One of my favorite Christmas carols begins with the lyrics,  “Christmas makes you feel emotional / It may bring parties or thoughts devotional / Whatever happens or what may be / Here is what Christmas time means to me”  The songwriter definitely got the “emotional” part right.  In recent years, I’ve found myself dreading the Christmas season.  Let’s face it, most of the traditional duties–from wrapping gifts to baking cookies to planning the kids’ parties–fall on us moms.  This year, I’ve found myself further behind than ever, many gifts still unwrapped and traditional gifts not purchased.  I am, however, honest enough to admit that I bring many of these stressors on myself.

For months, I’ve seen FB posts, blogs, commercials, etc. about keeping Christmas simple.  Admittedly, I haven’t done that.  I still decorated five trees and sent around 150 Christmas cards.  But there are still many items on my to-do list that I haven’t yet checked.  And, you know what?  It’s ok.  I recently read and shared on Facebook a post that read, “The first Christmas was pretty simple.  It’s ok if yours is, too.”

My childhood Christmases were indeed simple yet so magical.  We decorated ONE tree with traditional ornaments only–not decomesh or floral picks or fancy ribbon–right after Thanksgiving.  We put the plastic Santa that needed repainting on the front porch.  A few years, my dad even put him on the roof by the chimney.  We had an electric color wheel that my parents had used with an aluminum tree. We placed this light directly in front of our large picture window that showcased our tree; the lights would change from red to green to blue, and I thought it was the beautiful thing I had ever seen.

We hung our mismatched stockings on the mantle.  They weren’t monogrammed or fancy.  My mom would put Hershey kisses in glass Christmas trees, hang pot holders on a few cabinet knobs, and place a few odds and ends around the house but certainly not in the bedrooms or bathrooms.

My granny was always the first to purchase and wrap presents.  I remember vividly stopping by after school and seeing the first wrapped present of the season on my grandparents’ large stereo.  The tree wasn’t up, but the gift was sign that Christmas was approaching.  But, man, how that time passed slowly.  After an eternity, it seemed, Christmas Eve arrived.  My dad, very sentimental and traditional, always waited to do his shopping on Christmas Eve, and I was his partner in the madness.  We made our trip to Camden–to Merle Norman and Walmart–bought a few items that my sister and mom would like, paid a stupid amount of money to have the people in the parking lot booth wrap them, and went on our “merry” way.  Before satellite radio and 100 Christmas stations, we struggled to find a local station playing Christmas music.  Daddy would always question why anyone would want to listen to country music and not Christmas music on Christmas Eve.

That evening, we typically celebrated with my granny and papaw.  My mom was an only child, so this celebration was low-key on many levels.  My grandparents never bought us a crazy number of presents, but what they did buy was always thrilling–the first Care Bear or the expensive “clown suit” our parents probably couldn’t afford.  Someone, usually my great-aunt who never married, would inevitably get underwear or “step-ins,” and my dad would joke, “Try them on, Irma!” which would make her turn 15 shades of red.  Finally, we would load up our new gifts to make the 10-minute trek back home.  On the way,  my mom would encourage us to “look for Rudolph.”  At the first sight of a flashing red light, we were certain we spotted him.  I wonder if airline pilots are aware of the magic they create on Christmas Eve?

Once back home, we were allowed to stay up long enough to watch Ned Perme spot Santa on the weather radar and play “Christmas Time in Arkansas” on the piano.  Then it was all business–time to go to bed.  Oh, it was hard not to lie awake and listen for hooves on the roof, but sleep always came, and the magic of morning was just a few short hours away.

Around daylight, I would wake up and instantly anticipate the walk to the living room.  While I was excited to see what Santa had brought, I was always a little creeped out at the thought of someone having been in the house.  It was an odd mixture of emotions, but excitement always won.  My tradition was to wake up my parents and my older sister before we made the way to the living room.  If they were tired or cranky, they never showed it.  It brought them all joy to see our joy.

There’s really no way to describe the feeling of seeing light cast on your new toys for the first time and knowing that Santa had indeed been there.  To me, it’s one of the most glorious feelings of childhood.  In my mind’s eye, I can see Barbies and new bicycles and boom boxes and Crayola caddies against the dark brick of the fireplace.  My mom usually had to remind me to check my stocking in which there might be a George Strait or Randy Travis cassette.

After oohing and ahhing over our gifts for quite some time, my dad would start coffee, and my mom would soon return to the cooking.  At some point, my best friend Brigette and I would share a phone call to discuss what Santa had brought.  I’ll never forget calling her on my new Garfield phone for the first time and bragging that I was talking on my own phone.  I didn’t care that we were on a party line with two neighbors.  I had a phone–in my room.  The rest of the morning was spent playing with new toys and trying on new clothes.  The year I received a new bicycle, it was in the teens and below on Christmas Day.  The doors were literally freezing shut.  My mom bundled me up like an Eskimo in order to make a few loops in the driveway.  I cherish a photo of my papaw, also bundled, watching me ride that purple and white bike with pom poms in the handlebars.

My dad was one of eight children, so while we didn’t exchange gifts with everyone, we typically met at my aunt and uncle’s house on the evening of the 25th.  She was a fabulous cook, and we gathered to eat her many dishes, along with our own contributions, and simply visit.  The house was hot like the fifth level of hell, and there might be 25 conversations going at once.  If you were a pro in the Quarles family, you could jump from conversation to conversation without missing a beat.  My aunt Ann, who admittedly was not a good cook, always brought a rum cake and told the funniest stories about hoping the preacher didn’t see her going to the liquor store to buy her most important ingredient.  My aunts and uncles told stories from their childhood–growing up poor but oh-so-loved.  Once my dad received a football–his only present–for Christmas.  While playing with it that afternoon, someone kicked it onto the fence, which promptly punctured it.  He had one gift, and it was ruined by the afternoon.  I could hardly believe it, and the story still makes me sad for that little boy who was my daddy.

On Christmas Day or whatever day we attended church around Christmas, we all attended the First Assembly of God church, my grandparents being original members.  Ernestine Pate would lead us in several Christmas songs, one of my favorites being “Come On, Ring Those Bells.”  Our Sunday School class had drawn names and purchased gifts.  The deacons would pass them out at the end of the service, and we were allowed to open them.  One year I received a box of chocolate covered cherries.  I was disappointed but wouldn’t dare say so except to my mother.  She reminded me that a boy from a very poor family had given them to me and that I should be happy with them.  I still often think of that boy when I see a box of the traditional candy.  My dad always kept a box under the Christmas tree, as well.  Interesting how something so simple can hold such powerful memories.

At the very end of service as we were leaving, each person received a brown paper bag with fruit and candy inside.  We would be subjected to my dad’s yearly retelling of the story of how he had been receiving these bags since he was a boy.  Oh, how I wish I could hear him tell that story now.

That was pretty much Christmas in a nutshell.  Perfect and beautiful.   At 42, I’ve reached the age where I have lost many with whom I shared those times.  My father. My grandparents.  My aunt my dad would make blush.  The aunt who had us over on Christmas Day is in a nursing home, and the aunt who made the rum cake is dying of cancer in hospice care.  And today the thought of all of that made me so very sad.  I live eight hours away now from the house in which I grew up and those I love so dearly.  Sometimes the need to be near them is overwhelming.

But then I remember my precious sons and that they are making those same Christmas memories I once made.  They won’t remember the five trees or the parties I hosted.  If I were to ask them tonight about their favorite traditions, they would probably say “watching Rudolph” and “looking at Christmas lights. ”  Not ironically, those are two of my favorite childhood traditions, as well.  So, like my parents, I bask in their joy.

But most importantly–above all else–I KNOW and LOVE the baby born in the manger.  He’s not a prop in a Christmas play or nativity set.  He grew into a man who gave up everything for me–a little girl from a small town–to be saved and to be with Him for all eternity.  And I know that my grandparents and my father knew Him.  And I know that my aunt dying of cancer knows Him.  Just today, she told my mom that she is ready to see Jesus face to face.  She sees visions of Him and her parents.  She’s ready to join Him.  She’s at peace.

So how can I be sad?  Truly, I grieve for those who don’t know Christ this way–and not just because they’ll miss out on Heaven but because they’ll miss out on all they can share with Him in life.  I’m not perfect.  I have never been or ever will be.  I’ve made terrible mistakes of which I’m not proud.  But asking Jesus into my heart and walking with Him daily is the best decision I’ve ever made.  I couldn’t make it without Him.

So my prayer this Christmas is that if you feel like Christmas is a speeding train that runs its course throughout December, just pull the  emergency break.  Just stop.  The presents don’t have to look perfect. Your guests aren’t looking at the baseboards.  Your children don’t have to do every activity advertised.  Just stop.  Rest in Him.  Bask in the simplicity of the first Christmas and the glory of the Savior He became.  And if you haven’t asked Jesus to reign in your life, do it today.  It will be your best Christmas this side of Heaven.

Think you’re having a bad day/month/year?  Turn on the news.

I’ve had a hard time pulling myself away from CNN the past couple of days, as Hurricane Harvey devastates our fellow Texans and our friends in our previous home of Louisiana.  The scenes are unbelievable.  Truly.  I’ve seen a few photos on Facebook that have made me stop and question, “Is that actually real?”  It’s difficult to put ourselves in the positions of the people we see in these images, but it’s a valuable lesson in perspective when we do just that.

Just a few days ago, for example, I was complaining about the unending construction near one of the major retail centers in town.  Yesterday when I left a store in that area, I was grateful the roads were closed due to construction, not floodwaters.

At home, my sons may refuse to eat many of my dishes . . . but I have food to offer them.  Both give us trouble at bedtime and would rather sleep in Mama and Daddy’s bed . . . but we have warm beds for everyone.  I don’t enjoy cleaning my house, but I have a house to clean.  My Tahoe has over 100,000 miles on it, but I have a vehicle.  My husband works long hours and is often away from home, but he has a job that provides for us.  We struggle to get homework done every night, but our school still stands.  My son broke his wrist while on vacation, but he is alive and healthy.

As I sit and type this, I have electricity.  I have clean water within an arm’s reach.  After I finish this, I plan to shower and get ready to attend church service at a building that still stands.  I have clean, dry clothes to wear.

And as I listen to my younger son play with trains and sing his own version of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” in the next room, I have great reason to smile.  May I never, ever take any of these precious blessings for granted.

May God bless Texas and Louisiana.

 

 

 

As I write this, I’m listening to the rain hit the back porch–a rare and lovely sound for this area of West Texas.  I know this, yet the sound also makes me sad.  I suppose it’s because I’ve been a little sad all week.  The beginning of school–or the end of summer–has always had that effect on me.

A few months ago, I spent Memorial Day, the kick-off to summer, with my family in Arkansas.  While there, we also celebrated my 40th birthday with an 80’s-themed party at my sister’s home.  Perhaps it was the trip back in time to the days of neon–or perhaps it was the fact that I turned 40–that I found myself feeling quite nostalgic on the way back to Texas.  As I listened to Sirius XM Radio, hits of the 80’s and 90’s, I began reminiscing.  I experienced that feeling I always associated with the beginning of summer–one of joy and possibility.  When I was a young “tween” and teenager, that was a magical time.  What would I do this summer?  Where would I go?  Would it be romantic and magical like the storylines of my favorite soap operas?  Would I find myself on a grand adventure like those in my favorite books?  The possibilities, at least so I thought, were endless.

Alas, my summer was never quite filled with those sorts of adventures–unless you count the ones I created in my mind.  Of course, I had days of sleepovers (bunkin’ parties), swimming, cheerleader camp, etc.  But they never quite matched the outrageous fun in my mind.  (Except one summer, I did meet a really cute pool boy on a trip to Florida–but that’s for another time).  In my mind, I became Madonna and Debbie Gibson as I listened to my sister’s cassette tapes and danced around the room in full costume.  When my friends and I watched New Kids on the Block videos, we truly believed we could be plucked from the crowd and given the undying love of Jordan or Donnie.  (Jordan is still the cutest.)  When I, slathered in baby oil, sunbathed in the back yard and read the entire Sweet Valley Twins series, I became Jessica and Elizabeth.  (Really, didn’t we all want to be Jessica?  She was the cooler one, right?  But I was definitely more of an Elizabeth.  I digress. . . )

When you’re 13 and without much of an active social life, the summer days sometimes drag on and on as you yearn for real-life adventure.  Such was the case for me.  Summers didn’t always fly by as they seem to today.  Nevertheless, each morning brought a new chance for fantasy and the possibility that, today, my fantasy just might come true.

Inevitably, fantasy gave way to reality as school lists once again adorned the aisles of local department stores.  For a moment, this would also excite me–oh, the possibilities of a new school year.  Would I be popular?  Would my secret crush finally reveal his love for me, as well?  Would we hold hands down the hallways of the school building?  Still, the Sunday evening before the first day of school, I typically found myself sitting outside and reminiscing.  Summer was over–all the grand adventures, real or imaginary, were complete.  And never again would I be 11, 12, 13, etc.  The school year, often a time of stress for me, signaled growing up, and I just wasn’t always ready to do that.

So it seems that with every school year since, I have felt that sense of sadness–not really dread, but the end of something.  The end of an era?  The end of childhood?  The end of innocence?  As my older son began third grade this week, I found myself crumpled into my husband’s arms as I cried.  I don’t want him to grow up.  I want him to be young and innocent forever.

Honestly, I will probably feel this way through much of September, typically a time of sadness for me.  But as football games, Halloween, and other fun fall activities take over our busy schedules, I will settle into the school year and experience all the joy that comes along with it.  I will stop grieving the time lost and look forward to the times ahead.  But for now, I am still a little sad.  Goodbye, magical summer . . .

 

 

 

Several months ago, near the beginning of summer, I had a moment of nostalgia. A memory–really a feeling–swept over me as I drove back to Texas from a recent visit to my home in Arkansas.  During that moment, I thought, (as I often do when I have one of “those” moments) “I should put this into writing.  I need to record this memory and how it made me feel.  I want my kids to know about this one day.”  But life took over again, and I failed to record it.  And the feeling, along with time, slipped away again.

This blog is my attempt to record those moments on a more regular basis.  I turned 40 this year.  You will see that this fact permeates much of this blog, as it was, surprisingly, a big deal to me.  More than any other birthday, it made me stop and reflect on the notion of growing older.  Not to be “doom and gloom,” but I know I’m probably nearing, at best, the halfway point of  my life.  It’s time to start doing all the things I’ve been putting off.  It’s time to make time.

As a mom of two busy boys–Cade, 9, and Jase, 3–I don’t expect to sit daily and ponder the meaning of life in this blog.  Instead, when those special memories and personal opinions on the great topics of life flood my thoughts, I plan to find time to put them into writing.  I want my boys to know about their mama.  And though I do spend a lot of time just talking to them, I know that they will appreciate my observations and explanations more when they are much older. So, boys, here is a little glimpse into the mind of Mama.  If you, the reader, happen to enjoy it along the way, all the better.

With all my love,

Kristen aka Mama