As my husband and I were touring the local craft shows in search of a few Christmas presents, my mind began to think back on past Christmases. Which ones were special enough that they had stuck in my collection of memories? As I thought through them,  not one of these special Christmases revolved around a gift I had received. In fact, I can barely recall any of the gifts I have gotten in years past. My fondest memories seemed to center more around the people I was with or a special activity we had done.  The one Christmas that seems to dominate all my other Christmas memories, however, is one that taught me that giving, by far, trumps receiving.

It was 1987 and I could hardly wait for Christmas to get here. The tree we cut ourselves was trimmed with homemade ornaments and silver rope tinsel. The Christmas tape in the tape player was playing a mix of secular songs and carols. I sang along to each one; the boys joining in on their favorites as they built impressive vehicles with the Legos corralled between their outstretched legs. The boys – now six and eight years old – asked again how much longer it was until “Christmas.” But their longing didn’t meet mine. I was giddy with excitement of giving the boys a gift I knew they would love.

Santa liked to find our house on Christmas Eve. He was very good about picking a time between oyster stew and bedtime. Most years, my husband would herd the boys to the garage after supper. There was always some chore he could assign. This particular Christmas Eve plans were modified just a bit as my husband announced he and the boys were going for a short ride. Low and behold, Santa snuck in while they were gone.

“Mom, didn’t you see him?” the boys asked in their excitement while eyeing the new gifts under the tree.

“I must have been back in the bedrooms, putting laundry away. He’s very sneaky, you know.”

We settled in around the tree. Daniel, the oldest, read the names on the packages and Caleb passed them around to the appropriate people. We took turns opening the gifts until only one was left – the one I had told the boys had to be opened last. It was addressed to them both and it was from Santa. The boys knew from past years that Santa gave the BEST gifts.

Wrapping paper flew – one boy tossing it over his shoulder, the other wadding his portion into a ball and sending it flying into the box of already discarded paper. They each grabbed a flap of the cardboard box and pulled. Silence overcame the room as they starred at what lay inside.

“This is it?” Daniel finally asked. “A bag of dry dog food?” I could hear the edge in his voice.

Caleb was more reserved, but he too had that look of confusion. After all, we didn’t have a dog.  It was evident that neither boy was amused and were very disappointed in Santa. What the boys had failed to do was lift the bag out of the box and read the note that Santa had carefully tucked under it.

“Let’s see the dog food,” their dad instructed. Caleb shrugged his shoulders and tugged at the ten pound bag, lifting it from the box. As he carried it to his dad, my eyes were on Daniel, waiting to see what might happen next. Just as I had hoped, he noticed the bright green note lying in the bottom of the box.

“Hey, this says to look in the garage for the rest of the present!”

“Wait, wait,” I called. “You boys need to put on coats and shoes.” I was hurrying to put on my own as was my husband. Neither of us wanted to miss out when the boys found the BEST part of the gift. We all trudged with eager anticipation through the snow to the detached garage.

That is where they met the puppy with the red bow around his neck and who they would later name Meatloaf. The black tail of the little coonhound looked as if it was a windshield wiper on high speed – waiting for the boys to pick him up. Two seconds later he was cradled in their arms and making his way to the house to enjoy the rest of Christmas Eve with his new family.

As Christmas closes in on me this year, I can’t help reflecting on the greatest gift ever given – the gift of Jesus Christ. It is the only gift where joy, peace, love, and hope are all packaged in the same box. Unlike most of the gifts we receive, it is the one gift that’s so special that once it’s accepted it won’t be forgotten. If you’ve not considered this gift, I hope you will this Christmas season. It’s the only gift that lasts and lasts and lasts…even into eternity. Now that’s a GIFT worth remembering!

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

If you enjoy this style of writing, check out my book page and how to get either of my Christian Fiction books.

 

 

 

The old farmhouse where I lived through my fifth grade year, was a cold son-of-a-gun. No doubt, the insulation was minimal, the windows one-paned, and the heating system inadequate. But it was home, and us three kids who had never known any other way of life were content and satisfied.  I’m guessing we were every bit as happy  as our contemporaries – Caroline and John Kennedy – living in the White House.

The old house had only two bedrooms – both located up the creaky, wooden steps on the second level. As the two oldest children, Dave and I shared the largest room. Connie, still in the crib, occupied the space between Mom and Dad’s bed and the north wall. Our heating system for this upper level consisted of leaving the stairway door open and hoping a bit of the heat from the oil stove below floated upward. Not much did.

Speedy, our small three inch turtle, lived in a plastic aquarium on the top of Dave’s dresser. Dave, unless we’d had a recent spat, would let me cross the imaginary line that separated his portion of the room from mine so that I could spend time with Speedy, too.

It was a frigid winter night when Mom brought us both an extra quilt to add to the  mound already on our beds. Shivering and teeth chattering, we didn’t argue. Having changed into our flannel pajamas with lightening speed, we dove beneath the covers of our beds, intentionally leaving our socks on. Mom tucked the quilts beneath our chins before bidding us good-night.

The next morning, I slipped my arm from beneath the covers and yanked my clothes from the nearby chair, slipping them beneath the covers with me.  When I felt confident they had warmed to a tolerable level, I thrust my legs into the denim pants and quickly pulled the long-sleeved sweatshirt over my head.  Dave appeared to be doing comparable maneuvers beneath his covers.

Although Mom had thought to bring us extra quilts that night, no one had thought about Speedy.  “Come, look,” Dave called, as he motioned me to hurry. Oh my…poor Speedy! His aquarium water was frozen solid around him and only his small snout stuck above the ice. As I think back on it, this surely had to have been one of Speedy’s worst moments.

Sometimes we tend to freeze people in their worst moments. We remember the poor choices they’ve made or the hurt they’ve caused. We often don’t make any effort at reconciliation, protecting ourselves based on past experiences. But, does anyone deserve to be frozen in time based on their worst moments? Even Speedy thawed out as the room warmed and it now seemed he enjoyed paddling about with increased vigor. Maybe, those we once had a relationship with, but now hold at arm’s length, would do the same if we warmed them up with a smile,  a pat on the back, or an encouraging call.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

(If this style of writing appeals to you, check out the Book Page on this same website and see how you can get my books.)

 

 

 

Have you ever experienced a time when you thought someone would react to a particular situation in an assumed manner, but their response turned out to be surprisingly different?  An event happened in my life, that looms so large in my mind that it seems it happened yesterday. It left it’s brand on my hide – never to be forgotten.

As I was growing up on the ranch, all three of us kids were expected to work in the hayfield. Dad started us out as soon as our legs were long enough that we could effectively and safely use the clutch. To the best of my recollection, it was my second year of raking when my parents purchased their first “brand-new” piece of equipment. The first day we got it, the family raced outside to admire the new dump rake. We oohed and aahed over the bright red hubs and the yellow spokes of the metal wheels. I was especially enamored with the new piece of equipment because I would be the one to use it.

I was very cautious the first few days I used the new rake. I was particularly careful not to drop a wheel off the steep banks of the river that snaked through our meadows. By the end of the week, I became over confident in my abilities. When it came time to move from one meadow to another, I made the decision to pull the rake between two huge cottonwood trees rather than make the longer trip around the grove. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen Dad maneuver the old rake between those same two trees.  What I hadn’t accounted for was Dad’s experience. I remember so wishing I could go back and make that decision over, instead of staring at the brightly colored wheel, now mangled and wrapped around the ungiving trunk of that big cottonwood.

I could see Dad in the distance, sweeping up the windrows of mowed grasses on this next meadow. I was in fear of the disappointment I would provoke as I trudged slowly, eyes downcast, across the meadow toward him.

As soon as he spotted me, he throttled the International M down and waited for me to approach. When I neared the back tire of his tractor, he leaned down from his seat.

“Got trouble?” he asked with a reassuring smile that made me wish more than ever that I had chosen to go around the grove. I nodded and spilled out my story – anxious to get it over with.

With only a momentary frown crossing his face, he replied calmly, “It could have happened to anyone. Jump on,” he nodded towards the tow bar, “let’s go see what we can do about it.”

My Dad taught me that day what GRACE  looks like. He extended kindness to an unworthy daughter. A daughter by the way, who continues to give thanks on a daily basis for the parents that raised her.

Many sons and daughters don’t have earthly fathers that would react the way my father did. But, there is a Father that is waiting to bless us despite the fact that we do not deserve it. Anyone that acknowledges Jesus as their Savior, can experience GRACE through our heavenly Father. And that’s a mighty blessing!

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

***

(If  this type of writing appeals to you, check out my book page on this same site.)

 

 

When I was in the fifth grade my parents traded the farm we owned in the eastern part of Nebraska for a ranch in the Sandhills – three hours west.  I knew they had been looking for a ranch, but I doubted that it would ever happen that they would find the right one for us. Now that I’ve studied such things, I suppose I was in “denial”. I couldn’t imagine moving away from my friends and extended family, so I just didn’t think about  it. I hadn’t put it on the back burner as we say, because it hadn’t even made it to the stove in my mind.  The day I was told we’d be moving was the day I thought the sun would never shine again.

Of course, the sun did shine again. Grandparents promised they’d visit, and friends promised to write. Within a few weeks I was well adjusted to the ranch and everything that went with it.

Fast forward a few years and I’m thirty years old. Now I have two preschoolers and a strong-willed husband that has dreams of living near the mountains – a state or two away. Before I know it, we are on a trip to check out appealing areas in Wyoming and Montana. My husband was finding several possibilities, I was finding none. You see, my heart was still in Nebraska. I couldn’t imagine living so far from family and leaving my friends again. Up until now I had coped with the idea of moving just as I had in fifth grade – by passing through the door with “Denial” written on the doorpost.

As we traveled to more and more areas and gathered more and more applications it was beginning to sink in that this could really  happen. As we traveled down the highways, my heart raced and my palms sweat, knowing that “RN” behind a name was usually synonymous with “hired.” I had little, if any, peace about it. I was a real homebody and as I looked out and saw dozens of antelope and bluish gray sagebrush, it felt like anything but home.  Under my breath, I repeated the same prayer over and over. “Lord, if this is Your will please give me peace.” My only consolation came from one reasonable thought- surely God wouldn’t send us to Wyoming or Montana – we didn’t know a soul in either state!

From western Montana we dropped down into Idaho. Our trip wouldn’t be complete without visiting my husband’s youngest brother enrolled in naval training in Pocatello. In true bachelor style, my brother-in-law ordered pizza and sodas to be delivered for dinner. The plan had been discussed – we would eat and watch a movie – one suitable for our five year old son who had made the trip with us.

“Oh God” starring George Burns and John Denver had been released several years prior to our visit, but none of us had seen it. I loved George Burns and I settled into one of the two beanbag chairs for a fun evening.  We laughed as God (George Burns) tries to persuade Jerry Landers (John Denver) that he really is God and then we laugh some more as Jerry tries to convince others that he has seen God.

And then it happened. A scene caught me off guard. I don’t remember exactly what was happening in the scene but I remember the words that jumped out of that screen and into my heart. God looked at Jerry and said, “I will be with you wherever you go.”

For the first time since my husband had voiced the cockamamie idea of leaving everything we knew to move to the mountains, I finally felt peace. Now that God had used George Burns to speak to me I imagined it was only a matter of time before we pulled up stakes and moved on.

We had been home less than a week when I received a phone call from the administrator of a small hospital in Wyoming where I had left an application. I remembered that the town of Buffalo was comparable in size to Cozad, NE where we currently lived. Buffalo sat at the foot of the beautiful Bighorn Mountains.  I could remember thinking as we walked out of the hospital that day that maybe I could live here if only I knew someone.

As the man spoke, it took me but a few seconds to recognize the voice.

“DeLila, I have your application here in front of me.”

“Oh my gosh.” I had no idea that Jerry Jurena  – the lab/xray tech I worked with for years was now living in Buffalo, WY! He was now a hospital administrator.  Although my husband and Jerry had been hunting buds and his wife had babysat my sons when they were newborns, we had lost track of them in their many moves.

“When can you start?” Jerry asked.

I paused and took a deep breath, but I knew it would be okay. God had given me a promise…He would be with me wherever I went.  (Joshua 1:9) Little did I know that Wyoming would be my home for thirty-one years.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

(If this type of writing appeals to you, check out my book page on this same site.)

 

 

 

By the time I knew Grandma Schultz (my great grandmother) she was so hard of hearing that no one could have a discussion with her. My best recollection of her is that of a slight, hunched woman sitting quietly in a rocking chair in a corner of her daughter’s (my maternal grandmother) dining room. Her thinning gray hair and many wrinkles supported the fact that she had seen nearly a century of these Thanksgiving dinners that we were about to partake of. Two of the men, one on each side of Grandma, helped her to the table. Once the prayer had been offered, the food was passed. It was easier to point and tip the bowl showing Grandma what was in it than it was to shout out SWEET POTATOES, DRESSING,  SCALLOPED CORN. She would nod or shake her head. I wasn’t sure what a stroke was, but I did know that after Grandma came home from the hospital she needed a lot of help.

As a young child I could only imagine Grandma as she was at the time – never as a child or young adult.  It did not occur to me to even think about what she might have liked to do as a child my age, because in my immature mind the idea that she had been one  seemed implausible.

Grandma Schultz was ninety-five years old when she passed away; I was eight. It may have been at her funeral as the minister read the obituary that I began to see her as more than the old woman I had been familiar with. She had grown up as a little girl somewhere I had never heard of – he called it Germany. I sat in the pew and wondered what little girls in Germany did. Did they play “jacks” and jump rope? Had Grandma played with dolls or had she made mud pies and climbed trees? Had she had a pony? Did she have a best friend in Germany to tell secrets to? As I filed past her casket and stole glances at her motionless body, I knew I had lost the opportunity to have my questions answered by the one that knew those answers best.

Time marched on and I listened through the years to stories told by Grandma Martha and my own mother. It may not have been from the horse’s mouth, but many facts were revealed to me about Grandma Schultz. She had crossed the ocean to come to America when she was fifteen. As an adult she loved flowers and shared a flower garden with her daughter who lived next door. She became a seamstress and sewed for the folks in the tiny village where she and my Grandpa Julius lived. She enjoyed fine needle work and spent many evenings crocheting under the kerosene lamp in the kitchen. And one of my favorite things I learned – she always went to the storm cellar, clutching her well worn Bible.

Although I have learned a lot of facts, it’s the feelings that go along with the facts that still remain absent. What kind of fears did Grandma have when she stepped off that boat onto a new land, surrounded by those that spoke a language she couldn’t understand? Was she at peace when she made the decision to withhold  surgery for her brain-injured child after being told it could paralyze or even kill him? Or was she consumed with guilt as she was forced to watch him suffer with agonizing headaches throughout his life? These are the answers that can only come from Grandma herself.

As the decades passed, I became a mother and then a grandmother, too. Things that were once inconsequential to me in my younger years have taken a cherished position now.   I often find myself looking at the quilt made by Grandma Schultz. I display it on a rack near the fireplace. With her skilled seamstress hands, she has placed perfectly even rows of stitches between and around each of the 75 colorful butterflies. As I look at the variety of fabric used for the different butterflies I wonder what Grandma might have been asked to make with each piece. I envision women’s blouses, dresses, and aprons from the flowered prints and possibly men’s shirts and ties from the plaids and stripes.

There is one piece of fabric I don’t have to guess at any longer, as it has been identified.  Although Mom often can’t remember what she’s had for dinner an hour ago, long term memory is frequently intact. I showed her a picture of the quilt on my recent visit to see her at the assisted living facility. She immediately pointed to the pink butterfly and said, “Grandma made me a jumper out of that one.”  Little did Mom realize she was giving me a glimpse into Grandma’s heart – a heart that gave the kind of gift that is seldom forgotten.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.