Just Dance

My husband and I were watching Footloose with our oldest daughter the other night, and, of course, we started dancing during the movie.  I showed my eldest all my really cool moves, and it didn't take long for her dad to join in (For the record, neither of us can actually dance.  We pretty much look like rabid monkeys when we try to bust a move.  Have fun imagining that.)

And, of course, my teenager joined in laughing and dancing with her mom and dad shouting: "This is so awesome!  You guys are so awesome!"

Not at all.  In reality my daughter was basically horrified.  She caught our dance on video for evidence, she says, of why she may or may not need to be adopted at a later time.  And she seems to enjoy sharing these videos.  She's so generous.

"Mom," she said after I had accidentally tripped over the bench and fallen on top of her, "you guys are just not normal."

And neither were my parents when I was a teenager, of course.  My parents were just, plain odd when I was in junior high.  Take my dad, for example, whose nickname for me was "Mongrel."  Yep.

"Hey, Mongrel!  Time for dinner."  So, this sort of command was common, and even somewhat affectionate coming from my dad, but while I heard, "Hey, Katie come and eat,"  my friends probably heard, "Hey, crossbreed!  Come get your feed."  It just wasn't a terribly conventional nickname, but I'll never forget it.  

And then there was my mom:  a woman who at the age of sixteen had the awesome opportunity to watch the completion of the St. Louis Arch.  With all the excitement in St. Louis at the time, she and a friend decided to attend the opening day at the arch.  When they arrived for the big event, the line to get in the doors was incredibly long.  Noticing that the handicap folks were allowed to go straight to the front of the line, my mom did what any normal person would do.  She acted like she was blind so she could jump to the front.

Duh.

Oh, yes she did.  I asked her on many occasions why a blind person would want to experience the sights from the top of the arch.  "Duh," she'd say.

Kidding, kidding....

Oh, mom.  She would just smile a conniving smile and remind us that she was one of the first people to enter the doors of the arch, and she held in every bit of "oooh" and "ahhh" whilst at the top.  Instead, she stared straight ahead with her friend guiding her along, both relishing in their bizarre accomplishment.

So, not much normalcy there either.  And definitely a story that even the grandkids have remembered through the years: "Tell us that story of when Ya Ya pretended like she couldn't see so that she could go up in the arch to see what it was like!"  Yep.

But this abnormal behavior goes back even farther.  When my parents were engaged, my mom's grandpa was anxious to meet the young beau who had taken my mom's heart.  So, my dad and great-grandpa met.  Mom introduced dad to her grandfather saying, "Grandpa, this is my future husband."  My grandfather, who could see clear as crystal, held out his hand and said, "Yes, well, I'm blind and can't see you." And my dad bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker. For the remainder of the night, healthy-eyes grandpa Witmer was blind as a bat as far as my dad knew.  And I'm pretty sure no one's ever going to forget that story.

But then there's also my husband, lest you think this uncharacteristic behavior is one sided.   In college he would dress up like gandhi.   Why, you wonder?  Well, because new students would visit the campus.

Duh.

And so he would greet new students dressed like this:

And then he would say in his gandhi accent:  "This is the flower of life.  This is the flower of death."  And it would look something like this:  

His college friends will still talk about gandhi when reminiscing about good old college days, and there's just not much more I need to say about that.  The pictures speak a thousand words.  Or create strange thoughts.  Or produce questions.  Or just leave you bewildered.  Something along those lines.   

Just this last week my husband and I had a proud parent moment while watching my son impersonate Napoleon Dynamite in front of his entire school.  Yes, that's right.  All in one sentence: proud parents and impersonating Napoleon Dynamite.  While each class prepared group lip syncs, Jrod approached us with the idea of doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance by himself, and all we could think was:  

Awesome.  

He spent hours learning from tutorials, chatting about his progress with friends from church, and he watched the dance over and over....and over again.  And then he did it.  My son danced a choreographed dance by himself, dressed up as the ultimate nerd, and while it was pretty unusual for an elementary school lip sync, it was pretty awesome.  

And really, this is something he'll remember forever.  It's probably something I'll remember forever, standing and clapping for this odd dance like a mother whose kid just won the Nobel prize. There's just something great about doing things a little uncharacteristically, living fully in the moment, and embracing the abnormal every once-in-a-while.  Dance.  Greet others like gandhi.  Wear a huge wig, moon boots, and bust a move.  Why not?  Have fun, enjoy this life we've been given, and make memories along the way.  Life's too short to only be normal all the time.  And I'm pretty sure my eldest daughter is starting to embrace this herself:   

  Cheers, my girl!  Mom has videos too....

Contentment and Toy Dinosaurs

I recently came across some pictures of my kids from several years back.  Here is just a sampling of what I found:

I mean, come on.  They were edible.  Those cheeks for heaven's sake!  But these pictures made me acutely aware of something more than the fact that my kids were completely endearing when they were babies; these pictures made me attentive to my desperate discontentedness.

My husband was the first victim of my state of gloom:  I want them to be that young again!  They were so cute, and they really liked me, and they cuddled, and Jrod liked dinosuars....honey do you remember when our son liked...dinosaurs?  And this was followed by more jabber and ugly tears and blah, blah, blah.

I couldn't let it go.  I mean, I could not let it go.  All the anxious thoughts of how quickly life goes by, how short my time is with my kids, and how much I wished J-rod still liked dinosaurs sat on me like a heavy brick while lying in bed that night.  And so, I did what everyone does when they can't sleep because their kids are getting older and no longer playing with dinosaurs:  I opened their baby books and began flipping through the pages (incidentally, I have two baby books and three children.  This is because, as many of you know and what I have learned from friends, number three doesn't exist as far as pictures are concerned....until about...oh...graduation day).

But something unexpected happened while flipping through the pages:  I started actually remembering the days when my kids were babies.  I'm not far enough removed from it that I remembered quite vividly... the poop.

Oh, the poop.  There was so much of it.   Diaper after diaper, mess after mess, and explosion after explosion.  My son, God bless him, would "paint" with what was left in his diapers during his "quiet time" in his room.  And "quiet time" should always go in quotations just because, well, you know what I'm talking about, moms.

The first time I discovered his "art," I cracked... just a *wee* bit.  It was absolutely disgusting and it was absolutely everywhere.  After several stern warnings and explanations of why this so was stinking (literally) bad, my son went to "quiet time" the next day and fully submitted to all of our rules and warnings.

Not at all.

His art was even more extensive than the previous days "quiet time."  This went on for several days in a row until I threw my hands up and did what any mom would do who needed to remain coherent.  I wrapped his diapers with duct-tape. A lot of duct tape.

My son had duct-taped diapers for the entire second year of his existence.   Next to his changing table we had placed in organized bins: diapers, wet ones, bags, and...duct tape (duh).  It worked brilliantly except for the nursery time at church.  How does a person succinctly and courteously explain to one volunteer after another why there is duct tape in the diaper bag, and, um, on his diapers?

And then I also remembered the cold coffee.  I'm quite certain that I didn't drink a hot cup of coffee that wasn't reheated sixteen times for about five years.  I can still recall opening the microwave and finding my cup of coffee from the previous day.  And there may or may not have been times that I pressed "quick cook" as soon as I found it.  Gross.

And I remembered the lack of sleep.  The kind of lack of sleep where my face actually hurt.  Like I remember my cheeks hurting because I was so tired.  Is that a real thing? Cheek pain from being so tired?  I think it is.

Moms of babes:  you're super women.  And there is light at the end of the tunnel:  you will enjoy a hot cup of non-reheated coffee and painless cheeks someday soon.  Praise be.

And I remembered how many times I longed for my babies to be older.  I remember being excited about the next birthday because it meant they'd be that much more independent, but then in the same moment I would have opposite thoughts: don't get bigger.  You're so cute and chubby and I don't want you to get bigger.  Ever.  And then, before I knew it, there would be poop, cheeks hurting, and cold coffee...and I couldn't wait for them to be older.  I'm kind of a Jekyll and Hyde mom: Grow up!  Please grow down.  Go experience the world!    Please never leave home.  Like ever.  

I struggle at times living in a constant state of discontent and very seldom do I focus on the stage of life that is today. Instead, my tendency is to focus either on where I've been or where I'm going.    This kind of discontentedness is so common for parents, I'm fully aware, but as I've been seeking out what it looks like to have a contented life, I've been gently reminded of what it means that "godliness with contentment is great gain."

In his book, To Live is Christ to Die is Gain,  author Matt Chandler says this:

If the grace of life is replete with treasuring Christ, then we have a joyful duty to live as unto the Lord with all our might. When we seek joy and contentment anywhere outside of Christ we do so to our own disappointment and destruction, and even to the detriment of others around us. 

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that I seek with all my might whatever I can to cover up my occasional gloom:  a conversation with a friend that involves little else that me complaining - just because I need to get the woes of my life "off my chest."  But I also cover it up with a night out, Netflix  or even a book that I can't put down, all of which are great things but ultimately leave me in the exact same state of dissatisfaction.  

I'm beginning to understand that these states are similar to the times when I'm hungry (which is more often than not) and need food.  Crackers will cover up my hunger pangs only for a while, but soon enough I'm gonna need some food to satisfy.  Satisfaction won't ultimately come from more crackers; I mean, thank the LORD for meat, and potatoes, and fish, and veggies. And bread...we can never forget the bread.  

I can be filled to overflowing with everything that doesn't ultimately satisfy and still wonder why in the world I'm not content.  Outwardly I appear very calm (and let's just remember that calm is relative), but inwardly I'm bursting with discontent until I'm able to step aside, refocus, and stop feeding myself crackers.  I can't fully enjoy all the blessings God provides in life unless I do so in the framework of His glory:  To live unto the Lord with all our might.    

My grandmother recently shared a story of a friend who lost her grand-daughter in a tragic car accident.  At age twenty-two, her grand-daughter was on her way to her first day of teaching and was struck by a young man who had fallen asleep at the wheel in the early morning.  The woman died later that night.  

How do you breathe after something like this much less find contentment in the midst of it?  By living unto the Lord with all of our might.  This kind of living is not always simplistic; in fact, the journey in working out what living unto the Lord actually looks like is usually messy and complicated, but the end result will always be the same:  Grace.  Grace in the midst of the trials; grace in the sludge of dissatisfaction; grace when we're discontent.  It's what allows us to find the road again that leads us back to Him.  

This precious family who lost their grand-daughter had the opportunity to tell the young man who caused the accident about Jesus.  He gave His life to the Lord.  And a year later the young man's entire family gave their lives to Jesus, finding out, by God's grace, that there is such a thing as ultimate contentment in the midst of a terrific storm.  

I was helping my ill-mom try to walk the other day, and I couldn't help but think about this sort of contented living.  For my mom, walking is about carefully and slowly putting one step in front of the other.  Some days it comes more easily than others, but it always takes desire and commitment and it never happens without someone who is stronger to hold her up.  

I'm quite confident that I'll have many more tears of gloom over what my seven year old calls "the good old days" (she's seven, folks), but my prayer is that I will be satisfied in the desire and commitment to live unto Him with all of my might knowing that He's holding me up along the way.   

And ultimately, my friends, it's in that grip that we find contentment in ALL things - kids growing, sickness appearing, life changing, and even relationships in need of healing.   I'm deeply grateful for these gentle reminders that bring peace and resolve instead of dissatisfaction and can allow me to relish the days of picking up iPads and school planners while remembering with thankfulness that it used to be toy dinosaurs.

Reality Check

As soon as I think I've got this parenting thing under my belt, the Lord slaps some good and needed humility in my face.  And that's when I experience the preverbal "reality check."  

Because the reality is, I have no idea what I'm actually doing (Take comfort, children.  Your dad has some idea.  And if not he, we have some good friends who have successfully raised their children; they have a few extra bedrooms available).  The reality is that I need an abundance of Grace in attempting this thing we call "raising children," and I need it every single day.  And sometimes the hardest reality for me to swallow:  I am not in control.  

I'm confronted with these parental realities somewhat regularly.  Take, for example, the conversation I had with my younger daughter a few weeks ago about sitting in church:  "Lily, why don't you write down a few things that you hear dad preach about during the sermon today, and then we can talk about you learned. It's so important to listen and learn from God's Word."   

"OK, mom."  

It was one of those parenting moments where I slapped my hands together, patted my back, and thought, "There we go.  Important, spiritual lesson learned."  Well done, mom.  

And then this was handed to me after the service:  

I was eating my cheeseburger.  I could taste the cheese chicken and bread.  It was time for class.  Bob tripped me and I pushed Bob.  The teacher sent me to the principal.  I tried to tell him I was right and Bob was wrong.  

Yep.  Reality check - cheeseburgers and Bob instead of grace and forgiveness.  

And then there was the "encouragement" from my youngest when I asked her how mom and dad are doing as parents:  "Well, so, um, Dad's good because He tells us and people about God and loves them.  And mom, you're good because you show us good TV shows and stuff to eat."  

Oh, good.  I'm so glad to hear that Dad's got the spiritual stuff covered so that mom can focus on the important things....like T.V. and food.   And so there's a nice dose of reality.  Just in case I secretly pictured myself like this:  

This might be a little more realistic....

Good. Grief.  

And then, of course, there's all the wonderful and complicated and crazy aspects of raising a teenager.   Just yesterday I reprimanded my oldest for not talking more to me.  "Just tell me something!  Anything!  Words more than 'Yes,' 'No,' and 'Maybe!"  I actually threatened to print out a list of vocabulary words that might help in our deliberations.  

And then, through her tears:  "Mom!  Sometimes I just don't know what words to say."  

I stared at her for a moment and was immediately confronted with an important realization:  my daughter is different than me.  Duh, I know.  And yet because words have always come so easily for me (which is not always a good thing), I can't understand not having them to spew out to the person in front of me.  Each and every parent teacher conference was like a broken record:  Katie tends to speak out of turn.  

I spoke out of turn, in turn, and around every turn.  Coincidentally, my middle is my penance for this flaw.  I sat across from my son's teacher at conferences this fall and she said, "Jrod tends to speak out of turn."  Yup.  Penance.  

But that's not my oldest.  She's quiet, she's introspective, and she's not me.  Her words will be fewer, and sometimes they come out in a picture or drawing, and those words are usually something pretty profound.   The reality is that she is a beautiful child of God that I will spend a life time learning about, and I will probably verbally process my way through it.  

We asked our kids recently where they thought they would be in ten years.  Here were their answers:    

My oldest will be 23:  I'll have graduated from NYU with a degree in performing arts.  I'll be living in the middle of the city and I have no earthly idea if I'll be married.  

My son will be 21:  I'll be running cross country for Covenant College (and will, of course, be one of the best runners), and I will be majoring in history.  I'll be looking for a job as a cop, though I may move to Italy in order to run (I'm pretty sure it would be fun to run in Italy).  I'll also be married to a tan, athletic girl who is a christian and who is NOT a girlie-girl.  At all.  

My youngest will be 17:  I'll be driving all my friends around to get hot chocolate.  And I'll be going to Covenant College and my boyfriend will be Ian because we're the same.  We both like to annoy people a little bit and he's quiet so it's OK I talk a lot."  

(I may have more than one child who's excessive words are a part of my penance).  

As I sat listening to their ten year predictions, I realized with everything in me that there will be so much joy in their future.  But there will also be much sorrow, profound happiness, and a lot of hurt.  I wish I could pave a path of ease and predictability. I wish I could make it so that my girl's biggest concern in life will be where to find the best hot chocolate.   But I can't.  

And frankly, I shouldn't want to.  The greatest growth in my own life happened when I was confronted with situations that made me uncomfortable,  the Lord drew me closer to himself through pain and brokenness, and my eyes were opened in profound ways while serving people in other countries, taking me out of the only comfort I had ever known as a teenager.  As difficult as I'm sure it was for my own parents, I'm eternally grateful to them for allowing me to experience, fall, trudge, and hurt.    

I visited my grandparents last week at their retirement home in Quarryville, PA.  It was a sweet couple of days with them, in spite of the difficult journey that God has called them to walk these last several weeks and months.   I had a few moments with just my grandfather and as he talked, I kept thinking how he exuded faith and trust in God.  

He's led a wonderful life, but it certainly hasn't been without difficulty.   And in the moments we spoke, he mentioned the frustration of not being able to walk on his own due to a heart condition, and he grieved his daughter, my mother, who lives hundreds of miles away in a similar care center because of a debilitating disease, but he also talked about how he prays for us daily, how he relishes in the opportunity to bring all his family before the throne of God.  He has been, and continues to be, a man who continually points me to Jesus, who seeks the Truth, and who trusts His Savior in all circumstances.  This has always been His highest calling.  

And he reminded me of that calling.  My parenting reality becomes blurred when I lose perspective on my calling both as a mom and as a believer in Jesus.  

Scotty Smith wrote this beautiful prayer, reflecting on our responsibility to steward our children:  

Since our children and grandchildren are your inheritance, God, help us to parent as humble stewards, not as anxious owners—whether they are infants or adults. Show us how to parent, and grandparent, in ways that best reveal the unsearchable riches of Christ. 

I'm not called to parent perfectly - there's no such thing.  The perfect mom, dad, or grandparent does not exist....no matter what social media portrays through pretentious pictures and phrases.   I'm not called to live for my children, as tempting as that can be, nor should I be chained to fear over what may or may not happen to them.  I am called to live for the glory of God with my whole heart and seek to parent in light of this, my highest calling...

...and a very welcomed reality check.  

Christmas Through the Tears

Tears are not absent during the holidays.  In fact, I've talked with enough friends and family in the last few days to know that tears are likely prevalent during Christmas.  There's no doubt a lot of joy and happiness during this time, praise the Lord for the smiles and laughter, but there may also be sadness.  And praise the Lord for tears.  Tears over the loss of what used to be, an ache from the longing of a child absent in the family circle, grief from the loss of a father or mother who was here last Christmas but is gone today, or an illness that seems to have taken precedence over every important thing in life.

And then there are the everyday tears that don't seem to stay away just because it's Christmas.  Tears were shed on the way home from church on Christmas Eve because my youngest was reprimanded for kicking her older sister.  Tears.  And lots of them.  Because "everyone in the entire world thinks I'm annoying.  Every single person in this entire earth!"  I'm glad she's not over-dramatic.  

And then the tears while watching The Nativity with the family the night before Christmas.  The tears were not due to the amazing reality of the incarnation.  No.  The tears were due to the killing of a cow.   "Why would they kill a cow, dad?  Why a cow?  What did the cow do to them?"  And so we press pause to explain Old Testament animal sacrifice to our seven year old.   And then she completely understood.  Not at all.

But for some reason, in the midst of the longing and sadness, there is a sense in which swallowing the tears is the right thing to do on Christmas.  It's Christmas, for heaven's sake.  We should all be happy and smiles, right?  Bottle up the tears and let them flow any other day....just not on Christmas.  

But we live in a broken world. And I'm incredibly grateful that we can celebrate the beauty of the incarnation through the tears.  I'm grateful that Jesus came into this world so that He can understand and identify with our longing and pain.  I'm thankful that Jesus showed us His own tears and that His birth was announced not to the kings of the earth, but to humble shepherds.  And I'm thankful that the birth of our Savior took place in a stable and not a palace.  I'm sure it smelled; I'm quite certain it was not all that silent, and his bed wasn't perfectly prepared ahead of time, but instead he lay in a trough.   It's the smelly, noisy, not tidied-up kind of place that I can relate with.  Jesus made himself man for you and for me. 

All this is what we see through the tears.  

I sat in front of my Christmas tree this morning and let the tears flow.  I miss my dad and the days when family members from all over would meet together and spend hours eating, opening presents, and celebrating together our Savior's birth.  I miss the meals my mom would cook and the baths my kids would take at their grandma's house, and I even miss the days when I would rebuke mom for giving my kids ten too many pieces of M &M's. 

But I see much through the tears.  I see a day beyond when we will actually see the King of Kings, and not through unclear and hazy eyes because there will no longer be crying, a promise so deserving of our Hallelujahs.  And through the tears I see Christmas.   I see my Savior and the Splendor of the incarnation.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

The implications of Jesus taking on humanity is as deeply felt as the tears on my face.  This is Grace.  This is Joy unspeakable.  This is the true meaning of Christmas.  

There will be joy tomorrow, and I'm sure there will be a lot of happy munchkins tearing through the packages, but for some there may be tears.  There's no need to bottle them just because it's Christmas.  See Christmas through the tears; it's a beautiful sight to behold.  

Christmas Letter 2015

New Unabridged 2015 Polski Dictionary

Fully Revised and Updated

out·land·ish (out-lan-dish) adjective  1. freakishly or grotesquely strange or odd; bizarre. 2. what Chris thought of Katie’s idea to bring home a bearded dragon as a pet.  

 flab-er-gast   (\ˈfla-bər-ˌgast\ ), verb. 1. to overwhelm with shock, surprise, or wonder. 2. Chris’ reaction when Katie brought home a hamster after returning two pet rats only months before. 

Li-ly [ prin-ses], noun 1. a 7 year old girl in first grade who loves arts and crafts.  2.  a child who asks more questions than her parents thought was humanly possible (see also: Dumb-found). 3. a young girl who enjoys make-believe 4. someone who has recently started piano and is showing great talent in this new venture.    5. an emotional child who requested that her father perform a funeral service for her dead goldfish. 5. a one-of-a-kind girl taking after….well….we’re not entirely sure…and who loves her pet hamster, Luxe. 

Dumb-found [ duhm-found], verb  1.  to make speechless with amazement; astonish.   2.  the way the entire family feels by some of lily’s questions:  How come Adam and Eve didn’t listen to God; Has God ever made a mistake; What happens if I keep on sinning; Who makes me sin; Do I have to sit next to my brother in heaven (just to name a few).  3. The expression on Katie’s face when she saw Chris’ Systematic Theology book as reading material by Lily’s bed this summer.  

Chris-to-pher (Chris), [kris-tuh-fer], noun   1. a person who has been reading thousands of pages for his Doctor of Ministry.  2. a pastor who is leading a growing church in Kirkwood, MO.  3. a busy dad who drives the kids to school nearly every morning and performs funerals for fish.  4. a Homiletics instructor who teaches preaching and listens to three student sermons each Wednesday afternoon. 5. a pretty happy U2 fan who enjoyed rocking out at two concerts this summer. 6. an awesome dad who would be perfectly happy with no pets.  Ever.

Ka-th-leen (Katie), [kath-leen], noun   1. a busy mom who actually doesn’t mind shuttling the kiddos to and fro.   2.  Someone who enjoyed speaking for a women’s retreat in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  3.  a runner who achieved a personal record for a half marathon this fall.  4.  a caretaker for her faithful and determined mother.  5. a pianist who teaches multiple students and played in a Bach concert with two beautiful violinists   6.  a writer who enjoys blogging almost more than she enjoys having multiple pets around the house                                                 

Over-joy[oh-ver-joi], verb  1.  to cause to feel great joy or delight; elate.  2. the emotion Katie felt when playing the concert in January.  3.  the way two out of three children felt when they brought home new pets this year.  4.  the way Max the dog feels when an older sibling rescues him from Lily’s dress-up sessions.

El-la (teen a ger), noun 1. a thirteen year old girl who is exceedingly passionate. 2. a teenager who loves rainy days and hopes to live in Seattle someday (because it’s rainy and they drink a lot of coffee).  3. a talented girl who has taken up contemporary dance and is excelling in this new activity.  4. an athlete who continues to show her tough side on the basketball court and soccer field. 5. a teen who is sought after by young moms at church for her “baby whispering” abilities.   6. a thirteen year girl old who loves (loves, loves, loves) One Direction, Taylor Swift, and all things Pop music.  7. a young woman who is learning guitar and played in her first recital this year.   8. a kid who takes after her father in many ways and who would prefer to never have a pet. Ever.

Huh (hu), interj. 1. used to express surprise, disbelief, or confusion. 2. Chris and Katie’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s team of computer programmers, of which Jrod was the youngest contestant ever, won a competition during a weekend event.  3. Chris, Katie, and Jrod’s reaction when they realized Jrod’s share of the prize for said event was six thousand dollars.  4. Katie’s reaction when Jrod said he wanted to use his money to purchase his friends extra candy and soda over the summer. 

Jon-a-than (Jrod), [goof-bawl], noun  1. an 11 year old boy full of an enormous amount of energy and life. 2. a pre-teen more comfortable conversing with adults than kids his own age.  3.  a kid who left soccer to take up running.  4.  a boy who is fiercely competitive.  5. an athlete who finally (finally) beat his mom in a 5K race, much to his mother’s demise. 6. an eleven year old who plays violin beautifully and has enjoyed playing in church, school, and recitals. 7. an eleven year old who learns computer programming every Saturday and has plans to take over the world with his abilities.  8. a young man who had a blast at his first U2 concert with his dad.  9. a boy who is his mother personified and who loves his pet bearded dragon named Smaug.

Joy-ful  (\ˈjȯi-fəl\), adjective,  1. experiencing, causing, or showing great joy. 2. how we feel when we think of our Savior’s birth and the promise of the gospel.  3. the emotion we have when we think of all of our friends and family around the world.

Merry Christmas and love to all!

The Polskis

 P.S.  We were AWESOME at selfies this year.  Just awesome.  

             

            

                                       

                                                                        

Birthday Reflections: Barbies and Joy

Man, oh, man.    I feel like I should be about twenty-five.  Maybe twenty-six, but since today is my birthday, and I feel like I'm in my mid-twenties, then I shall declare today my twenty-sixth birthday.  Why not.  It certainly sounds better than sixty-two, which is how old my daughter guessed I was.

I've been doing a lot of reflecting today, on this twenty-sixth birthday of mine, and mostly on Joy.

When I was younger, birthday's were a BIG deal in my house.  There were sweets, presents galore, and always a big party with the girls in my class.  I remember bounce places, indoor pools, Little Caesar's pizza,  and one party at home (and I'm pretty sure that was the last one at home).  In the exact words of my seven year old daughter, "I miss the days of my youth."

And after every party my parents would ask, "Are you happy?"

Of course I was happy.  I loved parties, I loved the attention, and I loved, loved, loved presents.  And so, it was all fun and games...and smiles and laughs...until one year, the one present I was dying for was not received.

Gasp.

I know.  Who would withhold a Barbie from a sevenish-year old (regardless of the fact that she had seventeen other Barbie dolls)?  Oh, the cruelty.

I found a picture online of the Barbie I had been dreaming to call mine.  I remember it well because alas, I got it for Christmas fifteen days later.  Spoiled.  Rotten.  

But through the tears on December 10th, sometime in the eighties, I remember my dad sitting next to me on my bed explaining, with as many kind words as he could muster, how absurd it was to cry over one toy when I had so many others.   He told me, perhaps out of frustration, that I had to make a choice to be joyful about what I had been given.  

In my moment of ridiculous drama, I'm pretty sure that dad's words sounded something like, "blah blah, stop crying, blah, blah, be joyful."  But that conversation stuck with me.  And what my dad proceeded to teach me over the course of the next several years, whether he knew it or not, was the importance of choosing joy.  

And this memory struck a chord with me today while I spent most of the day helping my mom and step-father.  

I have been given all the joy from my heavenly father.  In fact, in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed that we would be given the full measure of His joy.  We have it, we possess it, but we've got to chose it.  

And this joy isn't the same thing as happiness.  Not at all.  

I wasn't happy today when I watched my mom scream out in terrible pain.   I wasn't happy when an old friend of Dads looked over my shoulder at mom and almost gasped.  I wasn't happy when she grabbed my hand as tightly as she could when we told her it was my birthday, and I wasn't happy when she started weeping uncontrollably. I had a deep sadness in those moments, and in my mom's small room today, happiness would have been an unfitting and absurd emotion.  

But there is still joy.  

It's the same joy that Job found when he cried out in faith after loosing everything but his life:  "The Lord gives and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."   And it's the same joy that Mary found in the midst of fear at the news that she was carrying the Savior:  "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."  These emotions have nothing to do with happiness but everything to do with joy that comes from God alone.    

This gift of joy is unspeakable.  It isn't depleted when we're faced with losing loved ones, and it doesn't dwindle when our sadness intensifies.  Instead, this joy transforms and transcends tears, heartaches, and trouble.  

Joy.  I choose it, I embrace it, and I'm grateful of it.  Even now, sitting here reflecting on the hope I have no matter what He gives or takes, no matter how hard or easy the day is, and no matter what tomorrow brings, I weep with tears of Joy.  

It really wasn't a happy birthday, per say.  But it was a joyful one, and I couldn't ask for a greater gift.  

Joyful birthday to me.