What I'm celebrating

It’s Christmas Eve. When I wake up in the morning there will be cinnamon roles and overflowing stockings, and I’ll spend the day unwrapping gifts and feasting on prime rib. But tonight it is still quiet and calm, growing warmer and inviting me for a Christmas cigarette.

Though I’ve been full of holiday cheer this season, I’ve had some trouble grasping anew for myself the miracle of Christmas. So I’ve been reading different versions of the Christmas story and cramming meaningful holiday music and movies down my own throat trying to force it to sink in. But it didn’t happen until tonight. After Christmas Eve service we came back home for pie and coffee with my grandparents, and ended up watching old home videos my Granddad has taken over the years. We put in one that had footage from Christmas a few years ago at my cousins’ house in Georgia. It made me laugh and look forward to seeing some of them this weekend, regret that I won’t see others for awhile, and miss terribly my aunt Donna. We saw some other family gatherings on the video, and then the date at the bottom of the screen read MAY 30 2005 and the picture was the same living room in Georgia, only my aunt looked about fifteen years older and the mood was different. As we sat in my living room watching the images we realized we were watching video of the last weeks of Donna's life.

I watched the scene: my aunt, in pain and in love with her Jesus, enjoying the hell out of her family. They held her and made her laugh, because this is how they said goodbye. The boys played guitar, and they all worshipped. Donna lay on the sofa, her feet swollen and her skin drawn; her eyes sunk too far into her head, and she sang with a peaceful look on her face:

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

But wholly trust in Jesus’ Name.

When darkness seems to hide His face,

I rest on His unchanging grace.

In every high and stormy gale,

My anchor holds within the veil.

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,

All other ground is sinking sand;

All other ground is sinking sand.

His oath, His covenant, His blood,

Support me in the whelming flood.

When all around my soul gives way,

He then is all my Hope and Stay.

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,

All other ground is sinking sand;

All other ground is sinking sand.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,

Oh may I then in Him be found.

Dressed in His righteousness alone,

Faultless to stand before the throne.

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,

All other ground is sinking sand;

All other ground is sinking sand.

And while I watched, it occurred to me that this is the miracle of Christmas: that our God sent his Son in the way that he did, to do the work that he did, in order that my aunt could die in the peace of those moments. She knew his grace - for herself and her family - she kept his worthiness always before her, and worshipped him until the end. We worship a God who humbled himself to become a child who would grow into a man that lived and worked among the poor and underprivileged of this world in order that he might be known that intimately by Donna and her family at the end of her life. He denied all that was owed to him in order to be grasped by us, in order to be a friend and a comfort and a reason beyond ourselves to carry on when life betrays us. I’m so blessed to know this God, to walk in relationship with him as my aunt did, because I see through her example how dramatically his incarnation effects our lives.

So it is with deep gratitude and reflection that I celebrate this Christmas. Because just as he came as an infant, so also will he come at the end, and in so many ways he comes today – even in my life. He dresses us in his righteousness alone, and declares us faultless that we might stand before the throne. I can’t think of anything more powerful to celebrate this Christmas.

Fickle weather

This week has been slightly bizarre. Freshly recovered from my incapacitating sickness, I ventured to church on Sunday morning and then spent the remainder of the day in the school library, whittling down my finals. Monday it was 60°, which was about a 30° leap from the previous days, and disturbed my soul greatly. I went with a couple of friends to ice skate at Bryant Park, but it was so warm that the majority of the ice was covered in a couple of inches of water. Not okay. So ice skating didn’t last long, and I went home to finish writing my final paper. Tuesday was the day I achieved (temporary) freedom, and it was also the day of the first snowfall of the season. When I came up from the subway station on my way to school I was met by the fattest, laziest snowflakes I’ve ever seen. They were floppy and beautiful and vanished into themselves as soon as they hit the sidewalk. For the length of my short walk they continued to attach themselves to my hat and coat. It continued to snow – albeit not nearly as beautifully – for the rest of the night. While I shopped for Christmas gifts it snowed and as I ate dinner with Erica it snowed and while I celebrated my (temporary) freedom with friends it snowed. My affinity for snow is no secret… it does good things for my soul.

In a matter of hours I’ll be on a plane on my way to Texas. I’m most excited about the change of pace, hanging out with my brothers, and driving down the highway with country radio blaring. Additional pleasures during my two weeks in Texas include nighttime dates with old friends; a couple of days at the ranch with the extended family; my mom’s home cooking; sleeping in a bigger bed; my parents’ house covered with lights and garland and nativity scenes; DVRing late-night movies to watch the next day; cheap cigarettes, and loads of time to read for pleasure. I plan to devour at least half a dozen books before classes resume in January.

Flummoxed and balmy

When I stepped outside this morning, I was pleasantly surprised by the warmer temperature. When I got off the train at 57th Street, a digital sign informed me that the current temperature was 42°. Balmy. As I walked past the holiday market at Columbus Circle, all the booths were being opened and the merchandise was being arranged and displayed, preparing for another day of business. As a result of my unwarranted holiday cheer, this holiday market is a great joy to me, particularly as I pass it each evening on my way home. The red and white striped tents, the smell of apple cider and cookies, and the buzz of excitement are all rather magical. As I read back over this paragraph I am compelled to repeat… damn holiday cheer.

I’m finished with classes, and my remaining final exams and papers are spread out over the next week so I am breathing easier. That is, until it hits me that I have only five more months until I am spat out into the adult world. After years spent longing for this supposed freedom, I find myself sufficiently paralyzed with fear, doubt, and a general sense of confusion. It’s not that I expected to have a detailed snapshot of my future, complete with an instructional booklet and driving directions. But I do think I expected to know the scenery, even if it was blurry. I’d like to know, at this point, whether I’m heading into the ocean or the forest or the concrete jungle. Apparently that is too much to ask.

I’ve never thought of myself as idealistic, naïve, or even youthfully optimistic. I tend more towards skepticism and a generally pessimistic outlook on life. But my jaded view – which typically protects against these moments of severe devastation – has failed me on this account. Because I really did think that after all I’ve learned about myself, all I’ve experienced, the way I’ve grown, that I’d come out of it with an idea at least about what I wanted. Instead I’m flummoxed, my head swiveling back and forth between two paths. On one hand I’m telling myself to shove down all the desire for something true and fulfilling for the sake of getting out of debt. On the other hand, a part of me is yearning to run like hell from the structured, settled down version of life to immerse myself in yet another bubble world.

If it’s possible to feel trapped by too much opportunity, that’s where I am.

Things seen and a big nose

I’ve decided to begin a series within my blog called “Things Seen in NYC”. For those of you who are already familiar with the oddities of the city, I hope this will serve as a catalyst for more sharing of these bizarre and yet all too predictable instances. For those of you who are Texans, Southerners (I make a distinction because apparently Texans don’t like to be identified as Southerners), and non-Americans, I hope these stories manage to educate, shock, and amaze you. My readers who are New Yorkers will, I believe, find this highlighting of the most bizarre of our city more reason to be further endeared to it. I expect you will read my observations, shake your heads, roll your eyes, and secretly find yourselves a bit happier that you dwell in this city. My readers who live their lives elsewhere will most likely find this same highlighting reason to be grateful that they live in the suburbs, or in quaint and charming towns that have character without the dangerous and wacky elements of New York City. Without further ado…

Things Seen in NYC: Edition 1
Every morning I have a small discussion with myself as the local 6 train pulls into the 125th Street station. I have the option to remain on the 6 – where I have a guaranteed seat – as it rolls through each of the dozen stops to 33rd Street. Or, if I’m short on time, I may cross the platform at 125th to catch the express train, where I will be forced to stand crushed between an old woman smelling of mothballs and an MTA employee coming off the night shift whose orange uniform vest is covered in whatever rank substance lines the walls of the subway tunnels. However, if I take the express I do have to get off at Grand Central, and wait for the local to pick me up and take me one stop further. So, as the 6 rolls up to the platform at 125th, I quickly collect information – the time, the room in the local vs. the room in the express car, etc. – and make my decision. Today I switched to the express, mostly because it was there when the 6 arrived and because I thought I had a good chance of getting a seat. Which I did. Right across from a person who caught my attention initially because I couldn’t decide whether it was a man or a woman. The face and hair hinted towards the female option, but the long torso, large hands and broad shoulders made me doubt. Throughout the ride I continued a close inspection of this person, trying to make my final decision. During one of my examinations, I noticed the cover of the book the gender-undefined person was reading. The paperback cover was brightly colored and caught my eye, though I couldn’t quite make it out. A few minutes later the person shifted, and the front cover of the book was clearly displayed. BIKER Chick was the title – scrawled in bright red font above a picture of a girl in lingerie straddling a large red and chrome motorcycle – presented by Urban Books. Needless to say this didn’t offer any clarity to my dilemma, and by the time we got to 33rd Street I still didn’t have the gender of the person figured out, and was forced to just accept the mystery as one of those things you see in New York.

On a different note... one of my favorite little boys in the whole world recently did a photo shoot for an advertisement for Vicks (as in, the common cold medicine). Last night I saw him for the first time in a couple of months, and as we were catching up, I asked him about it:

"So was it fun when the man was taking pictures of you at the playground?" (Yes, I realized as it came out my mouth how creepy this could have sounded, but my 4-year-old friend did not catch it.)

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah? I saw the one of you on the slide. Very cool."

"Yeah, I had my rockstar hair."

"You sure did. You did a great job, posing for pictures for the stuffy nose medicine."

He looked at me incredulously, his brow furrowed and his expression communicating a sense of intense disgust at my ignorance. "It wasn't for medicine, Wauren, it was for a big nose."

And I had no reply. Because to him, clearly and with good reason, the picture was indeed for a big nose...

Recipes

In response to the intense demand, here is the baked ziti recipe. It's ridiculously simple, so I don't understand how it's so good. But it is. Amazing. So, as you make it for your husbands and children think of me.

And mom's hot chocolate mix recipe:
32 oz. Nestles chocolate mix
11 oz. coffee mate
1 box (16 oz) powdered sugar
8 quart box powdered milk

That hot chocolate is a comfort to me on most nights these days. Erica will vouch for both of these recipes. Enjoy!

In honor of...

As usual, my family had to do without me for Thanksgiving dinner. What they missed the most, I'm sure, is my possesiveness over the coveted squash casserole. Every year I fight over the largest helping with my Uncle Wes, and try to position the dish close to my seat at the table for optimum scooping opportunities. In any case, this is how my family chose to honor me and mark my absence on Thanksgiving:

For the record, I detest that photo. Which is probably why they chose to use it. Tonight I'm making three cheese baked ziti, using a recipe my brothers tried out this summer. If I can't make it as well as they did I'll be humiliated. Of course I'll be making it on significantly less sleep, therefore with less brainpower. Eight hours of sleep in 48 hours is not a good ratio.

I'll leave you with this, today's comic from my favorite webcomic ever: www.marriedtothesea.com. I particularly appreciate this one.

Death and the holidays

It’s 4:14, and I’m literally watching the clock. My stomach feels like it’s eating itself, and a wonderful toasted turkey and cheese sandwich awaits me at home, so I’m eager for the clock to say 5:00. Why does the last hour always seem to be the longest? Ben’s birthday party kept me out super late last night, so I slept through my morning class today and as a result, didn’t eat breakfast until late. The crevices of my fingernails are still orange from the mango I had at 11:30am but it didn’t tide me over long enough. I digress…

The last couple of weeks I’ve been buried in death certificates (pun completely intended) at work. Going through never-ending stacks of them has led me to start paying closer attention. For instance, I know that the prettiest ones come from Gillespie County in Texas. And of course I always check out the cause of death. But since I work in estate planning my particular stack of death certificates is lacking severely in the salacious causes, tending to lean more towards the “natural” causes. So scandalous they are not, but intimidating they are: “end stage chronic obstructive pulmonary disease”; “acute respiratory distress syndrome”; and “metastatic cholongiocarcinoma”. Geez. They really ought not to let people with a history of depression spend 8 hours a day sifting through piles of these things.

Four more classes, two more write-ups, two presentations, a quiz and a final paper to go. And then finals. Next semester’s lighter load is greatly anticipated.

As previously discussed, I am experiencing an uncharacteristic enjoyment of holiday cheer this year. Going to Rosie Thomas’ show last night – where she played songs from her new Christmas album, which I love – didn’t help at all. There are other changes as well. This winter, knitting has been replaced with calligraphy as my hobby of choice. My roommates and I are also committed to decorating our house, which is a first for me. But not everything is different: Mom’s homemade hot chocolate is still my #1 beverage of choice for the season, and there’s still nothing better than curling up under my micro fleece blankets in sweatpants and watching Love Actually to get into the Christmas spirit.

Simple pleasures

Last week my friends were discussing simple pleasures. For example, the pop that ensues when you open a sealed jar, or the smell outside after it rains. Well one of my simple pleasures is checking this website: http://foundmagazine.com/

Some of my favorites from FoundMagazine.com:

Nude L's?

Love this

Uh oh

A good reminder