Childhood

Grandma’s Peanut Butter Divinity Pinwheels

Spinning hay into gold is an impressive feat, even in the realm of fairytales, but Grandma Smith could spin sugar syrup into fine silver threads, and that was only the beginning. Fluffy white rounds of divinity with a swirl of peanut butter in the center—now that was worth its weight in gold. Every Christmas, Grandma invited a few family members into her small kitchen to help prepare this divine treat. Sometimes this privilege included Aunt Thelma, my mother and me. Even now, as I put on my apron and begin to assemble the ingredients for Grandma’s recipe, it’s as though I have slipped back in time, into my Grandma’s kitchen—a little girl again. ——————— Standing next to Grandma, my head just above stovetop level, I am mesmerized as she lifts the wooden spoon from the clear boiling syrup. “Watch for the silver thread to spin, now,” she explains. “That tells…

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I Choose the Noisy Christmas!

We did not hold Christmas Eve services in our small church. Instead, members of our congregation were encouraged to attend Christmas Eve services in other churches around the community. A few years ago, as I read through the church listings for times and places for Christmas Eve services, I came across the following notice: “_______ Church will hold two Christmas Eve services on December 24 in the sanctuary. 5:00 P.M. ——-Children’s Christmas Pageant 9:00 P.M. ——-Candle Light Service and Chorale (Note: Be aware that due to the number of small children present, the 5:00 P.M. service may be noisy and chaotic. If you are looking for quiet contemplation, you may want to choose the 9:00 P.M. service.)” I burst out laughing when I read the note. Oh yes! What wonderful wild Christmas pageants we had at the church in the town where our sons grew up! As a Sunday school…

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Seeing Christmas Clearly: Erik’s Gift

“Oh, there they are; thank Goodness,” I exclaimed. My sons, seven year old Brent and three year old Erik, had just spent several minutes searching the living room for my reading glasses–again. I had already misplaced them once that morning. “I do not have time for this kind of frustration,” I grumbled. With only three days until Christmas, I felt rushed and distracted and I had been careless. So, there we were, again, crawling around on the floor looking for my glasses. We looked under and behind the sofa, including lifting up each cushion. We checked behind the drapes and on the piano. I was heading for the armchair when Erik spotted them. They were poking out from under the pile of wrapping paper, tags, ribbons and bows that were scattered on the floor. “Hooray for Erik! Thank you, thank you,” I told him as I hugged him. “I need…

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Christmas Pasts and Presents

Once again, as with every Christmas, I believe that there is a great yearning that wells up from deep inside our souls to respond to the “great joy” of the angels’ announcement to the shepherds, to follow the beckoning Star to find the Holy place where Christmas miracles never cease, where every Christmas promise is fulfilled. However, even though we long for the comfort and joy of this sacred realm, we often look for it in stories about talking snowmen, magical reindeer, and Santa’s elves—all of the trappings but none of the essence and truth of the birth of Jesus. For years I have loved and collected Christmas books during Advent, but I have become increasingly concerned about the content and number of books that claim, “This is a story/book about the true meaning of Christmas”, but lead you farther from the truth with every page. So, this year, I…

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Hope Chests

They were called “hope chests”—those large cedar storage chests where we hopeful young girls stored what we would need for our future households. In years past, preparing for our future included embroidering dishtowels and tablecloth sets, crocheting pillowcase edging and doilies, and knitting afghans. Filling our hope chests was an expected and honorable pastime. We often started as early as 6 or 7 years old, coached in simple embroidery and crocheting techniques by patient mothers, grandmothers, and aunts. The time spent sharing the wisdom, experience, and knowledge of the older generations, provided the most valuable lessons of all. Needlework skills were incidental to the love, encouragement, and confidence that were woven into the fabric of our lives during those sessions. We prepared for our future days of the week by embroidering dishtowels with designs depicting a predictable work schedule, like a day planner on cotton. For example, Monday was wash…

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Cereal Boxes

Maybe because it was green that it caught my attention, awakening a long-dormant emotion I had yet to identify. I continued to stare at the image on the cereal box. Imagine: a brain-shaped ball, like a small football, except that it was convoluted like a brain. The now-awakened excitement was surfacing. Wow, I could be the first kid in my neighborhood to have one! Besides, every kid knows that cereal boxes hold more magic than cereal. It was all coming back to me, like the chorus of an old summer camp song: When you hear the whistles blowing, and you see their wings of tin, you will know the Junior Birdmen have been sending their box tops in. Remember, it takes only one box top, plus 10 copper pennies, or two fat nickels, or one thin dime! Normally, I am a prudent and rational shopper. I save coupons, recycle, shop…

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Hair Wars

It’s a funny thing about hair, those few square inches on top of our heads that occupy our morning grooming ritual. For those of us who flirt with vanity, a Good Hair or Bad Hair morning is perceived to be a celestial indicator of blessing or curse upon the whole day. We are cautious even then, because we know that even a Good Hair day can be spoiled by a nasty bout of Hat Hair. The truth is, our hair, whether thick or thin, tinted or drab, straight or curly, short or long, graying or disappearing, can easily intimidate and dominate us, taking up too much time and undermining our self-esteem. For some of us, it is even more tyrannical; hair is our enemy. It is a separate entity living atop our heads, forcing us to battle its tendrils and tufts daily. Sometimes the morning’s battle takes up to an…

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The Restaurant

“May I take your order, please?” the waitress inquired as she jumped from one foot to the other. “Do you have any tuna fish sandwiches?” I asked. “Oh, yeah!” my excitable waitress shouted as she ran off to the next room where, presumably, her kitchen was located. “Uh, Miss Waitress,” I called, beckoning her back. “May I also have a cup of tea, please?” With the same exuberance exhibited before, she shouted over her shoulder, “Oh, yeah!” Within a minute, she had bounded back to my chair, handing me a cup and saucer. “Is it hot?” I asked. “Oh, no. I blowed on it. It’s all cool now,” she announced proudly. “And, here’s your tuna fish sandwich,” she said, gesturing to a spot on the tray in front of my chair. “Thank you, Miss Waitress,” I said. “This is a wonderful restaurant and you do such a good job.” “Thanks,”…

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