The Digital Nativity Story

The Season of Choice

Jesus is the reason for the season. There is no denying that, but there is something more, something deeper that has crystallized for me this year. God gave us Himself in Jesus, bonded forever with humanity through Mary, but it doesn’t mean a thing unless we choose to accept Him. There it is: acceptance and free choice. What a Christmas gift; a double-edged sword.

Giving gifts is a natural extension of love, gratitude, and friendship and isn't limited to Christmas and birthdays. In its purest form it has nothing to do with commercialism or monetary value or tradition, but has everything to do with effort, time, and thoughtfulness. It could be an ugly tie meant to make the receiver laugh, a favorite dessert, or a thoughtful, handwritten note of appreciation. It could even be resentfully climbing a ladder to help decorate when you absolutely hate the job you are always given. Yet, giving isn’t complete without acceptance and both require free will, free choice.

Mom turned 97 last month. Although she expressed pride at reaching this age, she also noted quietly that the aunt who raised her died at 97. I hoped she wouldn’t dwell on it, but last week she commented that, although it was up to God, she figured this would be her last Christmas and maybe she would just give money and forget about trying to send cards or buy gifts. I kept putting out decorations and wrapping gifts and told her that she could do whatever she wanted, but that I would be free to take her to town any day that week. Three days later we made our trek through several stores with the “shopping chair” (wheel chair) and she picked out gifts and began talking about sending Christmas cards when we got home. What a difference attitude makes. We came home tired, but triumphant. When people unwrap her gifts this year, they will be seeing more than just the trinkets in the package. In their hands will be Mom's acceptance of the gift to choose happiness over pain and love of family over personal disappointment.

I am proud of Mom because, when faced with dismal thoughts of her own mortality and physical difficulties, she chose happiness; she chose to continue to live while she is still alive rather than lie down and wait for death. I think that is what Advent, Christmas, and faith are all about: acceptance…choosing to live, choosing to be happy, choosing joy and love and believing…choosing Life, with a capital L. I want to remember that the freedom to choose is the ultimate Christmas gift and that not choosing is still a choice: Mary chose, Joseph chose, Jesus chose, and we choose. Yes or no? Happy or sad? Alone or together? Full or empty? Victim or participant? It’s our call. So choose.

Ho, Ho, Ho

Last weekend I joined my shopping buddies in Portland for round the clock fun. We wear out sooner than we did when we started this tradition thirty years ago, but I'm pleased to announce that I can still do a mean mall walk. Jennifer, Sarah, and Danielle joined us at different times. It was really nice to connect with them, but it meant that they had to track us down by cell phone and try to pin us down to a meeting place. It's probably a little like trying to herd cats. As always, they were patient with us and good sports about wearing Betty's "Christmas Crowns" that she says spread cheer and help her find us in the stores when she's lost. We took a moment to let Sarah and Danielle entertain us with their wall climbing and bouldering. They had it worked out with management to give us turns, but we settled instead for taking pictures of them in action. Maybe next year.

I apologize to the family members that I neglected to call. Time always zooms by and I had more trouble than usual keeping my phone charged. We kept ourselves pretty busy hopping between shopping centers and individual stores scattered around the area, trying to at least find the things we could only get in the city. I still have some online ordering to do and some local shopping, but I can breath a little easier. The place where we stayed set up a wrapping room complete with Christmas paper, bows, labels, ribbon, scissors, and tape so we spent our last evening wrapping about half of our packages.

Here Danielle is tutoring Betty in a shirt folding trick that takes a certain flick of the wrist. After giving everyone individual lessons, they practiced on their own clothes the rest of the evening and the next morning when we packed up to leave. I guess we're pretty easily entertained.

Now it's time for the hot tub! What a group. We have so much fun every year, we have come to realize that it is less about the shopping and more about the personal connections. Each of us has had our share of difficult moments, but no matter where life takes us, we always have this time set aside for each other; a time for wise cracks, silliness, commiserating, and fun with a little shopping, eating, and margaritas on the side. Get ready! Only 364 days until we're back!

Blackboards, Whiteboards, and Smart Boards

Technology is amazing. Mom has lived from Model T days when trains were the most common way to cover long distances through today’s computerized age where she can Skype her grandkids. Even I have watched much progression from people walking on the moon to living in an orbiting space station, from black party-line wall phones with rotary dials to iPhones with touch screens and GPS applications. But the real eye-opener is in the school systems where even my children might be surprised at the changes.

Mom first learned to write on a chalkboard slate, but I had the modern convenience of pencil and paper from the start. Both of us learned touch typing in high school on standard punch-key typewriters. Soon, however, I graduated to an IBM electric typewriter that was smooth and fast. My kids learned touch typing in junior high, however, on Apple’s first computers. Now, fourth graders are learning touch typing on internet applications because they access computers too often to wait until seventh grade.

Besides several computers in each classroom, the 21st century also sports some other interesting equipment. Overhead projectors and transparencies have largely been replaced by document cameras that display onto the wall images laid beneath them, such as book pages, worksheets, and small objects. Movie projectors and dry erase boards have been replaced with computers and Smart Boards where websites and digital videos can be displayed and interactively manipulated. Instead of markers, digital pens control the computerized display and write on the Smart Board in digital colors that disappear with the touch of a button. Even our small rural schools have managed these resources with grants, but some schools go one step further with iPods, Kindles, and laptops for each student. As communication technology becomes more affordable, it equalizes and greatly expands the academic playing field. It’s definitely a different world; an excitingly fast-paced one.

In my latest literacy class, this subject of technology brought up some interesting questions. Technological literacy is necessary for children to function adequately in modern society, but what are the trade-offs and challenges? For instance, it goes without saying that thirty students wandering aimlessly on internet is not a good thing, yet safe sites and strict protocol rules, consequences, and monitoring can make it a rich source of information and a positive experience. Likewise, we must teach ways to discern the validity and reliability of sites and information as well as direct its use to a specific purpose.

Carefully done, it’s great stuff. Third grade students in EO can email penpals in Australia or Japan, and fifth graders can access the Smithsonian Institute website for their reports on Lewis and Clark and then create a podcast to share with parents and other students. But how far should we go? Does the advent of more economical Kindles and iPads completely replace textbooks and libraries? Should it? Will there still be a place for the word printed on rich, creamy paper sewn between hard bound covers to hold in our hands and leaf through the pages or will these be left on museum shelves to be protected like ancient Dead Sea scrolls? Should we bother to teach handwriting any more? D’Nealian printing perhaps, but not script? We don’t miss the old Underwoods, will we miss the pen? I don’t know. I guess we just have to stay tuned to find out, but in the meantime, let’s think about it.

Mentally Engaged

I’ve just spent the last ten weeks taking a couple online graduate classes in teaching literacy. The credits add to the continuing education that I need to renew my license and the courses can be applied toward a reading endorsement, or, if I have enough stamina and motivation, an MS degree, but I don’t expect to take it that far. I have to admit that the reading has been very interesting. I didn’t realize all the factors that contribute to a child’s learning to read and write. Even “environmental print” plays an important part. That’s the words on packaging, price tags, the McDonald’s logo, road signs, and billboards.

There are lots of things that can put children at-risk for reading. Besides learning difficulties, factors such as cultural diversity, being an English language learner, low socio-economic status, low family literacy, and lack of environmental print experiences can all challenge reading development. I have also learned that scribbling is important and that there are different kinds of scribbling that denote motor development. It just goes to show how much we take for granted in the learning process.

As mentally stimulating as these courses have been, however, I almost bit off more than I could chew along with subbing and spending time with Mom. I got a head start on the reading, but writing two papers and six half page responses to other people’s papers each week plus two ongoing projects caught up with me about halfway through the term. Part of my problem is that obsessive desire to make things perfect coupled with the random refusal of the technological “Blackboard” system to cooperate with posting my work. Now I am racing to finish up the last papers and final application projects that denote the end; reveling in how much “good stuff” I have learned while counting the days until I am free to immerse myself in the luxury of reading for fun again. Yet, even as I breathe this sigh of relief at the light that has reached my eyes from the end of the tunnel, I wonder what will be next to help me fill some of those restless hours of the day.

A Celebration

Time. It's easy to take it for granted. Wasn't it only last week that I sat in her lap in the middle of the night, my pulsating ear up against her chest while she waited with me for morning when we could go to the clinic for some relief? And I'm sure it was just yesterday that she told me she would dry the dishes so that I could go on out and play before the summer evening was over since being a kid didn't last very long. She made my wedding dress, held my babies while they slept, and silently prayed us through every uncertainty of life. Mom, we are not just celebrating your birthday; we celebrate YOU.

97 Years Young

Ninety-seven. It's a number that is hard to wrap one's head around in regards to age. Even with her frailty Mom's age surprises people. I think it is because her spirit is still young.

Family and friends were all good about remembering her with flowers, cards, calls, and emails. I am touched by the people in this community who took the trouble to send her good wishes.

Coletta and Bob came up for a few days. Here Coletta is giving Mom a wild ride on her walker (or go cart, as she prefers to call it) into the dining room for a lasagna supper. Steering seemed to be a problem.

SKYPE calls and phone calls came in all day. Mom loved it, but sometimes got confused when too many people talked at once. Here someone called in time to help us sing "Happy Birthday."

Three amaryllis plants will bloom by Christmas.

Happy 97th Birthday, Mom. We love you. You have touched all of us with your gentle, determined spirit of love.

What Notes?

Wow! I just subbed a class more harrowing than welding…fourth grade band. You know:  the year they typically get their first instrument of choice. Considering how much they learn by spring, it might not be as risky to sub later in the year; however, the second month of school is not a sane idea. Of all the classes, they were the most eager to actually practice with their instruments. Others brought homework to work on or divided into sections and practiced rhythms and theory, both relatively quiet functions. NOT so the beginners. Although they, too, divided into sections, each section in a different room, the noise was deafening. Not music, by any stretch of the imagination. Noise. They knew a couple notes, but not in any recognizably melodic pattern. And I must particularly take care to mention that the drums and the saxophone were especially pulsating amid the other squawks and warbles. Not a flute in the bunch either. How’s that for ironic? Seventeen fledgling musicians sounded like fifty. It was a lo-o-o-ng half hour. 

Halloween Fun For Big Cats

Reflections

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Home.

A Sense of Humor is Good

Dr. Dave sends around the funnest videos. This one is dedicated to Sarah for her next vacation venture.

Happy Birthday, Jeremy!

A contagious wit, a social nature;

A creative eye and a generous role.

A sensitive heart, an analytical mind;

Measured risks and a patient soul.

Let's Dance!

Here's a fun editing marvel that spans a lot of recognizable movies.

Dear God

I would like to respectfully register a complaint about the lack of adequate communication between us. Although I heartily accept all the responsibility for every misunderstanding, I have to lay the problem of fixing it at your feet because I can’t do it myself. That’s right; I’m happy to openly admit it: I need your help. And, we’re talking about ALWAYS, here, not just once to pacify me for the moment.

This journey we are on takes us through a breathtaking world of harrowing, mysterious, and truly incredible moments. Kudos to you for the planning and imagination that you took to create it. It is certainly quite the ride! I know you have done all of the hard part and I shouldn’t expect any more from you, but, let’s face it…I do. I love that your Son has shown us the way and I treasure the experiences of hearing your Spirit’s breathy whisper in my ear as I try to maneuver through the unknown, but – and I don’t mean to sound unappreciative here – could you please be a little less subtle with the directions?

If I remember correctly, we have had this discussion before. Perhaps you thought I meant just the once…or twice…or three times that I asked, but surely by now you know that I am a slow learner (and stubborn to boot, although, I really am trying to work on that). Besides that, we now have to add slightly deaf in one ear, unsure, self-absorbed, and forgetful to the list of issues that make me short-sighted.

These decisions and choices that I keep stumbling over probably seem simple and clear to you, but I really struggle sometimes in knowing what to do. I don’t mean the black and white, good and evil type of choices, but the gray area decisions about what to do with my life. The ones that are not necessarily right or wrong, but will somehow affect the next choice. As is evident throughout my pilgrimage, a small turn can have a significant impact down the road. So, from here on out, could you please add me to the list of handicapped followers who need obvious signs. Not the little nudges and whispers that are enough for holier people than me, but huge, flashing arrows and bright neon signs that say, “Michelle, go THIS way! Love, God.” Yell it in a voice that I will recognize as yours and, when I stand frozen with indecision, please give me a hard shove in the right direction to make sure I get moving.

Anyway, “Ask and you shall receive, knock and it shall be opened,” so here I am, respectfully asking for some clarification. Please don’t leave me in the middle of any more intersections, dizzy from spinning around as I try to discern which is the best path for me. (You know I will mess it up on my own!) I promise to continue trying to keep myself open to your will, watching for your footsteps, listening for your voice, calling your name, if you will but speak louder, write more boldly in the sky, and grab me by the scruff of the neck and drop kick me into place when I miss the gentler cues. Life is precious and I don’t want to waste any more of it wandering in the wrong direction.

Love,
Your struggling child (M.)

Pink Glove Dance in the Starlight Parade

Blessed are the Care Givers and Givees

Here's a woman who really knows how to deliver an entertaining invocation! Don't stop it until you hear her whole delivery. Very sweet and very funny.

We're All Here

And so the halls of education are once again open and echoing with the familiar sounds of scuffling footsteps, clanking locker doors, slamming books, and not-so-quiet voices. Isn’t it great how well humankind is represented in each classroom?

The studious get right to work, unable to stop themselves, the restless constantly fidget within their seats as trapped energy surges up and down their spines looking for an outlet. The fashion-conscious adjust their hair, or shoes, or latest gadget, and the socialites press their heads together to incessantly whisper about nothing and everything because it’s all too important to wait for break. The prim roll their eyes at me for being too lenient with their counterparts while the slackers in the back corner roll theirs because I am a stick-in-the-mud. The gentle just gaze at all of us with a smile of silent sympathy.

The permanently bored, the never serious, the sarcastic, the sullen, and the irritatingly cheerful; they are all there, present and accounted for. The sweet, the snide, the shy, and the devious peer up through lowered lashes to make sure I am not watching them while the beady stares of the self-assured, the insatiably curious, the tattle-tales, and the desperate attention-seekers hope that I am.

As I waded through my first day of substitute teaching, instead of focusing on differences, I couldn’t help but think how these predictable groups of learners represented other congregations, as well. Age, in fact, really doesn’t seem to matter much for, although I was with adolescents today, I have met these same personalities in kindergarten, in church, in college, in staff meetings, and in jury rooms. America is all about individualism, but sometimes, collectively, we don’t really seem all that different.

Me Next

Essentially, our attic is getting a liposuction job. Yesterday afternoon I patiently tried to read as the droning vacuum truck sucked the vermiculite out of our attic for three arduous hours. The rest of the day and, indeed, the previous morning, I had dutifully followed around the electrician who was replacing old outlets, answering questions and moving furniture. Thankfully, a call to substitute today broke the monotony and left Don and Mom to withstand the roar in my place. Next week, what’s left of our home’s old wiring will be stripped and replaced with fresh electrical veins, which will leave it in better shape than its owners. I could use a little “lipo and rewiring” myself.

Night Sky

I burst outside through the front door like a pent up cat. Even at eleven p.m. the air was still warm but stirring gently like cool fingers against my face and bare arms and legs. Don had just reminded me that it was the last night of the meteor showers and I also wanted to see if I could find Mars, which was supposed to be closer to Earth and easier to see than it had been in something like 600 years.

Normally, I either forget opportunities like this or procrastinate breaking my normal, lazy routine until it is too late, but this time I didn’t hesitate. I have felt a little like a hibernating slug lately, letting most of life pass me by, so not stopping to rationalize as the words came out of Don’s mouth, my reaction was similar to pouring vinegar into a box of baking soda.

Although I was rewarded with both Mars and the long streak of a meteor crashing through the atmosphere, it was something much more mundane that took my breath away and made me wonder why I had waited so long to come out of my cave. My headlong rush into the summer night instantly enveloped me in a stillness that made me feel alone, but not lonely. The dark sky was huge and clear and lured me into the street for a better look. Wrapped in the inky silence, I strolled around with my head cocked back, one hand raised to block out the glare of the only nearby streetlight, noticing how much more three-dimensional the sky looked at night. Constellations and the Milky Way greeted me like old friends wondering where I had been. The vastness, which was freeing, was filled with stars and I wondered, myself, how I ever came to take simple, private moments like this with the universe for granted. Twenty minutes later I went inside a different person.

Happy Birthday, Sarah!

A quick mind, a determined spirit;

A sensitive soul and an accepting heart.

A lover of numbers, an eye for style;

An understated wit and a work of art.

 

We love you!

Raggedy Ann Summers

This vignette in front of Glenda’s antique store, Somewhere In Time, recently sent me reeling back to my childhood. As I drove past it, headed out of town on errands, I was suddenly transported back as sun-drenched memories of childhood summers that I thought would never end flickered through my mind like worn but still-loved movie images complete with sights, sounds, and smells:

Long days and sleeping in. Sizzling sunshine and cool shade. Shorts, 2-piece swimming suits, and thongs for your feet. Lying upside down in the rocking chair reading Nancy Drew novels and horse stories for hours. Sucking the juice out of homemade Koolaid popcicles before crunching the ice. Running through the sprinker and popping tar "babies" (bubbles). Soft ice cream cones from the Shoestring Drive In eaten across the street at the park. Shivering through swimming lessons in the morning, a peeling nose and three-month sunburn from hours of swimming every afternoon, and going back for more in the stillness of the evenings. Playing stick horses and building card houses. Loading hay onto the back of a truck, picnic lunches at the barn, and swinging from a rope in the hayloft. Sleeping under the stars in the backyard and telling the same ghost stories over and over with a friend. Hamburgers with homemade barbecue sauce flipped over charcoal briquets, the crack of Hermiston watermelons sliced into triangles, and headaches from eating homemade ice cream too fast. Sparklers, parades, and fireworks on the Fourth of July, and a family barbecue on my birthday. Single-gear bicycle rides everywhere; standing to peddle uphill, sitting back and letting one or both hands drop from the handlebars during the downhill coast. The fire siren signaling noon or screaming a warning of dreaded grass fires. Saturday night movies for fifty cents, the warmth of my horse’s back beneath my Wranglers. The calming rhythm of hooves clopping on pavement, the smell of evening at sunset, and the pounding cantor of freedom on a dirt road. Freeze Tag and Annie, Annie, Over at the neighbor’s house until dark, a gentle breeze in limp, sun-bleached hair, and cool grass under tender bare feet. Endless blue skies, sheets of heat lightening, and a feeling of time standing still. Sailing the Milky Way, counting falling stars, and making a wish on the North Star. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight: Please don’t let me ever forget how this feels.

Whew!

Got that sucker done! (Never again.)

Thinking Back

I can't believe that Danielle's 1st Thursday art show was ten days ago already. It seems like I just got back. She will be updating her website (click here if you need the URL) soon with pictures of her work. In the meantime, I have posted quite a few memories of the evening on my family blog (K-Kids Family Fun).

The evening was beautiful and warm. Sarah and I rode the trolley the fourteen blocks from her place to Urban Studios to save ourselves the hassle of finding parking. Later, when I was about ready to fold for the night, I bid the girls, who were going to hit the dance floor, adieu and begged a ride to Sarah's apartment from Larry and Dan. Although Larry forewarned me that they had been unable to find a close parking spot, I still thought it better to be with someone than walk alone after dark. Ironically, by the time we got to Larry's car, he only had to drive me four blocks or less to my destination.

At least he had warned me though, right? In Rome he promised me once, at the end of a VERY long day of walking, that we only had five blocks to go before we'd be at the hotel. It was near the end of our three week Lorenzo Fitness Tour and by evening my feet were tender and, until we took a dinner break, I was running on borrowed steam. After silently congratulating myself for making it past what I counted as three very l-o-n-g city blocks, Larry, who was always brimming with energy (like the Ever Ready Bunny to which Don likens him) turned around to us and declared with way too much glee, "One!" Gasping in disbelief, I swung my arm in a futile attempt to clobber him, but he had anticipated a disgruntled response and danced out of my reach. Eventually my ruffled feathers were soothed with mention of gelato.

Ah, yes; good memories. And Danielle's art show will be another. It was great to see Jen, Sarah, and Danielle all dressed up and happy and to be a small part of the evening's fun. Now it is back to the day-to-day stuff for all of us, yet, in the midst of the doldrum, it is really nice to be able to mentally transport back in time long enough to recharge with a smile. Thanks for letting me tag along!