"Gold, Circumstance, and Mud"

There is a story written by Rex Knowles entitled "Gifts of the Wise Children; or Gold, Circumstance, and Mud" that rings true for me this time of the year especially after last week's tragedy: 

It was the week before Christmas, I was baby-sitting with our four older children while my wife took the baby for his check-up. (Baby-sitting to me means reading the paper while the kids mess up the house.)
 
Only that day I wasn't reading. I was fuming. On every page of the paper, as I flicked angrily through them, gifts glittered and reindeer pranced, and I was told that there were only six more days in which to rush out and buy what I couldn't afford and nobody needed. What, I asked myself indignantly, did the glitter and the rush have to do with the birth of Christ?
 
There was a knock on the door of the study where I had barricaded myself. Then Nancy's voice, "Daddy, we have a play to put on. Do you want to see it?"
 
I didn't. But I had fatherly responsibilities so I followed her into the living room. Right away I knew it was a Christmas play for at the foot of the piano stool was a lighted flashlight wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a shoe box.
 
Rex (age 6) came in wearing my bathrobe and carrying a mop handle. He sat on the stool, looked at the flashlight. Nancy (10) draped a sheet over her head, stood behind Rex and began, "I'm Mary and this boy is Joseph. Usually in this play Joseph stands up and Mary sits down. But Mary sitting down is taller than Joseph standing up so we thought it looked better this way."
 
Enter Trudy (4) at a full run. She never has learned to walk. There were pillowcases over her arms. She spread them wide and said only, "I'm an angel."
 
Then came Anne (8). I knew right away she represented a wise man. In the first place she moved like she was riding a camel (she had on her mother's high heels). And she was bedecked with all the jewelry available. On a pillow she carried three items, undoubtedly gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
She undulated across the room, bowed to the flashlight, to Mary, to Joseph, to the angel, and to me and then announced, "I'm all three wise men. I bring precious gifts: gold, circumstance, and mud."
 
That was all. The play was over. I didn't laugh. I prayed. How near the truth Anne was! We come at Christmas burdened down with gold—with the showy gift and the tinsely tree. Under the circumstances we can do no other, circumstances of our time and place and custom. And it seems a bit like mud when we think of it. 

But I looked at the shining faces of my children, as their audience of one applauded them, and remembered that a Child showed us how these things can be transformed. I remembered that this Child came into a material world and in so doing eternally blessed the material. He accepted the circumstances, imperfect and frustrating, into which He was born, and thereby infused them with the divine. And as for mud—to you and me it may be something to sweep off the rug, but to all children it is something to build with.
 
Children see so surely through the tinsel and the habit and the earthly, to the love which, in them all, strains for expression. [The Guideposts Christmas Treasury (Carmel, NY: Guideposts Associates, 1972), pp. 197–98]

Sometimes I wonder how to deal with all of the "gold, circumstance, and mud" in life, especially after the loss of so many beautiful innocent lives this week. I've struggled to write about it.  Every time I see a picture of the angelic face of Emilie Parker or any of the children lost, I have to choke back tears.  The only thought that gives me comfort is that of the arms of the Savior encircling these 20 sweet children as they returned home to Him, bearing their own sweet loving gifts.  Each of these special children seemed particularly amazing, and the love and light that they showed us with each of their lives tells us just how wonderful they were.  

Jack Pinto's family released a statement saying, Jack was an "inspiration to all those who knew him."

"He had a wide smile that would simply light up the room and while we are all uncertain as to how we will ever cope without him, we choose to remember and celebrate his life. Not dwelling on the loss but instead on the gift that we were given and will forever cherish in our hearts forever."

Olivia Engel's family tells us, "Olivia was smart, bubbly, and unbelievably entertaining. Her physical loss will be felt every day by those who loved her most, but her sparkly spirit will live on."

Alissa Parker, Emilie's mother, told Katie Couric she doesn't know how to answer people anymore when they ask how she is doing. "I feel like the only way to move forward," she said, "is to think about these beautiful children and their lives and be so thankful that we had them."

I am thankful for the Sandy Hook victims and survivors.  I am thankful for their enduring examples in all the "circumstance and mud."  I am thankful for the "gift" of each of their lives. 

Many years ago our Heavenly Father sent the most pure and innocent of us all to be slain for the sins of the world; a perfect being who never had an impure thought or action, ever.  How grateful I am for God's tremendous gift of the Savior and the Savior's willingness to overcome the world so that He could welcome these precious babies home in His loving arms after such a tragedy.

Life is a perfect gift to all of us, one that we should cherish.  I hope that my life and all our lives will be more than "gold, circumstance, and mud."  In the tradition of the wise men, I hope that we can all bring goodly gifts to the Savior this Christmas season by reaching out to those around us, letting go of ill will, becoming more like Him.  Surely there is more that we all can do to show our gratitude for the Lord's ultimate gift and sacrifice.  Surely there is more that we can do to show our deep abiding love for Him.  There is already enough evil in the world.  Let us do what we can to bring the world His light, so that tragedies like the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting never happen again.

The Magic of Believing

"It is the personal thoughtfulness, the warm human awareness, the reaching out of the self to one’s fellow man that makes giving worthy of the Christmas spirit.”
~ Isabel Currier.

In the spring of 2006, my husband and I took four of our children to Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City.  Just as we entered the zoo, my youngest daughter who was four at the time shouted excitedly, "It's Santa Claus!"  We turned around and sure enough there HE was entering the zoo right behind us.  At least it was someone who looked exactly like Santa was supposed to look, minus the traditional red suit.  He definitely was a jolly round soul with a beautiful white beard.  My little four-year-old ran to him crying, "Santa!"  Embarrassed, I went to collect my excited little girl from this poor Santa-looking man, but that's when something amazing happened.  The man, without missing a beat, stepped right into the role of being Santa.  In fact, in no time at all, he even had me believing he was Santa.  He accepted the firm hug around the legs from my exuberant daughter, asked her if she was being good, and then asked the same of each of my other awestruck children.  He then invited us to come and see him and his reindeer the following December.  I can't remember the place now, but he kept his reindeer nearby in the city of Sandy.  After admonishing my children to be good, Santa wished us all a cheery morning and then excused himself to go "help the animals at the zoo."   My nine-year-old who was almost past the "believing" stage at this point in her life turned to her younger siblings and told them in a wise voice, "That's what Santa does when it's not Christmastime, he helps the animals at the zoo."  It was a magical Christmas moment that I will always remember even though it was a warm day and nearly summertime.

 

Norman Vincent Peale once said, "Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

This wonderful Santa, "warm with human awareness," made the zoo more beautiful that spring day.  He brought with him the magic of believing.  One of my favorite movies this time of year is Miracle on 43rd Street.   I love the response by the editor of the New York Sun written to Virginia O'Hanlan and to all of us:

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus

By Francis Pharcellus Church, Editor of the New York Sun,
in response to a letter by Virginia O’Hanlan

“We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the
communication below, expressing at the same time
our great gratification that its faithful author is
numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor,
I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The external light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

Don't you just love that!  I love the magic of believing!  One of my favorite Christmas stories about the magic of believing is the following by Kitty L. Mickelson entitled, From Santa With Love:

          At Christmas no request is too large or small, no person is too young or old to hope their dreams will come true.

          I remember back when I was nine years old standing in the line to see Santa.  If I wasn’t the eldest child in line, I was certainly the tallest.  My friends didn’t believe in Santa anymore, but that didn’t bother me.  I believed.

          When it was my turn, I not only told Santa what I wanted for Christmas, I assured him how much I believed.  He reached into his sack, handed me a candy cane, and sent me on my way.

          “That was quick,” said my dad, who was waiting for me.  “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”

          “This year I only want one thing,” I replied, spreading my arms wide.  “My own spaceship.”

          My father’s face went blank.  I guess he had expected me to ask for one of the special dolls that were popular then in the early 1950′s.  But I had been hooked on Space Patrol and Captain Jet since we got our first television set and thought nothing could be more exciting than driving through the universe.

          However, during Christmas vacation, Clyde, our town bully, made me his special target.  “Santa Claus,” he derided me.  “I suppose you’ve seen a reindeer fly, too?”

          “No,” I said defensively.  “Some things I just know.”

          “Like getting a spaceship for Christmas?” Clyde hooted.  “You must have rocks in your head!”

          I didn’t answer.  Clyde was three years older than I was and he always had the last word.

          On my way back to our neat house with the fenced-in yard, tears burned my cheeks.  For the first time I had doubts.  When I got home I found Father sitting in the living-room recliner.  “Why the long face?” he asked.

          “The kids say I’m crazy because I asked Santa for a spaceship,” I sniffed.  “Do you think it’s crazy?”

          The Christmas tree lights reflected in his glasses.  “The only thing that matters is what you think.”

          I sighed.  “It does seem silly, I guess.  I don’t even know how Santa would get it here, do you?”

          “Not offhand,” said Father, smiling.  “I believe anything is possible, though.”

That Christmas morning I woke up early still hoping that somehow my dreams of a spaceship could come true.  I ran downstairs to find that Santa had been there.  Our stockings on the hearth were filled to overflowing, and the milk and cookies I’d left out the night before were gone–but there was no sign of a spaceship.  I was disappointed but not really surprised.  Asking for a spaceship was dumb.  Clyde was right.

          Christmas music flowed from the radio and the tree lights burned brightly against the pine branches.  While Mother poured cocoa into our cups and Father distributed the presents, I quietly rummaged through my stocking.  Among the small items, I found a note.  It directed me to look in the front yard.  I ran to the door and threw it open.  A group of kids with awestruck faces were huddled in our driveway, their Christmas presents forgotten.  I ran outside and pushed through the circle, hardly able to believe my eyes.  There stood a five-foot long spaceship, built of plywood, with four wheels and a padded seat that faced a panel of instruments just like the ones in a real cockpit.  Though only pedal power could make it move, there were enough switches and dials on the control panel to keep any child happy.  Everyone was pleading for a chance to ride my spaceship–even Clyde.

          Our imagination took us to many far galaxies that day.  In between those trips I saw my father’s face, watching from the window.  I knew the spacecraft had not come from Santa.  My father created it with a hammer and nails and, most of all, love.

          Years have passed since then, but the memory of the spaceship is still alive at Christmas time.  My father had not only given me my heart’s desire that year, he helped me to discover what he already knew–that Santa Claus is the magic of believing.

I am thankful all these years later to my Hogle Zoo Santa and to all who continue to invite the magic of believing.  Andy Rooney said once,  "One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don’t clean it up too quickly.” I believe that!  Children grow up so fast!  I hope we can all keep the magic alive!

"Christmas–that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance–a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.”
~ Augusta E. Rundell

Truly "Seeing"

This last week I've been feeling a little lost in the holiday hustle and bustle of things.  I've been trying hard to find the Savior in the midst of it all. Last night my family and I once again watched the old Christmas classic, Mr. Krueger's Christmas about a lonely older gentleman who just longs to take part in the spirit of the season with the rest of humanity.  His holiday cheer is basically invisible to those around him until he is finally noticed by a sweet young girl who asks him to go caroling with the rest of her party.  The story concludes with the young girl saying, "I love you, Mr. Krueger," returning the sparkle to the lonely widower's face.

Photo Courtesy of Miss Millificent via Flickr

The story reminded me of another story I read a few years ago written by Nicole Johnson, entitled, The Invisible Mom:

It started to happen gradually. One day I was walking my son Jake to school. I was holding his hand and we were about to cross the street when the crossing guard said to him, 'Who is that with you, young fella?' 'Nobody,' he shrugged. Nobody? The crossing guard and I laughed. My son is only 5, but as we crossed the street I thought, 'Oh my goodness, nobody?' 

I would walk into a room and no one would notice. I would say something to my family - like 'Turn the TV down, please' - and nothing would happen. Nobody would get up, or even make a move for the remote. I would stand there for a minute, and then I would say again, a little louder, 'Would someone turn the TV down?' Nothing. 

Just the other night my husband and I were out at a party. We'd been there for about three hours and I was ready to leave. I noticed he was talking to a friend from work. So I walked over, and when there was a break in the conversation, I whispered, 'I'm ready to go when you are.' He just kept right on talking. 

That's when I started to put all the pieces together. I don't think he can see me. I don't think anyone can see me. 

I'm invisible. 

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?' Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. 

I'm invisible. 

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this? 

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.' I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude - but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. 

She's going... she's going... she's gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' 

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' 

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything. 

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.' 

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.' 

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree. 

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' 

That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, 'You're gonna love it there.' 

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women. 

What makes this story so beautiful to me is that not only does God "see" Charlotte in this story, but her friend Janice truly "sees" her too.  It makes me wonder, are we really taking the time to truly "see" those around us at this busy time of year? 

Jonathan Swift has said, "Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others." 

My grandfather taught me a great lesson about truly "seeing" when I was eleven or twelve.  We shared a love for horses, and so one day I spent hours drawing a picture for him of his favorite horse, Fancy Brass.  I will never ever forget what he did after I gave him the picture.  He examined the picture carefully, thanked me graciously, framed it, and hung it on the wall of his office next to all of his real estate awards.  Wow, did I feel special!  That gesture meant the world to me.  The picture of Fancy Brass hung there on the wall until he died four years later.  It's been many years now since his passing, but I recognize with a grateful heart that when my grandfather accepted my gift the way he did, he gave me an even greater gift: he truly "saw" me.

Mother Teresa tells us, "The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread."  I think the Savior is telling us the same when he tells us to "Feed my Sheep."  It is not food that people truly long for, but the pure love of Christ.  When the Lord sends us to "bind up the broken hearted, ...proclaim liberty to the captives," and open the "prison to them that are bound" isn't he asking us to truly "see" those around us?"  

I went to lunch with my two of my sisters a few weeks back, and I knew sitting with them that they could truly "see" me and I them.  I thank them for the great gift they have given me, especially on my most invisible days. 

I would like to express my gratitude to others in my life who truly "see."  I think the greatest gift we can give each other this Christmas is to "see" just as the Savior does and extend the needed love to those around us who might be feeling invisible.  Perhaps then we will find Him in all of this crazy hustle and bustle.

Photo Courtesy of More Good Foundation via Flickr