with a tree on top, don't, DON'T pull into the garage!

I'm pleased to announce that we did NOT pull into the garage whilst our Christmas tree was tied atop the van. Yay us!

Who would do that, you ask? I did. Yes, I most certainly did, probably ten years ago. But I had four giddy kids in the van at the time, all of them loudly drunk on Christmas expectation. We'd just visited Bill at his office, where a lovely Christmas open house was in progress. After letting them eat a free dinner of BBQ weenies and onion dip, I corralled the kids and headed home. Garage door up, pull in.

Scrreeeeech, scratch. My four sobered up in a hurry. "MOM! THE TREE'S STILL ON THE VAN!"
Duh. I knew that. Well, I did know it, but as harried moms tend to do, I forgot for the few seconds it took to pull into the garage and wedge the tree between van and garage door. Dang.

The boys were big enough to tackle the problem, which, picture this, was a tree in a tight spot. I'd had it. Had enough of kids, Christmas, BBQ weenies, and trees. I walked into the house and let them solve it.

They scooted and slid it right off. And we all laughed.

Every year they remind me of my Christmas lapse in judgment. I'm sure this year will be no different.

boys smell worse than girls

This is not opinion. It is absolute, indisputable fact ... observed over 25 years of parenting and now eight years of hauling kids in and out of college dormitories. Not until yesterday did I realize the startling difference between the sexes when it comes to odors.

Bill and I arrived at Katie's dorm (uh, residence hall: I don't know why the term 'dorm' is no longer in vogue) at 2 p.m. to begin the exodus of her belongings from room 103 to our minivan. Of course the mild temps of earlier in the week had vanished, as it neared 85 degrees. My nose dribbled, not knowing any difference between Ohio pollen and Indiana pollen.

I strolled into English Hall to find Katie. Perhaps two armloads later, it hit me. Or didn't hit me: that BOY smell. For seven years the unparalleled odors of a boys' dormitory in May revolted me no end. Dirty, orphaned socks. Overflowing, rotting garbage cans. Unwashed, maybe never-washed sheets. Definitely never-vacuumed rooms. Pillows that could walk out to the van on their own. Reeking tennis shoes and moldy towels. Yech.

So, yesterday in English amazed me. Oh, there were some bags of trash here and there. And a table of giveaway items by the front door. But most of the debris was orderly and definitely lacking any discernable odor. What a pleasure.

Don't get me wrong. I love my boys, and two or three of them are quite bearable. But a dormitory full? Hard to take.

Give me the scent of a gaggle of girls!

the sacrifice of a son

What does Christmas mean to you? About the time my sons were born, its meaning radically changed for me.

Sons seem to come roaring into the world. They're loud. They tease. They burp. They play mean tricks on their sisters. They attract dirt and hate baths. Before I had kids, I was really a little scared about having even one little boy. I wasn't sure about raising one. God laughed and gave me three boys, one right after the other. I nicknamed them Curly, Larry and Moe. You figure it out.

Our boys won my heart in short order. Bringing me fresh-picked dandelions. Asking me to play trucks or color with them. Writing me little love-notes. "Fixing" things around the house. Holding my face and declaring their love for me. Snuggling on my lap for a story at bedtime. And when they did bathe, they were just so handsome with their wet hair neatly combed.

In contrast to girls, boys put it all out there with no pretending. They tell it like it is. Or they slug their brothers and then everything's good. Like the men they're destined to be, boys get to the task at hand and it's done. They love a challenge and chores can be accomplished by making them into a race. Although they sometimes tried to hide the fact, my boys had tender and compassionate hearts.

Would I ever sacrifice my sons? I mean give them up in a life or death situation? I don't know of a mother who would. Not for a good person and certainly not for an evil one. There's not anything or anyone in this world that could convince me to give up one of my sons.

But God took no convincing. He saw the mess we'd made in this world and devised a plan to save us. Unbelievably, God became man in the form of a tiny baby and was entrusted to a young Jewish couple 2,000 years ago. Unlike the nativity sitting on our piano, God knew his son wouldn't stay in the manger. He'd grow up and in obedience to his father, die a horrible death on a cross for the sins of everyone, for all time.

So the baby in the manger was the beginning, not the end. Christ was a lot of things. But his central purpose was to be the bridge to heaven, to show without a doubt that He's the way to eternal life. (Acts 4:12) As a mother, I can't imagine putting the weight of the world on my sons. But then, I'm not God.

That's what Christmas means to me. And I hope the same for you. I could never sacrifice my Curly, Larry or Moe. That's what makes God so unfathomable and amazing.

Merry Christmas!