This was the first Christmas we spent as a ruptured family. I'm not going to spill my parents' dirt over the internet, but something came up over the summer that created a tear between my mom and dad. It feels like we've been living with this problem for years now, but it's only been a little more than six months.
There's a rift now between what was and what is. Like the Roman calendar centered around the birth of Christ, the calendar of my family's life is now centered around this summer event. Instead of BC, there is BT--Before Truth. And this was our first holiday season After Truth.
This Christmas felt hollow. I know that every passing year, as we grow older, and there are less presents or cookies and no more Santa, the season dissolves into more of a shadow of those magical memories. But this year, we live with having all of those memories completely invalidated by the Truth we haven't seen until now. So, we only see pain in the memories, and long for those blissful times of ignorance that we'd lived in Before Truth. Christmas morning, after we'd opened presents and charged up our gadgets and played a round of monopoly, we all floated our separate ways. At the end of the night, we came together for a couple of hours and watched some plastic Christmas movies before drifting off to bed. A couple days later, my mom told me that this first AT Christmas had been "hard."
For half a year now, I've buried my emotions about the situation. But with Christmas and all the family traditions I strive to preserve, my feelings have started bubbling to the surface. It hurts. I want to go back to ignorance. Ignorance felt loving at safe. Ignorance felt like a family. Ignorance felt like Christmas...
...But Jesus came on this earth to bring truth. He is Truth, and he values truth. He died for the Truth, and I suppose my family and I will now be crucified with him upon the truth. It's torture now, but I can only look to Christ's example and see that he did rise again. That is my prayer for my family--that we will arise as a stronger, closer, more God-glorifying family, and that a new time period can be added to our calendar--After Restoration.
Showing posts with label Advent Journal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Advent Journal. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Saturday, December 25, 2010
"Oh, Sweet Irony." My Favorite Memory from Chrismas 2010.
Board games are the bein of my existence. I just can't sit still and push my gamepiece across a board for two or more hours with these tedious, cruel suppressions of the human spirit. Among the worst offenders are Scrabble and Monopoly, and my sister, with her ever-changing infatuations, has recently decided that she loves Monopoly. I went Christmas shopping with her, and I knew she'd bought our Dad a new Nintendo Monopoly game. Thus, I had to come to grips with my fate on Christmas morn--I would have to play a round of Monopoly.
It was one of the last presents opened, and of course I just had to play, just once. I finally conceded, partially because it was Christmas, and partially because it was Nintendo, and I am a nerd.
The difference between the original Monopoly and the Nintendo version is that instead of being real estate tycoons, you're the top bosses in a lucrative character slave trade. Where there once were colorful boulevards and avenues, there are now lots where you can purchase any one of various Nintendo characters. They can be sold or traded, forced to erect houses and hotels, and if another player lands on your lot, they pay the fee in order to rent your character for labor.
This, of course, affected how we all played the game. Instead of making calculated and "Monopoly"-like decisions, we all scrambled to grab up our favorite characters, regardless of their value or strategic importance. I, apathetic about any actual success at the game, was particularly motivated to claim my favorites, among them Kirby, Toad, and all of the Zelda characters. I purchased no characters that I was not interested in, and went around the board almost twice without buying anything, because with my luck I wasn't going to land on anyone I actually wanted any time soon. However my sister, who is the veritable Fountain of Luck, breezed across the board and bought up every one of my favorite characters. I was ready to call it quits.
With plumbers being a particularly hard-working breed in the Nintendo World, Mario and Luigi took up the last and most expensive places on the board. In the next two go-arounds, I landed on both of them and decided I might as well make the purchase. But, they almost put me out of business, and I waited with half-hope, half-anxiety that soon I'd be out and my Monopoly sentence would be over.
I made few other purchases after the Marios Brothers, and slowly the money from passing "Go" and the occasional "Free Parking" were beginning to add up. I decided I'd buy some houses. Then, I looked down at the rent price of my lots with the added houses. And suddenly, the game became interesting. My dad was the most successful so far, and he'd been picking on me throughout the game. He bankrupted my sister, and we were sure he was going to win. Quietly, I kept buying houses for Mario and Luigi.
Then, the unthinkable happened. My mom landed on Luigi and got wiped clean. She was out, and suddenly my money and my property had doubled. I looked up at my Dad, my remaining contender, and readjusted myself on the floor so that we faced each other head-on. This was no longer a game--it was war. I bought up enough houses to put down two hotels on my Marios Brothers. Still, even with my mom's lots, I only owned about a third of the board, if even that. At almost every turned, I was fined for landing on my dad's property. It was slowly chipping away at my stock of multi-colored paper money. I began to fear the worst.
At last, my Dad landed on Luigi. With a hotel on the lot, it cost him $1500. That's right--three orange ones. But, he could just afford it and still have about six hundred left over. For now, he was safe. I took my turn, and landed on one of his lots. It cost me a couple hundred bucks.
My dad rolled again. He only needed a three to get back to "Go." The dice fell from his hand, and clattered and spun across the board before coming to an abrupt stop. Snake eyes. One, two, and he landed on Mario. With the hotel, it was a $2000 dollar fine that he could never hope to pay.
Everyone laughed in amazement at my victory. I jumped back and sprawled across the couch. "Don't ever make me play Monopoly again!!" I warned them all, now that they had seen the fruit of my wrath. In a swirl of victorious electiricity mixed with the storms of fury, I dashed upstairs to my lair.
We haven't played Monopoly since.
It was one of the last presents opened, and of course I just had to play, just once. I finally conceded, partially because it was Christmas, and partially because it was Nintendo, and I am a nerd.
The difference between the original Monopoly and the Nintendo version is that instead of being real estate tycoons, you're the top bosses in a lucrative character slave trade. Where there once were colorful boulevards and avenues, there are now lots where you can purchase any one of various Nintendo characters. They can be sold or traded, forced to erect houses and hotels, and if another player lands on your lot, they pay the fee in order to rent your character for labor.
This, of course, affected how we all played the game. Instead of making calculated and "Monopoly"-like decisions, we all scrambled to grab up our favorite characters, regardless of their value or strategic importance. I, apathetic about any actual success at the game, was particularly motivated to claim my favorites, among them Kirby, Toad, and all of the Zelda characters. I purchased no characters that I was not interested in, and went around the board almost twice without buying anything, because with my luck I wasn't going to land on anyone I actually wanted any time soon. However my sister, who is the veritable Fountain of Luck, breezed across the board and bought up every one of my favorite characters. I was ready to call it quits.
With plumbers being a particularly hard-working breed in the Nintendo World, Mario and Luigi took up the last and most expensive places on the board. In the next two go-arounds, I landed on both of them and decided I might as well make the purchase. But, they almost put me out of business, and I waited with half-hope, half-anxiety that soon I'd be out and my Monopoly sentence would be over.
I made few other purchases after the Marios Brothers, and slowly the money from passing "Go" and the occasional "Free Parking" were beginning to add up. I decided I'd buy some houses. Then, I looked down at the rent price of my lots with the added houses. And suddenly, the game became interesting. My dad was the most successful so far, and he'd been picking on me throughout the game. He bankrupted my sister, and we were sure he was going to win. Quietly, I kept buying houses for Mario and Luigi.
Then, the unthinkable happened. My mom landed on Luigi and got wiped clean. She was out, and suddenly my money and my property had doubled. I looked up at my Dad, my remaining contender, and readjusted myself on the floor so that we faced each other head-on. This was no longer a game--it was war. I bought up enough houses to put down two hotels on my Marios Brothers. Still, even with my mom's lots, I only owned about a third of the board, if even that. At almost every turned, I was fined for landing on my dad's property. It was slowly chipping away at my stock of multi-colored paper money. I began to fear the worst.
At last, my Dad landed on Luigi. With a hotel on the lot, it cost him $1500. That's right--three orange ones. But, he could just afford it and still have about six hundred left over. For now, he was safe. I took my turn, and landed on one of his lots. It cost me a couple hundred bucks.
My dad rolled again. He only needed a three to get back to "Go." The dice fell from his hand, and clattered and spun across the board before coming to an abrupt stop. Snake eyes. One, two, and he landed on Mario. With the hotel, it was a $2000 dollar fine that he could never hope to pay.
Everyone laughed in amazement at my victory. I jumped back and sprawled across the couch. "Don't ever make me play Monopoly again!!" I warned them all, now that they had seen the fruit of my wrath. In a swirl of victorious electiricity mixed with the storms of fury, I dashed upstairs to my lair.
We haven't played Monopoly since.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Family for Christmas
*Note: I realize there are some crazy tense issues here. I wanted to scream when I found out that my mom's side of the family would be coming to our house for Christmas. A) I don't like people in my house, B) I don't like rednecks, and the family coming to spend the day Christmas Eve would entail my house being full of rednecks. Not that I don't love my aunts, and uncles, and cousins, but you'd be surprised at the culture shock that occurs just from one end of a state to the other. As soon as they get here, the local news will be on to sedate my grandfather. My grandma will be on the phone talking about the latest sick and/or dying and/or dead person in her community, and my uncles boisterous antics will crowd the room.
But, when they got here, I put on my big smile and let them hug and squeeze and crush me, and reminded them what grade I was in, and let them comment on how heavy my book bag always looked. Then, as the news droned in the background, the current segment on the latest local homicide would start up an in-home news brief of ten other horror stories, usually somewhere in the ballpark of murder, rape, and child endangerment. I would smile and nod and glance at my sister as she gives 'tudy looks to her least favorite relatives.
Dinner was the best part. The food was great, and it was just my sister, my beloved cousin, and I at the kitchen table while the adults sat in the dining room. Then came present-opening. There's no time I'm more in touch with my Jewish roots than when it comes to being stingy with money. Therefore, I take full advantage of the holiday season as my oppurtunity to stock up on all my heart's desires that I've so patiently waited upwards of six months for. Needless to say, I had a very simple, yet specific list, which I instructed my parents to share with the rest of the family. Unfortunately, gift-giving is not my family's strong suit.
I doubt my aunt and uncle even bothered to ask what I wanted. They got me a sack of candy and a nice necklace from Wal-Mart. The real kicker was what my grandparents got me. One of the things on my list was a bathrobe. I didn't specify on type or description, because I'd have been fine with anything cute, fuzzy, and brightly colored, as most bathrobes are.
My grandparents hand me a big, slightly dented giftbag that I know had been reduced, reused, and recycled one too many times. I pulled out the tissue paper, stuck my head into the bag...and immediately assumed a botox smile as I pulled out a mint green, embroidered, zip-up housecoat. I could have sworn it came from my grandmother's own closet if I hadn't seen her perusing the housecoats once when we went to the store together, asking me all kinds of questions about which fabrics I liked the best and which style I found most suitable. I'd had a foreboding feeling at the time, and had prayed she was shopping for a friend. But nope--the very same housecoat we'd looked at together, and that I told her I liked (for her 65-year-old friend) because the fabric was "soft" (as in the kind of soft that a cheap stuffed animal is) stared back at me from inside the beat up gift bag. Before the break, a teacher asked the class if they had any good stories about the worst Christmas gift they'd ever gotten. Now I have one.
As a part of my nature, I avoid any sort of stressful or frustrating situations. To me, my relatives from Halifax are a stressful and frustrating situation, and even during the holidays I still cringe when they touch me. It's something I really need to work on, because I know "they're not going to be around forever," a hashed old frase that's taken on a new meaning since attending my great-grandmother's funeral (see my blog titled, "Grandma Reese"). Hopefully, with enough prayer, the Christmas spirit will catch up with me, and I'll be able to be a blessing to my family despite my feelings.
But, when they got here, I put on my big smile and let them hug and squeeze and crush me, and reminded them what grade I was in, and let them comment on how heavy my book bag always looked. Then, as the news droned in the background, the current segment on the latest local homicide would start up an in-home news brief of ten other horror stories, usually somewhere in the ballpark of murder, rape, and child endangerment. I would smile and nod and glance at my sister as she gives 'tudy looks to her least favorite relatives.
Dinner was the best part. The food was great, and it was just my sister, my beloved cousin, and I at the kitchen table while the adults sat in the dining room. Then came present-opening. There's no time I'm more in touch with my Jewish roots than when it comes to being stingy with money. Therefore, I take full advantage of the holiday season as my oppurtunity to stock up on all my heart's desires that I've so patiently waited upwards of six months for. Needless to say, I had a very simple, yet specific list, which I instructed my parents to share with the rest of the family. Unfortunately, gift-giving is not my family's strong suit.
I doubt my aunt and uncle even bothered to ask what I wanted. They got me a sack of candy and a nice necklace from Wal-Mart. The real kicker was what my grandparents got me. One of the things on my list was a bathrobe. I didn't specify on type or description, because I'd have been fine with anything cute, fuzzy, and brightly colored, as most bathrobes are.
My grandparents hand me a big, slightly dented giftbag that I know had been reduced, reused, and recycled one too many times. I pulled out the tissue paper, stuck my head into the bag...and immediately assumed a botox smile as I pulled out a mint green, embroidered, zip-up housecoat. I could have sworn it came from my grandmother's own closet if I hadn't seen her perusing the housecoats once when we went to the store together, asking me all kinds of questions about which fabrics I liked the best and which style I found most suitable. I'd had a foreboding feeling at the time, and had prayed she was shopping for a friend. But nope--the very same housecoat we'd looked at together, and that I told her I liked (for her 65-year-old friend) because the fabric was "soft" (as in the kind of soft that a cheap stuffed animal is) stared back at me from inside the beat up gift bag. Before the break, a teacher asked the class if they had any good stories about the worst Christmas gift they'd ever gotten. Now I have one.
As a part of my nature, I avoid any sort of stressful or frustrating situations. To me, my relatives from Halifax are a stressful and frustrating situation, and even during the holidays I still cringe when they touch me. It's something I really need to work on, because I know "they're not going to be around forever," a hashed old frase that's taken on a new meaning since attending my great-grandmother's funeral (see my blog titled, "Grandma Reese"). Hopefully, with enough prayer, the Christmas spirit will catch up with me, and I'll be able to be a blessing to my family despite my feelings.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Grandma Reese
My sister and I cringed when we learned we'd be attending my great-grandmother's funeral just three days before Christmas. It put quite a damper on the holiday spirit, and we would be taxed precious break time to pay our respects to a woman we hardly knew. Still, on the 22nd of December, we found ourselves driving through the gray, wet winter day towards the little Halifax funeral home.
It was the first funeral I'd ever been too. There was a special viewing room just for the family. My great-grandmother, wearing a fuchsia jacket, lay in a silver casket piled with a beautiful, bright bouquet. I stared at her as we walked by. She indeed looked flattened out, like my mother had told me when she'd returned from the viewing the night before. My grandmother behind me started to cry. Like with most emotional situations, I became completely numb. I always take it upon myself to be the "strong one."
The room was packed with family that I'd never even seen. But, even in the presence of a corpse, people were laughing and talking about Christmas plans as if it was only a family reunion. A part of me thought the merry-going a bit disturbing.After we walked by the casket we walked around the room and chatted with all of our distant relatives. There was hardly any mention of Grandma Reese. Instead, we talked about Christmas plans and how good everyone looked.It was far from the stoic, black-veiled occasion I had imagined.
After about twenty minutes, several men walked in and took the casket away. Then, we were ushered across the funeral home and into a small white chapel. Because we were family, we took up the first several rows. My dad and I ended up sitting in the second row, right behind the speaker.
The service was quaint and relatively tearless. A couple of songs were sung. Grandma Reese was given a plaque commemorating her service as a "Pentecostal Holiness Pastor's Wife." Then, the casket was carried out once more, and we all filed outside, then got in our line of cars.
At first we were silent. My sister had been shaken by the emotionality of the service, and my mom reminisced about her father's funeral service that had taken place at the same location fifteen years ago. However, it was a long drive to the cemetery, and after my Dad turned on some Christmas music, we really eased up. About twenty minutes into the drive, my dad called his auto repairmen to talk about his car.
I thought we were going to see Grandma Reese buried. Instead, we had one last, brief service as her casket was suspended over the hole in which she now eternally rests. Still, I didn't feel much emotion. The only time I really teared up is when family members turned and started visiting my grandfather's grave. He was Grandma Reese's son, and my mom's dad. Mom walked up to his grave and cried, and I stood with her as she did, until my uncle came to comfort her. I was glad I'd kept the tears back, and was just about to go when Buddy's (my grandfather) brother caught me up and told me that he can see my grandfather in me. Without knowing exactly what to say, I whispered a thank you, and then slipped away. Eventually, everyone retreated from the cold and back to their cars, leaving the funeral workers to stay and bury the body.
And then, we went out to lunch.
It might seem weird to say, but I'm almost glad this happened so close to Christmas. In retrospect, this experience showed me just how important family is in the holiday season. It took my focus off playing video games and hovering over Tumblr, and set my focus on the more important things. I hope now that through my grandmother, I can live and share this message with others.
It was the first funeral I'd ever been too. There was a special viewing room just for the family. My great-grandmother, wearing a fuchsia jacket, lay in a silver casket piled with a beautiful, bright bouquet. I stared at her as we walked by. She indeed looked flattened out, like my mother had told me when she'd returned from the viewing the night before. My grandmother behind me started to cry. Like with most emotional situations, I became completely numb. I always take it upon myself to be the "strong one."
The room was packed with family that I'd never even seen. But, even in the presence of a corpse, people were laughing and talking about Christmas plans as if it was only a family reunion. A part of me thought the merry-going a bit disturbing.After we walked by the casket we walked around the room and chatted with all of our distant relatives. There was hardly any mention of Grandma Reese. Instead, we talked about Christmas plans and how good everyone looked.It was far from the stoic, black-veiled occasion I had imagined.
After about twenty minutes, several men walked in and took the casket away. Then, we were ushered across the funeral home and into a small white chapel. Because we were family, we took up the first several rows. My dad and I ended up sitting in the second row, right behind the speaker.
The service was quaint and relatively tearless. A couple of songs were sung. Grandma Reese was given a plaque commemorating her service as a "Pentecostal Holiness Pastor's Wife." Then, the casket was carried out once more, and we all filed outside, then got in our line of cars.
At first we were silent. My sister had been shaken by the emotionality of the service, and my mom reminisced about her father's funeral service that had taken place at the same location fifteen years ago. However, it was a long drive to the cemetery, and after my Dad turned on some Christmas music, we really eased up. About twenty minutes into the drive, my dad called his auto repairmen to talk about his car.
I thought we were going to see Grandma Reese buried. Instead, we had one last, brief service as her casket was suspended over the hole in which she now eternally rests. Still, I didn't feel much emotion. The only time I really teared up is when family members turned and started visiting my grandfather's grave. He was Grandma Reese's son, and my mom's dad. Mom walked up to his grave and cried, and I stood with her as she did, until my uncle came to comfort her. I was glad I'd kept the tears back, and was just about to go when Buddy's (my grandfather) brother caught me up and told me that he can see my grandfather in me. Without knowing exactly what to say, I whispered a thank you, and then slipped away. Eventually, everyone retreated from the cold and back to their cars, leaving the funeral workers to stay and bury the body.
And then, we went out to lunch.
It might seem weird to say, but I'm almost glad this happened so close to Christmas. In retrospect, this experience showed me just how important family is in the holiday season. It took my focus off playing video games and hovering over Tumblr, and set my focus on the more important things. I hope now that through my grandmother, I can live and share this message with others.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Spirit of Christmas
Tonight I had the opportunity to deliver gifts to an underprivileged family. It was a neighborhood project, coordinated by my parents. By the end of yesterday, we had about forty presents stacked up in our dining room. Mom told me they'd be heading out to deliver them the next day, and I asked to go with them.
Another neighborhood family followed us to the house. Well, it wasn't exactly a house. My dad had to explain to me what "public housing" is. The complex was spread across several streets, and we got lost. In the darkness, I could see the silhouettes of guys in brim hats and saggy pants lurking in the darkness. As we past a row of apartments, my sister commented, "That door looks like it has bullet holes in it."
My wild imagination began to paint scenarios of us getting mugged or shot or worse as my mom wound through the gravel streets in her out-of-place Lexus. We had to stop and call the lady we were delivering to, but we finally found her door. Mom went up first, and I wondered if someone would shoot her as soon as they opened the door. Instead, the lady came up, and my mom walked in and talked to her, then waved us to come on.
Our neighbors, my dad, my sister, and I thus gathered up the trunk-full of presents and headed into the narrow hall with them. Immediately to the left were a set of steep stairs. The place smelled like tobacco. The only other room I saw, besides the hallway and the stairs, was the tiny living room. I didn't stop to look around, and only saw the L-shaped couch that dwarfed the small space, and then the four-foot, undecorated plastic Christmas tree shoved in the corner. We stacked the presents around them, and had to set some on the couch.
The lady, in navy sweats, jumper, and headwrap, sat on the couch with her baby in her lap, quiet and timid, and I imagine a bit overwhelmed. Her beautiful five-year-old daughter squirmed with delight as we brought in box after box. The grin on her face made me want to buy her the entire Toys-R-Us store.
My mom and the other ladies that came with us hugged the lady, and told her to call if she ever needed anything. Mom handed her a Wal-Mart gift card for $120. "Thank you, thank you," the lady said, too stunned to say anything else.
We weren't in the house for more than five minutes before we were heading out again. I almost wished we could have stayed and talked to her, but she had a life to get back to, and apparently so did we. As we walked out, the dad of the family drove up (I have no idea if they were married or not) and jumped out of his car to thank us. We met another one of their children, a little boy of about two, with his afro pulled into skewed pony tails. It was too bad we were outside in the dark by then. I would have loved to get a better look at the little boys' face.
I wish we could be there Christmas morning to see them open all of those presents, but I'll have to be satisfied with seeing that little girl's face. I'm so proud of my neighborhood for pitching in and helping out this family. I hope this is their best Christmas yet, and I hope we don't lose contact with them, but continue to love and support them, just like my mom offered.
Another neighborhood family followed us to the house. Well, it wasn't exactly a house. My dad had to explain to me what "public housing" is. The complex was spread across several streets, and we got lost. In the darkness, I could see the silhouettes of guys in brim hats and saggy pants lurking in the darkness. As we past a row of apartments, my sister commented, "That door looks like it has bullet holes in it."
My wild imagination began to paint scenarios of us getting mugged or shot or worse as my mom wound through the gravel streets in her out-of-place Lexus. We had to stop and call the lady we were delivering to, but we finally found her door. Mom went up first, and I wondered if someone would shoot her as soon as they opened the door. Instead, the lady came up, and my mom walked in and talked to her, then waved us to come on.
Our neighbors, my dad, my sister, and I thus gathered up the trunk-full of presents and headed into the narrow hall with them. Immediately to the left were a set of steep stairs. The place smelled like tobacco. The only other room I saw, besides the hallway and the stairs, was the tiny living room. I didn't stop to look around, and only saw the L-shaped couch that dwarfed the small space, and then the four-foot, undecorated plastic Christmas tree shoved in the corner. We stacked the presents around them, and had to set some on the couch.
The lady, in navy sweats, jumper, and headwrap, sat on the couch with her baby in her lap, quiet and timid, and I imagine a bit overwhelmed. Her beautiful five-year-old daughter squirmed with delight as we brought in box after box. The grin on her face made me want to buy her the entire Toys-R-Us store.
My mom and the other ladies that came with us hugged the lady, and told her to call if she ever needed anything. Mom handed her a Wal-Mart gift card for $120. "Thank you, thank you," the lady said, too stunned to say anything else.
We weren't in the house for more than five minutes before we were heading out again. I almost wished we could have stayed and talked to her, but she had a life to get back to, and apparently so did we. As we walked out, the dad of the family drove up (I have no idea if they were married or not) and jumped out of his car to thank us. We met another one of their children, a little boy of about two, with his afro pulled into skewed pony tails. It was too bad we were outside in the dark by then. I would have loved to get a better look at the little boys' face.
I wish we could be there Christmas morning to see them open all of those presents, but I'll have to be satisfied with seeing that little girl's face. I'm so proud of my neighborhood for pitching in and helping out this family. I hope this is their best Christmas yet, and I hope we don't lose contact with them, but continue to love and support them, just like my mom offered.
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