Goodbye, Dear Friend Hercules

Two weeks ago, we lost our big buddy, Hercules. John called him the "World's Biggest Lap dog" and it would be an injustice not to post a story or two about the Great Dane who made his home with us for so long. 

John adopted Hercules over five years ago. He was already five years old, full grown, weighing over two hundred pounds when John took him in. Hercules always brought our family a lot of attention whenever we were traveling with him.  He was a close companion of Jack, our terrier-beagle mix. Hercules and Jack were pretty much always together, from the living room where they would rest on opposite counches, to the neighborhood where they would roam together if they got away from us (before the backyard was fenced.)  My first encounter with Hercules was on my first date with John. We had dinner at the house, and when I first walked through the front door, these two crazy dogs came rushing at me, barking with tails wagging.  Hercules' tail was about two feet long and he got so excited, whacking his tail on the wall beside where I stood, that his tail burst open and blood was splattering all over the walls. It was quite alarming! I remember teasing John about not being afraid of the blood splatters on the wall leading down to the basement and about my being out on a date in the middle of the mountains with a complete stranger. 
I didn't know how to take Hercules at first: he was so large and intimidating, and yet, as gentle as a lamb. I would drive off to find him if he got away from the boys, and when I found him and called to him, he would jump into the cargo space of the Jeep and his huge tail would hang down. Several times, I had to try hard to not smash his tail when I closed the cargo door. Most of the time, he had this dopey kind of look on his face, but he was still pretty smart. He knew to stay away from the cats, and not try to steal food from Pork Chop.
Another special memory would be the day I brought Jeremiah and Peniel home, in June of last year. The boys were not used to indoor dogs, but I told them we had two big ones, and one small dog.  But I guess when you weigh 36 pounds like Jeremiah, a 178 pound dog that stands as tall as the kitchen counter is a little bit freaky.  I will never forget how the boys took one look at Porky and Hercules, and ran into our kitchen pantry, huddling together and shouting: "There's a horse in your house! It's a horse in your house!"  When Jeremiah finally came out of the pantry, I sat him on the kitchen counter and he looked around worriedly. His eyes found Jack, little scruffy, 30 pound Jack. "I yike the jello dog," he told me through his tears . . . but it wasn't soon before he learned that Hercules was the gentle one. Jeremiah played with Herc's tail, tried to ride him through the house, picked up his big feet and drove matchbox cars down his hip bone. Yes, he was a very patient old dog. He outlived most great Danes by 2-3 years, and he died peacefully on our back porch.

We Love you, Hercules! Rest in Peace!

"If there are no dogs in Heaven,
then when I die I want to go
where they went."

Will Rogers, 1897-1935

Living in a Shoe

My mom has started referring to me as "the young woman who lives in a shoe" and my friend Sara, calls me "18 kids and counting," although I have never watched that show. I think that living in a "full house" grows you and stretches you in ways you never knew you could be stretched.  When I first went away to college in 1995, it was hard moving into a dorm full of people. We shared a community bathroom, the laundry facilities, a small kitchenette, and a large living space that was called the "lounge." It takes awhile to get used to all the sounds, sights, smells, and scenes that you are exposed to when you leave the comforts of home for a girls dormitory.  I think that is kind of the way it is at my house when people come to visit, or when the girls have a friend over.  Maybe the 15-passenger van in the driveway is a little intimidating, or maybe its the issue of standing in line to use the restroom. Either way, I can always tell when someone is a little less than comfortable with our wacky house that is busting at the seams.  I like to think that I am doing what God always wanted me to do, creating a home for kids who need one, creating memories for those kids, and loving them as they should be loved. Psalm 68: 5-6 says God is a "⁵ father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. ⁶ God sets the lonely in families." I look around our kitchen table and think about these verses often. God has put together our family of different backgrounds, and I am very thankful we are exactly what we are. Just take a "typical" evening in my house- I get home from work about 7 pm - there is a little boy with brown skin playing on the floor with a Rottweiller. There is a red-haired, freckle-faced girl talking about a paper she has to write on Harper Lee's book, To Kill a Mockingbird, an autistic 12-year old in glasses trying to play the harmonica, and another boy in glasses making origami birds out of every piece of paper he can find. There is another beautiful brown-skinned boy, digging through the laundry trying to find something he lost, and another dog sniffing at the laundry pile. In the kitchen, a teenage girl and teenage guy take turns on the computer, working on projects, and a sweet bald man is trying to cook dinner amidst the chaos. There are times when it seems overwhelming- the dirt on the floor, the legos in the drain of the bathtub, dog hair all over the furniture, Kool-aid knocked over on the counter - and there are times when I fantasize about the peace and quiet I once knew when it was just me. And then I remember when it was "just me", and I had to sleep with my gun, Rottweiller, and all the lights in the house turned on. I would wake up three or four times a night to check and make sure the doors were all locked. I would sit in silence over a meal, or just park myself in front of the television at night for the company of the Golden Girls. I would take a walk in the neighborhood with my sweet dog, or go walk on the treadmill at the Y. But I was alone. And then there was Christmas of 2007. It was the first and only Christmas that I ever woke up alone. Yes, my sweet doggie was there, but there was no one to exchange gifts with, or share a nice breakfast. I was "the lonely" and God "set" me in a family. He had not forgotten me, although there were times I felt forgotten. He remembered me, and my heart's desire, and moved me and my sweet guard dog to Dahlonega to live with John and his three awesome kids. Then he blessed our home with three more great kids, and others would follow. Thinking about it, I rather like my life in a shoe. There is always something happening, always someone to talk to, or share a meal with. Yes, I like being the young woman who lives in a shoe. I think I will stay there, although we may need to switch our shoe to wide-width.

Tomorrow is OUR Valentine's Day!

Yes, I know that today is actually "Valentine's Day" but John and I will have our own reason to celebrate tomorrow because it will be exactly three years since our first date.

Three years ago, I was newly single, having finally surrendered my hope of "saving" a man who was hopelessly addicted to drugs and alcohol. I had been married for four years, eleven months and twenty-one days. I had seen my first "husband" through 4 mental hospitalizations, three stints in residential rehab, 2 incarcerations, multiple court appearances and arrests, 2 DUIs, one "hit and run", and 3 months on life-support at Grady Memorial - all of which didn't serve to turn his life around like you might think. Three years ago, I had decided that I might not ever have the family I dreamed of, that I might be "DIVORCED" and unwanted for good. Three years ago, I bought myself flowers and candy and determined that I was okay just being alone in a small house with a sweet dog and fat cat, Law and Order reruns, and a purposeful career.  But you see, three years ago, I had been talking online to a blue-eyed man in Dahlonega whom I had yet to meet in person. He had an easy laugh when we talked on the phone, and I could tell he loved his children, but he seemed so busy that I thought we would never meet.  But that Valentine's Day in 2008, John mentioned that, he too was alone for the holiday of sweethearts. He had worked that night, and had gone home to eat a simple dinner and watch television. He asked me if I might want to have dinner with him the next day- February 15. I agreed that it was time for us to meet. We had talked online and on the phone for quite awhile, we had talked about our first "marriages" and about seeing our exes decline into instability and recklessness. We had laughed into the phone about funny videos we had seen, or about the crazy children in our lives. He had grown up just around the corner from my grandparent's house in Stone Mountain.  He had vacationed on the same little spot of deserted beach in Florida all his life, just like me. We had worked at the same mall all through high school, he was on the same trip to Washington DC that I took at 16 years old, and we had literally missed each other by inches all of our lives.

So John invited me to dinner on the Friday night after Valentine's Day.  I drove to his house, where he had cooked pot roast and green beans. He had burned a few canned biscuits, and had bought me a diet coke, having learned it was my favorite. After dinner we bowled on his children's Wii and played with his two dogs. We tried to replace the awkwardness of a first date with interesting conversation, and found ourselves talking about politics. He read different books than me - had experienced life in different ways than me - had three brothers while I had two sisters - was a Presbyterian at a tiny little church and for Heaven's sake- a Democrat! But the longer we talked, the more I realized that the things I once thought were so important in a partner were really minor issues compared to the compatibility of finding someone who loves the same Lord that you do, and lives a life of integrity, trying to be an example for his children.

When our "date" was over, I said goodbye to John and he walked me outside. I wondered if he was still interested in me, and what would happen next. He didn't kiss me or try to hold my hand, he just gave me a gentle hug and told me to drive safely. I drove home, and thought about our date as I fell asleep.  The next day, John called so say "I had fun last night."
"Me too," I replied, "Let's do it again sometime."
"How about tonight?" He asked. And we ended up seeing each other on February 16th, when I made homemade chicken and dumplings and he brought me peach roses. And again on February 17th. And again the next weekend. And the weekend after that . . . .

And eight months later, we married in a simple outdoor wedding at my Great Aunt's house in Covington. Amanda stood with me, and Georgia stood with John. The boys wore matching sweaters, and after the ceremony, John and I took 3 nights for a honeymoon in Dillard. And after this humble beginning, I moved into that house in Dahlonega where we shared our first meal together. I brought my household full of "stuff", my sweet dog, fat cat, and a whole lot of hope for the future.

And every day since then has been another day with the love of my life, my partner in this world . . . my best friend. Happy Valentine's Day, Bunky! I love you so much!

Don't come into my cave if you are afraid of the dark . . .

This is as real as it gets, so please don't read this and then post some silly comment about how I need to keep my chin up or "look at the bright side."  For those of you who might think I'm not looking at the bright side, let me assure you that I am over-the-moon happily in love with my husband, abundantly grateful for my ever-supportive and loyal family, and crazy about my step-kids and foster kids. But here goes:  INFERTILITY STINKS.  I would use another adjective besides "Stinks" here but it would not be very nice. 
Last week, I was talking with a little boy who is adopted. He told me that he will not have any brothers or sisters because "my mom's stomach is broken." It was all I could do not to fall into the floor in a heap of emotions and just cry for his mom. Because I know what it's like to have a "broken stomach" and feel the ache of longing to carry a child, but also feeling like a part of you is so damaged or broken (and not because you did anything to cause that) and it is a disgusting, lonely, and miserable feeling.
Yes I know- REJOICE ALWAYS... The Bible says so. I want to rejoice always, I want to be so happy for the 12 people a day that cross my path with their perfect ultrasound photos. I want to REJOICE in this situation that I am facing. I want to rejoice in the crazy misfit family that God has given me. 
But some days it is hard . . .
I've had Jeremiah and Peniel since June 22 of last year. I love them so much, and they have healed my broken heart in so many ways.  But slowly, they have begun having overnight visits with their mom. This past weekend was the third time they have had an overnight visit with her. When they came back to me, they were awful. From his car-seat, Jeremiah was throwing a fit and when I tried to correct his behavior, he shouted "I don't yike you, Meyissa! You are the WORST BABYSITTER EVER!"  And let me tell you, that remark did not sit well with me.  Of course, I didn't cry in front of him- I did it much later, in my bedroom with John lovingly rubbing my back and telling me that I am NOT a babysitter. Becky later pointed out that if I was a babysitter, I'm really getting the shaft.  I feed, clothe, and bathe this child - wash his dirty butt when he has diarrhea and frequently fall asleep with his toes stabbing my in the back because he wakes up in the middle of the night and comes into my room.  And I don't get paid a dime for any of that!
Samuel wrote a letter to his mom in jail and gave it to me to mail. It read "I miss you when you are in jail. You are the best mom in the whole world." If the irony of that escapes you, don't worry - it escaped him too.

Obviously the hardest part of being a step mom or foster-mom is the fact that I am a substitute for the real thing. It's like when you watch a soap opera and suddenly without warning your favorite character is replaced by a new actor. The narrator's voice announces: "The part of Dash Wellington will now be played by . . ." and gives the name of the new actor who will take the place of your old favorite one. The new actor can do all the same things, read the same lines, romance the same ladies as part of the plot - but in your heart he will never feel like the real Dash Wellington. Well, that's me . . . the babysitter with the broken stomach. To my kids, I am just a stand-in for the real thing. Or at least that's how I feel right now. I'm just down in the dumps- in my cave.  It doesn't mean I won't come out . . . and it doesn't mean I will be this way forever. I will come back into the light of day, I will hear the boys laughter and their arguing over who can fart the loudest. I will hear the girls talking about their guy troubles and discussion about prom dates. I will look around our crowded kitchen table and think about how blessed I am - how fortunate I am to share my lives with them, to grow and learn with them . . . to see their progress in life, and to hear about their adventures.
So, if you read this blog and you pray- please pray for me. Pray that I can rejoice in all things. Pray that I can see God's hand at work in this- that I can "let go" and accept things as they are, or find fulfillment in God's perfect will for my life- even if is disagrees with my own plans. 

All that's new in 2011

It's been awhile since I posted anything, and I am very happy that a few people have mentioned that fact. Every time I thought about writing and updating this blog, I got distracted. Yes, I know it's hard to believe that I ever get distracted . . . four boys under 12 years old, several teenage girls, more dogs than many people will have in a lifetime . . . but, yes, I do often get distracted. But aside from the usual madness in the Line Castle, we have recently had some other situations that diverted our attention, and rightly so.

First of all, we lost John's precious and devoted father, Jack, on January 5th. Jack was an incredible father, husband, grandfather, church leader, friend, and neighbor. He and my sweet mother in law, Fran, are a gift from God, something I never expected to find in another family. It seems that God doubly blessed me when he sent John into my life, because I not only got a wonderful husband, but an equally wonderful second family.

John's dad had several small strokes in 2010, the most recent one causing him to lose his speech. Communicating with Jack was hard, and you could sense his frustration, though he was always gracious and glad to see us and the children. Jack's health was progressively deteriorating for all of the last year and a week before his death, he took another bad fall in the house, resulting in some bleeding in the brain. On Sunday, January the 2nd, John's brother called to say that Jack was not doing well and that we should come down to the hospital. Jack had stopped breathing several times, and had to be intubated. Fran and the guys explained to the hospital that Jack never wanted to be kept alive this way. Jack had signed a DNR order with his attorney three years prior, and had always been adamant that he never wanted to be hooked up to machines in the hospital. So around eleven in the morning that Sunday, Jack was taken off all the machines. His breathing was labored, and although he did open his eyes at times, and would even squeeze your hand, he was fading away. John and his brothers stayed right by Jack's side through the entire ordeal. On Sunday night, the Dr. advised to move Jack to Odyssey house, a hospice facility nearby. For the next three nights, each of Jack's sons took a turn staying with him all through the night, talking to him, playing his favorite bluegrass and gospel music, and making sure the football games were always on the television. Fran brought Jack's Georgia Tech blanket and covered him and Georgia and I stayed as long as possible Sunday and again on Monday. On Tuesday, the kids returned to school, and by Wednesday when I returned to the hospice facility, Jack was barely hanging on. John had been there for several hours that morning already, and decided to go over to his parent's house to shower. Fran and I took over by Jack's bedside, and we tried to talk to keep our minds off the difficult task of watching Jack leave this world. John had plugged in Jack's laptop and turned it to a Pandora station that featured all bluegrass and country gospel. A few times that morning I heard Elvis or Johnny Cash singing an old hymn and I smiled when I heard "The devil went down to Georgia," sharing with Fran about the time when Mitchell decided to sing it for my entire family. After a short time, I stood up and crossed the room. I found the Gideon Bible in a drawer and opened it to Psalm 91, laying it on the bed at Jack's feet. While Fran held her husband's hand, I touched his feet and prayed for God to take him gently, and without any suffering. His breathing was devastating to hear, and many times I had to get up and pace the room to keep from falling apart. Fran patiently and tenderly spoke to Jack, reassuring him that she was there by his side. When he stopped breathing, Fran suggested I go and find a medical staff member to come see him. When I stood up, Jack took one more breath and then he was gone. I hurried to the nurse's station, and felt the tears in my eyes. "I think my father in law is . . ." and I couldn't even say the words. Two nurses and a technician followed me back to the room. Fran was still holding Jack's hand. One of the nurses listened with a stethoscope and used a small blood pressure cuff, then nodded to the other nurse. It was so quiet, so final. We sat for a moment without a word, until I realized what was playing from the laptop, "In the sweet, by and by . . . we shall meet on that beautiful shore." Fran turned and looked at me with tears in her eyes and said softly, "we had 53 and 1/2 years."

Explaining to the kids that Grandpa's life is now in Heaven but his body remains on earth is a difficult task, especially with a five year old. Jeremiah's questions ranged from "Will Grandpa be old in Heaven?" to "Will I be old and die?" Georgia had a very hard time and expressed her emotions openly. Mitchell grieved in his very own way, as did Samuel. Peniel told us in the van that saying goodbye to Grandpa was "saying a happy goodbye," because we know we will be together again one day.

Following Jack's death, relatives from Michigan, Florida, and Ohio filled John's childhood home with food, photographs, and warmth. The kids and I spent the weekend with these wonderful people, many of whom had never met me, and most who had not seen the children in several years. We talked of how Jack was reunited with his son, Mark, John's brother who died nineteen years ago, and with his own parents and brother. My mom and Uncle put together a bluegrass band to play "I'll fly away" at the Saturday funeral, and Samuel got strep throat in the middle of all of it!

One of the most precious things that happened after Jack's death was when Fran gave John his father's wedding band. John has been without a wedding band for about 6 months since his was accidentally destroyed. He hasn't found another ring he liked as well as his original one, so he has been without a ring. Following Jack's death, Fran gave John the ring his dad wore for 53 and 1/2 years. I can only hope and pray that we will have as long as they did, and that we will love each other as completely and honestly as they did, sharing joys and sorrows and a house full of memories.

The day after the funeral a great snowstorm hit us! John told the kids it was "Grandpa's snow," a beautiful, thick, pure white snow blanketed everything you could see, from our yard, to our street, even our cars. The snow in Dahlonega was about seven inches or more and fluffy. It was like a gift in many ways: it forced us to stay home and spend time with each other, and we enjoyed our gas fireplace logs that Jack and Fran had given us for Christmas! The snow afforded us some extra time to love on each other, gather around the fireplace and enjoy chicken and dumplings. Cody and Samuel built a fantastic snowman, Hannah built an igloo that unforunately collapased, and we had hours of snowball fights and sledding. Pork Chop donned her Harley Davidson sweatshirt and chased the kids around in the snow, jumping up and down with excitement.

School was closed for an entire week - for most of north Georgia. The kids became stir crazy and a little grumpy around Wednesday, and with a snow shovel and ice-scraper, John had to return to work and open his store. I was able to work from home, and catch up on some phone messages and emails from the week before. On Thursday, I went into the office for a little while, being that we only opened for a few hours that day, and had the chance to stop and help a college student who had run off the highway into the median. God protected us and our cars throughout the icy week, and the weekend came and went. Now I am back to work, and the kids are back to school. It's time to get back into the routine of life, although life is different now. My husband's father is gone. He lives on through John, and through his brothers, and through all the grandchildren, but he resides no longer in the flesh and on this earth. He reigns with God, maybe he talks about math with God, maybe he square dances, or listens to Elvis and Johnny Cash - live.  Most of all, I like to imagine him at peace, happy, whole . . . and I pray that he found my little babies, and told them I can't wait to hold them . . . one day.

Tales from the Dark Side

Mom thought I should post a blog about the recent stomach virus that hit the Line family home. Only my mom would find this to be interesting writing material! My mom, by the way, the most amazing and lovely woman I know, and was a lay midwife for 16+ years of my life. I know this might sound weird, but in our childhood home, we had a second refrigerator/ freezer in the garage, but rarely was it used for food. No, there were no dead old uncles or neighbors being preserved (that would be TOO WEIRD). But you may think the truth is even weirder: Not only did my herpetologist father store frozen mice and rats for snake-feeding purposes, but for many years there was (stored in the freezer) a one-of-a-kind very unique frozen placenta (yes, human) that my mom thought to save for research purposes. It was an interesting childhood . . . but I digress.
Needless to say mom has a strong stomach, so the stories of viruses and freakish ailments don't bother her one bit. Dad's another story. Dad, you may not want to read this one.
I guess I never realized that when you have four boys under the age of 12, a stomach virus is like an Old Testament Plague. It started with Mitchell last Monday night. We were all sleeping peacefully until suddenly my bedroom door was thrust open and my overhead light was turned on abruptly. In the doorway, Mitchell stood, wearing a giant American flag t-shirt. Old Glory was covered in old pot roast.
"Why did you turn the light on, Mitchell?" John asked, shielding his eyes from the sudden bright like. At the foot of our bed, Porky barked at him for intruding upon her rest.
"I barfed in my bed!" He whimpered.
"Well, take off your clothes and go get in the shower!" I insisted. Then I went into the boys' bedroom to survey the damage. Mitchell sleeps on the highest top bunk in the boys clubhouse, and it was impossible for me to clean the mattress without waking the other boys. So we put all the sheets in the washer and added lots of color-safe bleach. I sprayed the mattress with disinfectant and odor-remover, then told Mitchell to get into bed with his brother. Yes, friends, this is how germs thrive.
The next day John stayed home with Mitchell and there was only one more puking incident, this time, all over Samuel's pillow. Lucky Samuel. Wednesday came and everyone went to school. We assumed Mitchell had just eaten something that disagreed with him, because no one seemed to be too sick. But Wednesday night sometime late, Jeremiah showed up in my bedroom asking if he could sleep with me. I wish I had know that little stinker was a time-bomb waiting to go off. Early Thursday morning, Jeremiah sat up in my bed around 6 am and threw up bright red (meatballs) all over my tan sheets, white bed spread, and pillowcases. I jumped out of bed, started stripping his clothes and my bed linens, feverishly trying to save my mattress from a meatball stain. Lucky John had already left for work earlier in the morning.
Thursday I tried to take Jeremiah to work with me. We only lasted a few hours. He slept on the sofa in my office, but woke up grumpy and hot. When his temperature was over one hundred, we left the office and headed back home. An hour after I got home, I heard a cry from Georgia's room. Peniel was sitting on Georgia's bed, covered in his own vomit. Somehow, his ultra-gooey barf had found it's way through Georgia's comforter, sheets, mattress cover and all the way to her box spring. I had no idea barf could travel so quickly! Once again, I tore bedsheets off ANOTHER bed, stripped ANOTHER little boy and put him in the bath. Needless to say, Peniel had no appetite Thursday night. Friday came (Peniel's 8th birthday) and I was determined we were having his party no matter what. He had wanted to go to Ryan's steakhouse for dinner and by this time, the thought of a buffet was too much for me to handle. I was beginning to feel it in my own belly, but I denied it's power and went on with the day. Friday around 2 pm, I took Georgia to her boyfriend's house for the afternoon. Jeremiah and Samuel rode with me, and after we dropped off big sister, Samuel climbed into the front seat of my car JUST IN TIME to start banging on the window, hollering "pull over! pull over!" We were on the so-very-curvy highway 9 and I pulled over as fast as possible, but not fast enough. Samuel's lap was already covered in chunks and it ran down his face. I pulled over into an area covered in leaves and Samuel literally rolled out of the car and lay on the ground, vomiting into the piles of leaves. Cars passed and people pointed and stared but the ever-dramatic Samuel kept moaning and groaning, rolling on the ground like he had been shot with an assault rifle. Like the wicked stepmother that I am, I forced my ten year old stepson to undress on the side of the road. I found a plastic grocery bag in the trunk and put his pants, coat, socks and shoes (all vomit-soaked) into the bag and into the trunk. I used Windex wipes to spot-clean the upholstery and then ordered Samuel to ride home in his whitey-tighties. What else could I do? From the backseat, Jeremiah giggled and chanted, "Samuel! You're wearing just your underwear!" As luck would have it, this errand had not been just about dropping off Georgia, but also had been for the purposes of picking up more bleach and detergent since I had now laundered every bed in the house at least twice in 48 hours and more was waiting for me. So Samuel had to cover himself with an extra jacket and remain in the car in his underwear while Jeremiah and I ran into Family Dollar for supplies. Needless to say, Samuel did not attend the birthday party at Ryan's Steakhouse that night, but he did manage to conjure up enough energy to whimper "Bring me back a roll!" as we loaded into Big Bessie for our night out. By this time, the mere thought of the hard boiled eggs on the salad bar was enough to send me running to the bathroom, but I was not about to let a little nausea get in the way of Peniel's birthday party. School had already been cancelled three days during the week, and he had missed not only his class Christmas party, but he was not able to bring cupcakes in for his class on his birthday since it was a snow day! I pressed on, forced myself to eat dinner (but not dessert) and sipped a sprite throughout the party, hoping to avoid a sudden run to the restroom. That night, I dipped into a stash of phenergan that was around from last year's bout with the stomach flu. I rolled around all night wishing someone would put me out of my misery. Mine lasted three days- lucky me. Wasn't Jonah in the belly of the whale three days and nights? I felt like something odd was in my belly for three days and nights. Sunday came and I missed church due to sickness for only the second time in 14 years! I stepped on the scale and found I had dropped four pounds - a silver lining, perhaps? Sunday afternoon I began to feel a little better and thought- maybe I will live.  I came out of my bedroom to join the land of the living.  Hannah rounded the corner and met me in the hallway with a grim look on her face. "Melissa . . . I'm not feeling so well."

Gifts of Grace . . .

Well . . . ready or not, here it comes: The most wonderful time of the year.  And even though I share my life with the most amazing people on the planet, and worship the Birthday Boy himself, I am just slightly disenchanted with the Holiday season this year. And here is why:

I spend countless hours shopping for the toys and goodies for our kids. I research the best prices, drive around and find those things their little hearts desire, wrap them up with the cutest paper I can find, and place them under the tree. After this process, inevitably someone (at least one of the kids) will remark that what they REALLY want for Christmas is ___________ and name some other toy that hasn't been previously talked about. This makes me a little crazy and I feel like telling the kids there is a "wish list deadline" - sort of like April 15 for taxpayers. You can add or change something to your list before the wish list deadline (say, November 23) but when it is midnight on November 24 don't even THINK about changing your wish list. And if you try to back out of something you previously listed, I will take it all back to the store and you get NOTHING. 

But here is the other problem: my kids are "counting" presents under the tree! They aren't just looking at them, shaking and listening to the packages, or talking about what might be in those beautifully wrapped gifts. They are COUNTING to see how many gifts they will be getting, and comparing their numbers to the other kids.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME? HAVE WE REALLY GOTTEN THAT MATERIALISTIC?

I feel that something drastic needs to happen. Maybe John and I should load the kids up in Big Bessie and find a Leper colony, or a family of homeless bums and camp out there for the duration of the Christmas season to give the kids a little perspective. They have completely forgotten what this season is all about - sharing, sacrifice, and being together with those you love. How can I teach this to kids I haven't had for very long? How can I teach them that Christmas is NOT about what you get- it's about what was already given!

When my sisters and I were little, our parents had a good policy on the gifts. The scriptural record tells us that Jesus essentially received three Christmas gifts from the Magi: Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. Never mind the fact that spices and precious metals aren't exactly the most practical gifts for a toddler, we all know that those gifts were shared to honor and bless the King of Kings. I feel this practice Mom and Dad put into place is a good one, so I have instituted the "Three gift maximum" for the Line bunch. It only gets complicated when the always-brilliant Mitchell points out that "Jesus got gold, which is basically like a gift card or money because he could spend it on whatever he wanted."

Maybe the biggest problem with Christmas is Santa. I never really thought of him as "Bad", in fact I always thought the jolly old soul was just fun and magic, and an innocent part of childhood. And though I'm not ready to lump him into the same category as Osama Bin Laden or Satan, I am beginning to wonder if "he" is part of the problem. You see, Santa brings gifts to the "good boys and girls." Santa "knows when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sakes!" The problem with this is: who is good, and who is bad? It's the same problem that the Pharisees kept running into all over the gospels. The Pharisees had a long list of rules and regulations, and were so busy running around trying to catch the bad guys, they didn't realize that they themselves were outside of the perfect holiness of God. But through the important lessons that Jesus taught in the gospels, we have learned that through GRACE, we can be made right with God - and ONLY through grace. There are simply not enough "good" deeds that we can do to earn the magnificent, complete and perfect love of Jesus Christ. While many kids who still believe in Santa Claus might try to be "good" around the holidays in case Santa is watching, we who follow Christ know that "being good" is not the way to get in right with our Heavenly Father. If we tried to be good enough to earn gifts from God, we would find ourselves to be utter and hopeless failures. Every gift from God is the complete opposite of what we deserve or what we have earned. Every gift from God is just that - a gift - not something we got because we were "good little boys or girls."

So maybe instead of trying to teach my kids about Christmas, I should try instead to show my children GRACE. By loving them just as they are, and accepting the fact that they are children- sometimes foolish, sometimes weak and ALWAYS in need of a Savior, I can give my children the gift of grace. After all, isn't that what Christmas is really about anyway?