Trusting that turning things over is what’s needed

Christmas Eve was the deciding factor. I hadn’t heard so much cursing uttered in such a short expanse of time since I had worked in the prison system. And these were coming from my son’s mouth on our way to church.

“I don’t know why you think it’s okay to drag me to this f***ing place every Sunday, and especially on Christmas, when I have a lot more important things to do. I’m old enough to decide how I spend my time,” he shouted at me while my daughter put her hands over her ears, trying to muffle the un-muzzled conflict.

“Every OTHER week,” I corrected. “You are with your dad every other weekend, so it’s mathematically impossible for me to drag you to church EVERY weekend. Someone as smart as you think you are should be able to figure that out.” I couldn’t resist slicing in half his argument.

“And when I last checked, I couldn’t find a more logical place than church where to celebrate the birthday of Jesus. Think about it.”

But at 14, he is not prone to much thought beyond immediate gratification. On those rare occasions when he attempts to be conscious, it swerves toward contemptuous of the world around him.

“Believe this, believe that, blah, blah, blah!” he ranted. “The church is all a bunch of f***ing hypocrites trying to cram God down everyone’s throat. Religion thinks it can tell you how to think and act. Well, I don’t need any help with that.”

“Yup, just look at how in-control you are of yourself and your life right now,” I said, resisting speeding around the curve-filled, deer-laden 12-mile church route in response to my heightened blood pressure.

I debated stopping the car and kicking him out in the middle of nowhere, but he was already there. Plus, I didn’t need another thing on my mind when I sat down at the church piano bench to play the Christmas prelude I’d prepared. There was also the issue of the food I’d prepared for post-church dinner at a friend’s house. Life goes on despite spiritual bankruptcy, so I kept driving, unprepared for what came next.

“You told me you hated church while you were growing up, so why force me to go, Mom?!”

Great question, but not really a question. Bait. Debate bait. I internally debated taking or ignoring it. Instead, I split the difference.

“The church I grew up in seemed more interested in attendance than faithfulness, more concerned with rules than relationship with God, and wasn’t deeply Bible-based. It excluded women from top leadership roles and on top of that, the parent dragging me there didn’t talk about faith in our home between services. Church was a total disconnect for me, going through the motions with no emotion or life application. I stopped going as soon as I started living on my own.

“So, this is the last time I will make you go to church. I’m not into hostage-taking,” I said. Not the response he anticipated.

The question that really begged answering was why I returned to church. Not to the same church, or church, per se, but rather to God, after my many similar, but less profanity-laced childhood family trips to church.

Somewhere, somehow, I figured out church should be more action for God and less about church activity. My issue had never been with God, but how others had falsely packaged Him. No “I saw the light” dramatic faith transformation needed. Need and self-reliance running amuck are what drove me to my knees. If I saw any light, it was from the flames of the fire God gradually lit under me to burn away my own youthful defiance that had sabotaged my adulthood spiritualty: a great re-starting place.

From the corner of my eye, I sized up the long-term rude awakening my son had in store from doing things “his” way versus “His” way. We all remain susceptible to it. But time, toil and trouble eventually lead us to consider exchanging self-wisdom for Godly-guidance.

“Just don’t wait ‘til you’re 45,” I mentally willed my son. And I deliberately turned over this aspect of parenting to his Heavenly Father.

Guest of honor forces vehicular cleaning jag

CLEANING FOR COMPANY – Sometimes just the threat of having someone more important than you riding in your vehicle is enough to drive you to clean.

I have never been a neatnik. I have also never been a slob. In theory, that averages out to a medium level of neatness. But don’t mistakenly think it means I maintain moderately neat environments in all areas of my life.

Those who know me well can attest I am a mess of contradictions. While there are a handful of neatness issues about which I am incredibly picky, there are multiple others about which I don’t give a flaming rat’s patootie!

Dishwashing is one task where I’m extremely anal. I feel compelled to wash dishes immediately after use. If you can’t handle that bit of OCD, don’t bother to try cooking with me. I wash everything as I go so there’s not stack of utensils, pots and pans to contend with at the end of my culinary projects.

I have never gone to bed with dirty dishes in the sink and hesitate to speculate what might happen if I did. The world might grind to a halt. But, alas, we’ll never know, as I will never let it happen. If my kids want to set me off, they leave dirty dishes in the sink after I have gone to bed at night. My next morning reaction is akin to that of the man who lifted the lid of his toilet and found a baby alligator under it. Heart attack!

Another “just so” issue for me is newspaper clipping archiving. As soon as I get done reading something I have published, I cut it out, date it and put it inside a protective, plastic sheet protector, then sequentially file it in a special notebook I maintain for my writings. I cannot deviate from that ritual.

Yet another neatness issue for me is lawn mowing. I don’t just mow lawn, but mow lawn right! I like 90-degree corners, uniform heights of grass and no small clumps of anything left behind. I have been known to sit on my front porch and gaze fondly at my freshly-mowed lawn. Yeah, I know: get a life! And don’t even get me started on precision bed-making. I cherish the crisp feel of climbing under the sheets of a neatly-made bed.

Those examples given, I confess when it comes to the rest of life, I don’t really care about neatness. Well, until something or someone comes along that/who forces caring. Usually, it amounts to company coming over to my house. But recently it came down to who would be riding in my vehicle.

Former Detroit Lions defensive tackle Luther Elliss was in Michigan from Utah to speak with high school students celebrating their sports teams being awarded Nature’s Sports Drink chocolate milk grants. For at least part of his Michigan tour, Luther was to ride with me, in my vehicle. Panic time!

My kids’ primary concern was that the 6’5”, 318-pound athlete might not comfortably fit in my car. “Then I guess I’ll have to either toss him into the cargo bay like our bicycles or strap him to the roof of the car like a Christmas tree,” I said. They also wondered if he misbehaved, would I stop the car and/or threaten to knock some sense into him with my snow brush? Legitimate concerns, grounded in experience.

My concern was more immediate: getting my vehicle clean enough for Luther to ride in it. A break in the December weather allowed me to attempt vacuuming a two-year accumulation of vehicular dirt, litter and crumbs. Within five minutes, my trust mini-vac konked out, job undone. Good thing I’d started cleaning the front passenger area where Luther would be sitting!

Before I let Luther get into my car, I handed him an old, ketchup-tipped French fry with which to sign a disclaimer aimed at absolving me of responsibility for any clothing stains, cockroach bites or bacterial illnesses he might contract during his ride.

“Kristy, my wife and I have 12 children, how do you think our vehicles look?!” Luther laughed.

Nevertheless, I threw a towel over the surface where he’d be sitting, fastened a protective mask over his mouth and nose, and sprayed Lysol. Luther may have survived the NFL, but my car mess is truly daunting.

Giving of your own gifts is best Christmas gift

No sooner than the Thanksgiving dinner dishes were washed, someone was passing around slips of paper, asking family members to write our name and Christmas gift ideas. My mind was as blank as the slip of paper. Outside of a pricey gift certificate for handyman services, there wasn’t much I wanted and even less I needed.
Do other adults find themselves in this jam? Under the gun to come up with Christmas gift giving and receiving ideas for those who seem really into gifts? It was easier back when I was growing up and making wish lists that contained items like b.b. guns, bicycles, sports equipment, a piano and whole series of books.
I remember wanting all the Nancy Drew books – dozens of them. It seemed reasonable. My kids have read several series, including Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and Lemony Snicket. Gift givers simply purchased the next annual installment. Gifting resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, while also decreasing the odds of wrong sizes or someone shooting his/her eye out.
My adult friends recall begging for Barbies, cool clothing, new television sets, movies and video games, an unlimited supply of candy and horse-related items. One even wanted a nose job. Santa must have had to take on a second job to afford our materialistic demands!
As an adult, I wonder if I’m odd to not care about receiving gifts. When pressed for a list Thanksgiving Day, I pulled out my phone and Googled greenhillmusic.com to get the official names of the two most recent CDs by jazz pianist Beegie Adair. Those would be nice, but did I really need them?
What’s the difference between the average adult’s childhood Christmas list versus his/her grown-up Christmas wishes? I posed the question to my Facebook friends and received a quite mature collective response: they were more interested in relationships than stuff (with the exception of a perpetual kidder who said he’d asked for good looks and money as a kid, but now wishes he had more money, and a gun geek who asked for an automatic weapon and 10,000 rounds of ammo).
Overwhelmingly, my friends requested peace, tolerance, kindness, warmth-and laughter-filled homes, better health, more time with family and loving relationships. One wanted a cure for Angelman Syndrome, a genetic disorder that affects her son. Another wants to spend all day in pajamas. Perhaps we should be posing our requests to God, and not Santa. Just a thought.
Others were more pragmatic, wanting good buys on serviceable clothing rather than the latest fashions. One asked for the practical gifts of a snow-blower, decent gutters and non-dripping faucets. I could relate. It’s hard to think peace when you’re battling hardship.
The most practical adult gift request came from someone who wanted a new ironing board cover. Like me, she doesn’t have many wants or needs, so she keeps it basic. It also lessens potential disappointment.
I keep it basic. Not just with my gift requests, but my gift-giving. With all the needs I see in the world, I have trouble justifying frivolous gifts and favor affordable and/or sentimental. Maybe I’m missing the point, but the older I get, the more I feel like I am on point.
To that point, during the past two months, I decided to start sharing with others more of my God-given gifts. I have used my piano playing ability to raise money the local food pantry. I have cooked and entertained guests in my home to earn funds for the Fredonia Grange “Words for Thirds” dictionary project. I have used my gift of gab to call and check on people who can’t safely get out during winter. I used my shopping gift to supply a church-sponsored family that’s needier than mine. I shared my gift of health by donating blood. And I volunteer my gift of writing to cover local stories of people who are making a difference.
It’s much more meaningful to give of yourself at Christmas in the ways you are specially-equipped. Serving others is the only way to acquire the desired relational feelings on the adulthood Christmas list. You’ll find it’s a wonderful life when you go beyond self-interest and compassionately re-gift your own, unique gifts.

Gift certificates get used in last minute flurry

Although gift-giving and receiving are not in my love language vocabulary, if I have to receive a gift, there is nothing more exciting than a gift certificate. Some memorable ones have been for favorite restaurants, a visit to a masseuse and a haircut. Others appealed to my frugality: Goodwill and Cheap Flicks.

I think merchants like gift certificates and gift cards, too, because with them comes the distinct possibility I will never get around to redeeming them, which translates to pure profit via upfront payment. What’s not to like about that?!

Running the gift certificate/card gauntlet can be difficult. You open the envelope containing a gift certificate or card, then promptly set it down somewhere or drop it, if not instantly lose it among the wrapping paper scraps from the other presents.

There’s an unwritten rule such items are never found until AFTER you have picked through mounds of disgusting coffee grounds, potato peelings, dirty diapers, discarded casseroles and catbox droppings in the garbage, which seems to prompt the epiphany, “Oh yeah, I stuck it in the phone book drawer to get it off the kitchen counter.”

In the rare event my gift certificate survives initial misplacement, my next careless move is to “wisely” tuck it somewhere so absolutely safe (Maybe I should put it in my safe!) that I won’t locate it again until the next time I move.

On the outside chance I don’t misplace or too-safe-a-place it, I will forget to put my gift certificate in the glovebox of my vehicle, a location that would give me direct access when I am in the vicinity of where to use it. Typically, I will drive past that establishment, clueless and gift cardless, at least 29 times during the year for which a gift card is good, then have to take a day off work to drive 29 miles out of my way to redeem it the day before it’s set to expire. Can I have an Amen?!

Maybe I was a delusional when I said gift certificates were a good thing. Clearly not in my careless, irresponsible, procrastinating hands! You’d be better off to go to the restaurant yourself, eat one of the two pork chops on your plate and drop off to me on your way home a doggie bag with the remaining chop. It would be easier than teaching this old dog new tricks!

The good, well-intentioned people at my church could not have known the worthless ways of their Sunday service pianist when they generously gifted me last Christmas with a gift certificate. As scripted, I promptly lost it, found it, then tucked it out of sight and mind for nine months, followed by forgetting to put it in my vehicle for another two, which brought me to needing to use it in the 11th month/hour.

Finally, I entered cautiously the store where I was to redeem the gift certificate. I knew by reputation the place sold ornamental plants, carried pet food with brand names I can’t correctly pronounce, and is frequented by people who refer to their riding lawnmowers as “garden tractors.” As someone whose family grows corn, feeds off-brand pet food and drives real tractors, I doubted they had anything useful.

POISONS GALORE – There is nothing more grounding in an upscale store than to find poisons galore!

Walking past cutesy displays of homemade jams and impractical lawn ornaments, my spirits sank. Toto and I weren’t in Kansas anymore and it’s doubtful we could afford the dog food. Then, rounding a corner, a yellow brick road rose up, shining, in the form of bright yellow rodent poison products, a language in which this farm kid is fluent!

I’d never seen such a comprehensive display of poison baits, sticky traps and other ways to dispose of unwelcome houseguests. I selected special-fuse lighted underground mole gassing sticks that paid homage to Bill Murray’s “Caddyshack” character dynamiting the whole golf course to kill one gopher, and a live wire cage trap that would allow my cats to terrorize unlucky farmhouse mice about to meet their demise.

How I spent my gift certificate would probably disturb my church congregation far more than my nearly forgetting to redeem it. At least they’ll know who to call the next time a bat terrorizes the sanctuary.