frankincense and myrrh…and all those electronic things in the house that we didn’t need anymore but couldn’t throw away.
There was that giant old computer screen and the tape player gathering dust on the shelf (who played tapes anyway?) and modems from before the days of wireless. We packed three boxes and two bags of stuff. I had no idea where it all came from. We even asked our neighbors if they had electronics to get rid of.
“Here let me take that,” said the guy at the park. I handed him a computer that had seemed modern at the millennium. How fast things aged.
I returned to the house feeling a little wistful. I like using things up until they wear out – my favorite jacket I bought at a church rummage sale 25 years ago – but you can’t do that with electronics. They become outdated long before they wear out. I wondered if the same thing was happening to me. Would I become outdated before I wore out?
Maybe not. As long as I recycled. It's good stewardship.
My least favorite task in the New Year? Taking down the Christmas tree.
Some people like to leave it up for weeks, admiring it, remembering the fun they had around it, letting it rain a torrent of dead needles on the rug until they finally cart it out.
Not me. I’d rather get rid of it as soon as possible, shelving Christmas for another 360-some days. Every once in a while I get a little sentimental, boxing up an old ornament, something the boys made in nursery school out of dyed noodles, yarn and glitter, or stumbling on the first glass ball we got when we were first married.
But then I get all efficient, unstringing the yards of lights and stars and dinosaurs (also from when the boys were young). This year, I did it in 45 minutes, dragging the tree off to the pile where it’ll get chopped up and recycled.
Still I came inside feeling a little sad, wishing maybe there was still a little of that old cheer left in the living room.
“You missed something,” Carol said. We looked to the rug where there was a little caroler dangling from a gold thread. I picked him up. Everything about him reminded me of the fun we’d had at the end of the year. Singing, celebrating, seeing old friends, being with family. I could still feel the glow inside without the tree.
“Let’s leave him on the piano for now,” I said. Just the right thing to prolong the season.
About the day after Christmas, or maybe a couple of days after that, Mom had us kids sit down and write thank-you notes. Oh, how we groaned. “But I don’t remember who Aunt Eleanor was!…But I’d never wear the scarf she sent me!…But I don’t know what to say!”
Nevertheless we learned to say something. And I confess the exercise was a good one. There was always something to be thankful for. As a parent, Carol and I put into practice the same rule for our kids. Before they went back to school, those thank-you notes had to be written. Make it honest. Say something specific. And if you feel like it, say something about what you did for Christmas.
I guess I’ve gotten so much into the habit of thank-you notes that by now I don’t really dread them. I actually – this is going to sound hopelessly dorky – look forward to them. Especially if I’m writing somebody who’s far away. It’s a chance to share our Christmas with them. A chance to remind them how much I miss them. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the writing I forget to even mention the gift.
“We had a wonderful Christmas with William and Tim at home. Carol made a great brisket for dinner, we saw a couple of movies, we sang a lot at church, Tim’s girlfriend made some chocolate truffles that are to die for and we went to the last Giants game at Giants stadium. It was a terrible game but a great time together…And by the way, thanks for the present.”
We went caroling last night. A group of 40, some from our choir, some who happened to see flyers we posted around town, some who just heard us sing and joined in. I have to admit, there was a moment when I wondered if it was really going to work. I mean, it seems a bit absurd to walk around this busy city, carrying crib sheets of carols, singing at the top of our lungs and think anybody will tolerate it.
But they do. More than that, people seem to like it. Neighbors opened windows and leaned out to hear. At the hardware store where we stood in front and sang a rowdy “Good King Wenceslas” and “We Three Kings,” I thought the owner and his employees were going to come out and tell us to move along. We were slowing business. On the contrary, he wanted to thank us. He even joined in.
We did a credible “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” an excellent “O Come All Ye Faithful” and a touching “Silent Night.” People called out for their favorites – everybody’s got one. We didn’t limit ourselves to carols, but included secular songs of the season like “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” and a spirited “Jingle Bell Rock.” One woman who joined us said, “You don’t mind me singing with you…I don’t go to church.” Of course we didn’t mind. The more the merrier.
What I realized is that singing brings people together and there’s no better music than Christmas music to sing. Everybody knows the tunes. Everybody can sing a verse or two. So wherever you are, in your car, in the mall doing some last-minute shopping, rushing through a crowded parking lot, wrapping up presents, baking cookies, sing out. No one will mind. Got a favorite carol? Sing it. It’s time to celebrate.
We did on the snowy, muddy, busy streets of New York. What a blast!
I put the candles in the window this weekend. For some reason I’d been resisting the approach of Christmas, as if I held off on putting out the advent calendar and the crèche or buying a Christmas tree, I might be allowed a few more days of Christmas shopping.
Then all of the sudden it hit me: Christmas would come whether I was ready or not! I had to buy something for my goddaughter and put it in the mail, and then there were all the relatives in California. I needed time to get something for them, wrap it and ship it out (I love ordering online, but I prefer to do the wrapping myself. As though my usual bad wrapping job makes it more personal…).
Friday coming home, I looked at our dark windows. “You need to get out the candles now,” I told myself. I took down the box from the top of the hall closet, tested the light bulbs, found the extension cords. When I turned those candles on there was something in me that said, “I’m ready.”
What I’m ready for is that rebirth of the spirit, that welcoming of God, that is at the center of this wonderful, crazy, busy, hectic season. I’m opening myself up, preparing my heart, looking for love, praying for those in pain and sorrow and saying, “Come, Lord, come.” He couldn’t be needed any more than he is now.
How ‘bout you? Have you put up your decorations yet? Just a little something to get the spirit ready for bigger things to come.
Tim, I slept in your bed last night. I wasn’t feeling great and I didn’t want to keep your mom up by coughing and besides I wanted to turn out the lights early so I figured I’d sleep in your bed instead.
Looking up at your pictures and posters and old trophies, I didn’t fall asleep right away. I kept thinking of you. Even though your brother’s gone and you’re at school we’re not going to turn this room into an office. We want you to have a place to come home to that still yours. The bed must be a little short on you now and we need to get you a new bedspread, but I liked your room.
This was the place where you grew up, where you played Legos, did your homework, read your Harry Potter, practiced your guitar, said your prayers. It’s a place where you can still store tons of T-shirts and books from last year’s classes. Sometimes we let guests stay here in your absence but it should still feel like your place (even if we get rid of the platform bed). You’ll go lots of places, you’ll travel far. But there will always be a little of you back in this room.
I remembered coming in here at night when you and your brother were asleep and praying that somehow you both would grow up to be happy, interesting, wonderful, generous kids. You did that. Everything on the walls, from the photos of your friends to the diplomas, says so. It made me realize what a lucky dad I am.
Thanks for your bed last night, Tim. I slept well.
