We Don't Need No Stinkin' Pumpkin Pie (To Be Grateful)

This year, we are staying home for Thanksgiving. The past few years, we have traveled, and we will miss seeing family. But this is the first year that child #3 is away at college, and she would have to drive five hours home and then six hours farther and do it all over again a few days later. It's too much. 

Plus, there are things moms recognize about that first year away. She would need “normal.” She already feels she's missed so much. To miss The Great Christmas Tree Cut Down, the decorating, the “home” feeling down in your heart that says it's all still there and all OK—that would be too much. Sometimes, you have to recognize that the intangibles are the most real things in existence.

I remember the feeling. My first Thanksgiving in college, I, too, came home. But it was not the home I had known for eighteen Thanskgivings. It was a home without the mother who always cooked the turkey dinner. (Although really, I think dad did quite a lot of it. He was the better cook. Just like in our family.) Without her sisters and their busy families, because it was without the glue that had held those extended family units together. Take out the mother, and you take out a network.

So I did what I suspect my daughter would do. I cooked dinner. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, lemon merengue pie, pumpkin pie, cranberry relish. I don't even like pumpkin pie. But the offerings hadn't changed in eighteen years, and they must not now. I set all the good dishes out. I did everything to maintain the illusion that this was normal. This was dinner as always. Though the universe might turn sideways, this would not alter.

I had no idea what I was doing.

I mean, literally, I had no idea how to cook. Mom hadn't taught me, although I'd gained basic knowledge by watching. But as mentioned, she was not the better cook of the duo that was my parents. 

Beyond that, though, I had no idea that illusions failed. We hung on to the traditions, my dad and I, but we weren't fooling one another. This was not the same, it never would be, and we had no idea how to navigate it into something else. I can't say that we ever really learned.

This year is the first Thanksgiving with child #3 away at college, and it's the last Thanksgiving with child #1 unmarried. Next year, she'll have her own family with her own relationships and traditions to navigate, and we'll have to learn a new dance. But—and here's the big but—we will. (Yes, I did just say big but. I know you laughed. You can't pretend.)

We will. I've learned some things since the fall I was barely eighteen.

Particular faces and specific dates alter with time and circumstances. Just like I no longer feel compelled to bake pumpkin pie because, in fact, we dislike it, some details no longer apply. As with the year we ate Thanksgiving burgers at the Hard Rock Cafe in the alternate universe called Orlando, or the Christmas dinner in Costa Rica involving coconut, pineapple, and spaghetti, traditions sometimes bow to present realities. And that's OK. (Because, hey, we remember those two holiday dinners.)

The tangibles change. The intangibles remain the real things. That the things we do together happen, in some form, matters. When they happen or precisely how, not so much. That the feeling of home remains “it's

all still there, and it's all OK” matters. What the menu or makeup is, not really. That we recognize the fleetingness of “same” and express gratitude for the times we have matter. Whether there seems to be little or much to be grateful for does not.

Whether you're sitting around a table with family Thursday or eating alone, swapping adult kids between tribes with the dexterity of David Copperfield or working all night to accommodate early (crazy) shoppers, stop. Find your intangibles. What matters? What doesn't? When all is stripped away, what remains real? That's what you have to be grateful for.  

Being Grateful for Winter. A Little. OK, Just Barely.

And one of the 8002 blizzards of 2013 begins.

I am not a winter person. While everyone on Facebook has been proudly proclaiming their refusal to turn on the heat yet, I've been sitting on my couch muttering, “Forget that crazy business. I've had mine going since September. Plus two fleece blankets.” 

OK, part of it is being sick for several months, but I am freezing this year. And I have no pride anymore when it comes to seeing how long I can refrain from cranking the thermostat. Comfort trumps bragging rights.

I don't like cold. I don't like to drive in snow. I hate early dark. I detest cold slush in my shoes. Polar vortexes are not my friends. And no, I do not especially want to build a snowman. Though monkshood and roses still bloom outside, I know the truth. It's stinking cold out there, and I know what comes next.

But November is the month for gratitude, so kvetching about winter is not something I'm going to do. Much. Instead, I've decided to find the good things in winter. So here is my list. What is there to be thankful for between November and March? (Realizing that in Chicago, we could easily add a month on either end of that.) Here you go.

• CHRISTMAS!

• Men have No Shave November. No shave November? No shave next five months, ladies! This may be better than Christmas.

• Cute boots and leggings.

• Christmas lights. Did I say Christmas?

• The first hot drink at the Starbucks drive through.

• Lord of the Rings marathon on New Year's Eve. Bring it on!

• Ice covered tree branches. It's God's form of twinkling lights. Except better.

• Christmas cookies. Oh, and Christmas.

• Homemade hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate, as in whipped from cocoa and sugar and milk. And maybe hazelnut syrup. If you really have good taste.

It's snowing. It's snowing and she's
thrilled. What kind of weirdo does this?
Oh wait--one with my genetic code.

• Making soup. I am not a fan of eating it. And I am not a fan of cooking. But there is something about making soup that I love. Explanation? I have none. I need none.

• Leftover turkey. I like it. Get over it.

• Christmas songs. Unless they are insipid and annoying. Or Santa Baby, which is in a class by itself for stupid. But otherwise—cue the music. CHRISTMAS.

• Seed catalogs that come in the mail. I'm dreaming of an early . . . spriiiing. Just like the ones I've never knoooown . . .

• Quiet evenings when no one in their right mind goes out that are perfect for reading books and planning vacations. To places that are warm.

• Chocolate marzipan in my Christmas stocking. The kind that comes only from Cost Plus World Market, not the sad little excuse for it called Ritter Sport Walgreens stuff. Just a hint, in case anyone's listening. (Gluten free.)

• Creating an epic gingerbread masterpiece. What would you suggest we try this year? I don't think it's possible to top last year. But we are open to suggestions.

What do you find to be grateful for in winter? Yes, I know, some of you may be those weird people who actually like the whole season. I live with some of you. I can't help you. I'm ready for spring. 

I'm Not Tolerant

Kids don't need to be told how to do this.

On November 16, the UN urges people worldwide to celebrate and observe the UN International Day for Tolerance. The point? To foster understanding and education between peoples of different origins. (That's my summary, not theirs.)

While I love the idea of celebrating differences, I'm not so sure of the name. I know tolerance has become the buzzword of the 2000's. If you're not tolerant? You're a bigoted, uneducated jerk. Basically. That's the edited version. Whose version of tolerant? Well, it depends. To steal from Orwell, it does appear some people are more tolerable than others.

But I refuse to be tolerant.

“Tolerance” is such a feeble word. I tolerate creaky knees. I tolerate cold weather and slow checkout lanes and JW's at my door. (Although to be honest, I usually hide from them.) I don't love any of those. I don't even like them very much.

You know how the online dictionary defines tolerance?

“To allow the existence, occurrence, or practice of (something that one does not necessarily like or agree with) without interference. To accept or endure (someone or something unpleasant or disliked) with forbearance.”

Tolerance only asks that I endure you. I can continue to dislike you intensely, but if I deal with you like I would a root canal, I'm a good person. As long as I allow your existence, I'm on moral high ground. You see what a weak ideal we're celebrating here?

Now, I realize that allowing someone else's existence would be a significant step up for people like ISIS. It's a steep enough goal if you're the UN, so what they're doing is great. But for most of us? I'd like to think we could aim higher.

Jesus said “Love your neighbor as yourself.” “Pray for your enemies.” He told stories of racial strife healed by a Samaritan salving a man's wounds and putting him on a donkey. He rebuked the unjust treatment of women by refusing to throw a stone at one.

Then he showed us how it was done by forgiving those who murdered him even as they cheered about it. That “Father forgive them” was not an act of tolerance. It was a declaration of love.

It was a gauntlet thrown down in the name of a new Kingdom where love, not mere tolerance, would reign. It was a challenge for his followers to take up.

In contrast to tolerance, witness the definition of what Jesus meant when he told us to love our neighbor.

“Agape is selfless, sacrificial, unconditional love, the highest of the four types of love in the Bible. The essence of agape is self-sacrifice.” 

That doesn't sound like the kind of feeling I'd have toward a root canal.

The day we, literally, sat down for tea with a Chinese communist.
And we had a great time.

I have a challenge. Skip the tolerance. Go right to the love. Put away the name calling, the labeling, the Facebook posts about “those people” and how dumb they must be. Stow your “right” to be angry and your certainty that yours is the only reasonable outlook.

Sit down for tea with someone you disagree with on however many levels. Someone from a very different background. Not to argue. Not to convince him or her you're right. Just to talk. Mostly to listen. See if you can't hammer out more than a simple tolerance by the time you're done. I'm serious about this—do it. This is not just a theoretical challenge.

If those who claim to have accepted Jesus' declaration of love for themselves cannot, read that will not, lavish it as unconditionally as He did, we're not even tolerating. We're just plain failing. Fortunately for us, he just keeps offering that love, and power, to improve our record. 

I need that power. I fail at the love thing. I need power every day to turn away from what I think I deserve and how right I think I am toward “selfless, sacrificial, unconditional love.” But tolerance? I want to fail at that. I don't want to endure those with whom I disagree. I want to love them. With whom are you going to have tea?

Rosie the Riveter, Home Built Sewers, and the Holy "I Can't"

I can't. Do you say those words often? I don't. Like, never. “Yes, I can” runs in my veins like iron runs through our well water. I would have made a great Rosie the Riveter.

Not only don't I ever say “I can't,” but if someone says it to me (as in, “you can't do that”), well, that's probably the best motivation to ensure I will try.

I think this is a result of being the daughter of a man who built his own garage and laid his own septic tank. (That last one at night, on account of the law frowns on home built septics, apparently.) My dad repaired washers and dryers for a living. He didn't exactly have a degree from the Ty Pennington School of Demolition and Carpentry. He just never knew he couldn't do things, so he did them.

This stubborn inheritance may be part of the reason why, just prior to getting sick last June, my calendar included five speaking engagements, one vacation for five, a writer's conference, a pastor's conference, two kids' graduations, a weekend road trip, normal work, a wedding . . . and a partridge in a pear tree. I'm certain there was no connection between that and the getting sick thing. None whatsoever.

All this to say—I've been saying “I can't” a lot the last five months. And I've hated it.

I can't commit to a mission trip. I can't take a walk around the lake. I can't promise I'll make a two-hour drive. I can't sit up at the table to play a board game. I can't sign on to help promote your book. I can't even get off the stupid couch to turn off the TV. Yes, it's been that bad. Friends I've wanted to support haven't been supported by me. Kids I've wanted to spend time with have had to do their things without me. And I've rebelled against the I cant's. Oh, how I have rebelled. Inwardly, because it's tough to rebel too strenuously when “I can't get off the couch” is the one “I can't” that's absolutely incontrovertible.

I've never known the complete, frustrated helplessness that is physical disability, nor the depth to which it can affect your outlook. (Not to mention your disposition. Those people who suffer sweetly through illness? Yeah, so not me. I'm a certified crank. True story.)

I knew I hated hearing “you can't,” but I never knew how deeply I would despise saying “I can't,” knowing it to be true, and feeling the fear of not knowing when it would not be.

“I can't” are two little words, containing an ocean of meaning, complexity, and emotion I never realized. I rebel at their truth. I don't think I'm the only one.

In fact, I know I'm not, because that little incident in the Genesis Garden happened when two people looked at one another and thought, “Did He really say we can't? I don't like that.” And we all know how that ended.

No, being forced into I can't because of physical limitations and fighting the limitations God created are not the same thing. But the former only exists because the latter occurred. On some level, the “I cant's” we hate are all a result of the “I won't” chosen so long ago.

All this time, I've been trying to figure out what I can learn from the past five months, and maybe it's simpler than I'm making it. Maybe, it's that discontent with the results of that one big, disastrous “I will” is OK. Not just OK, but encouraging. A sign of life. A proof that we know in our being this is not how it was meant to play out.

Maybe it's OK to hate our I cant's. Maybe they're a reflection of our restlessness with the way things are versus the way they should be. We know we were not made for sickness and disability and frustration. We know the world was not created for hunger and cruelty and greed. One huge cry of frustration at our “I cant's” really may be a healthy cry. A cry of birth, signaling our anger at not being able to heal the ills around us.

And after the angry cry of birth comes the living. The refusal to give in to the cant's and the agreement that whatever we can matters.

I know someone with a chronic illness who so often can't. Yet when she can, she fights human trafficking with every ounce of her passion. Are the two connected? Does her frustration at physical difficulty interplay with the willingness to fight against an evil the world was not meant to hold? Oh, I think it does.

I think our real limits can always fuel our discontent with unjust limits. It should not surprise us, really.

CS Lewis felt and explained our discontent often.

“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.” 

Unlike my friend, I am going to get better. This will be over, and I'll be back to being my contrary active self. But when “Yes I can” is back, I hope it fuels a different sort of discontent. One not so much focused on me but on fixing what has been broken and retrieving what has been lost.

What have you discovered through your “I cant's”?