Today, we start making Christmas cookies. I've written in years past all about the explosion of sprinkles and various motherhood lessons along the way. I've written about how I can measure my daughter's growth and maturity based on how well the baking and decorating goes.
So it all begins again today: the butter, the sugar, the icing, and the flour. This time, I have eager helpers who last exactly three minutes before they get into some other activity. At the kitchen table, one draws while the other crochets. They play dolls for a bit and then watch a Christmas show.
We're all singing along to music.
Behind the counter, I'm covered in sprinkles. Frosting drips from my hair.
"I love making Christmas cookies," they say. But they aren't making the cookies; I am. For the first time, they aren't with me in the same way. They are with me, but not with me.
Oh, they grow. They grow up and away, and this is right and good.
Christmas Cookie Day, I realize, is no longer about cookies. It's a symbol, a nostalgic representation for them.
"I love making Christmas cookies," they say again. I'm looking at these no-longer-little girls and understanding my new parenting roll. I will roll out a thousand more cookies each year, and they will be with me but not with me.
They'll remember this day and all the fun we had together making cookies. They loved this day, and I did, too. I'll just remember it a little differently.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Friday, December 5, 2014
A Little Crack of Light
With all those student stories thick in my mind, I leave my house for a doctor's appointment. I want to interact with nobody. It's that kind of morning, and as an extrovert, you know it means something if I don't want to talk. I give off all the signals: glasses on, sweatpants, hair in a ponytail, no makeup. I'm serious; I'm in no mood to converse. Besides, I find there's a People Magazine in the waiting room, and I can't resist celebrity gossip.
An office assistant asks me how my Thanksgiving was. I say, "Fine." I cross my legs and bury my face into pictures of Taylor Swift and Katie Holmes. To be polite, I say, "How was your holiday?" But I'm not looking at her. I'm not paying any attention.
"Well. . ." she begins. But I know she can read the signals. She doesn't continue. She turns back to her desk work, and I read an entire article about how Katie Holmes has rebuilt her life. I'm really into her story, but the whole time, I'm nagged by the thought of that office assistant wanting to tell me something. I ignore the prompt and read about more celebrities. Finally, I obey.
"I finished reading all my celebrity gossip," I laugh as she looks up. "Now I can talk! Tell me all about your holiday."
And so she begins, slowly at first. Something terrible has happened to her family, and it wasn't a holiday at all. She tells her story, and I acknowledge every single searing sentence.
I'm called back for my appointment. The whole time, I'm thinking about what words I might say and how I might comfort her. When I finally return to the waiting area, I tell her again how sorry I am about what's happening in her life. And then I remember what my friend said helped her when she was in the pit of grieving and anger. A wise mentor said to look for "holy moments" throughout the day--little signs of God's grace and presence. That's all you can do. You sit there in your pain and all you can do is look up and see a tiny little crack into something holy.
Before I can utter the words, the assistant says, "I'm haunted by pain every single day."
So I say, "I don't know anything to say except that a friend of mine said something about holy moments." I mumble and stumble and feel awkward. I talk about God's love and say all the wrong things. It's ridiculous. I should have just. . . I don't know. Why do people like me feel like they need to give advice? Hurting people don't want advice.
But she smiles and nods an eager Yes! "Yes!" she says. "Yes! That's exactly right." Her eyes are shining. Some darkness has lightened inside of her.
And me.
We stand there, looking at each other, and I realize I'm in a holy moment right now. There's a little crack of light.
And in that space, I remember again to listen to the stories of people--even strangers--around me. It's a holy place.
An office assistant asks me how my Thanksgiving was. I say, "Fine." I cross my legs and bury my face into pictures of Taylor Swift and Katie Holmes. To be polite, I say, "How was your holiday?" But I'm not looking at her. I'm not paying any attention.
"Well. . ." she begins. But I know she can read the signals. She doesn't continue. She turns back to her desk work, and I read an entire article about how Katie Holmes has rebuilt her life. I'm really into her story, but the whole time, I'm nagged by the thought of that office assistant wanting to tell me something. I ignore the prompt and read about more celebrities. Finally, I obey.
"I finished reading all my celebrity gossip," I laugh as she looks up. "Now I can talk! Tell me all about your holiday."
And so she begins, slowly at first. Something terrible has happened to her family, and it wasn't a holiday at all. She tells her story, and I acknowledge every single searing sentence.
I'm called back for my appointment. The whole time, I'm thinking about what words I might say and how I might comfort her. When I finally return to the waiting area, I tell her again how sorry I am about what's happening in her life. And then I remember what my friend said helped her when she was in the pit of grieving and anger. A wise mentor said to look for "holy moments" throughout the day--little signs of God's grace and presence. That's all you can do. You sit there in your pain and all you can do is look up and see a tiny little crack into something holy.
Before I can utter the words, the assistant says, "I'm haunted by pain every single day."
So I say, "I don't know anything to say except that a friend of mine said something about holy moments." I mumble and stumble and feel awkward. I talk about God's love and say all the wrong things. It's ridiculous. I should have just. . . I don't know. Why do people like me feel like they need to give advice? Hurting people don't want advice.
But she smiles and nods an eager Yes! "Yes!" she says. "Yes! That's exactly right." Her eyes are shining. Some darkness has lightened inside of her.
And me.
We stand there, looking at each other, and I realize I'm in a holy moment right now. There's a little crack of light.
And in that space, I remember again to listen to the stories of people--even strangers--around me. It's a holy place.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Once You Know Their Story
They arrive with their stories--at least the beginnings of them. They can write anything at all for this memoir assignment, any single event from their lives. We talk about all the technicalities: vivid verbs and adjectives to set a mood, precise characterization, sensory detail, and dialogue. We talk about pace. We talk about offering that delayed revelation that provides insight to the reader. And, as always, we talk about creating mystery and tension to keep the reader engaged.
I write on the board how mystery forms from life's unanswered questions, objects that hold symbolic meaning yet revealed, confusion, or a problem that needs resolution.
I write those words like they are simple and easy, like they are as pure as the white chalk that forms them. In reality, words relating to our stories hold entire murky systems of pain and loss and joy and beauty and sorrow.
As I teach students to juggle all of these strategies to tell a good story, I feel like a detached surgeon instructing students to cut into their own hearts. I stand there with the chalk, but when I pull back, I see their own precious stories. I look at their faces and their hesitant fingers that begin to write. I look at the smiles or the trembling chins.
The story they hold inside is no small, easy thing.
Each soul is so infinitely precious. Each one. It doesn't matter where they've been, who never loved them, what kind of money their parents make, the color of their skin, the grades they made in high school, or what kind of covering they wear on their heads. If you sit someone down across from you--that "other person"--and hear that story, you'll love that person so much your heart will hurt.
And then you'll want to tell, and listen to, all the stories you can.
I write on the board how mystery forms from life's unanswered questions, objects that hold symbolic meaning yet revealed, confusion, or a problem that needs resolution.
I write those words like they are simple and easy, like they are as pure as the white chalk that forms them. In reality, words relating to our stories hold entire murky systems of pain and loss and joy and beauty and sorrow.
As I teach students to juggle all of these strategies to tell a good story, I feel like a detached surgeon instructing students to cut into their own hearts. I stand there with the chalk, but when I pull back, I see their own precious stories. I look at their faces and their hesitant fingers that begin to write. I look at the smiles or the trembling chins.
The story they hold inside is no small, easy thing.
Each soul is so infinitely precious. Each one. It doesn't matter where they've been, who never loved them, what kind of money their parents make, the color of their skin, the grades they made in high school, or what kind of covering they wear on their heads. If you sit someone down across from you--that "other person"--and hear that story, you'll love that person so much your heart will hurt.
And then you'll want to tell, and listen to, all the stories you can.
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