Tradition, Tradition

I am a traditionalist. I grew up in the same town, in the same house, in the same room until I left for college. I had the same friends from preschool all the way into high school. I grew up in a family and a town where change was a rarity and I liked it that way. Holidays were especially important, entrenched in moments that repeated themselves year after year. I remember the stir it caused in my extended family when we moved our Christmas day celebration to a new location - it was big news.

When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I had no idea that my traditionalist ways were about to be greatly tested. My husband decided to pursue a career that required lengthy and varied training. This meant transferring to many different schools, all of which ended up being in different states. After just a few years, we moved thousands of miles away from any family member, making it even more difficult to carry on the traditions I had loved as a girl. I tried to make the best of every occasion and learned to adapt to the existing circumstances of my life, but a part of me still longed for the upbringing I had known for my own children.

Last week, thoughts of turkey dinners, extended family, hot pies and tradition started haunting me again. We had planned to travel several states away to visit with friends who have become like family for the Thanksgiving festivities, but they had an unexpected flood in their basement. Our sleeping quarters were under water and they needed the time for home renovations, so we were left without plans. I was inclined to stay home and host another dinner myself - not unlike many I had done in the past where we invited others without family to join us for a feast. But my husband really wanted to get away, so he started looking at beach houses to rent. It's cheap to visit the beach in the winter - too cold, too windy. He found a beauty of a cottage at a beauty of a price and suggested we travel there, turkey, trimmings and all for this traditional holiday.

Accustomed to variance in my visions of tradition, I agreed. I, too, love the beach. I just never anticipated celebrating Thanksgiving there. Packing the morning we left, filling paper bags with Thanksgiving foods, suitcases with sunscreen and swimming suits, my mood swiftly declined. Where was tradition? Where were the memories? What kind of heritage was I giving my children? Who has Thanksgiving at the beach by themselves?

We schlepped everything, dog included, into the van and drove the few hours to the beach. We arrived just before sunset. I suggested we stop by the ocean before unschlepping at the cottage. As we parked, set foot on the sand, and saw the waves rolling gently inward and outward, the sun sinking in crimson delight, my tension melted away and I thought, who gets to have Thanksgiving at the beach?

The sun rose slowly through the fog on Thursday. Forecasting over 70 degree weather, we decided to buck tradition altogether, seize the sun filled day and head to the sea and sand. We read, we jumped waves, we tried skim boarding, we dug giant holes and we walked along the ocean. We ate cheese sandwiches for lunch and snacked on licorice and gummy bears on the shore. We stayed until the sun was waning and the cool breezes licked our faces, reminding us it was November after all.

We cleaned up at the cottage and drove through the sleepy beach town trying to find anyplace open to eat. As we heartily downed potato soup, fried shrimp and salad I couldn't resist one last try at tradition. I asked everyone to share something they were thankful for. My daughter said, "I'm thankful we could spend Thanksgiving together at the beach."

I realized then that I was giving my children memories. I was giving them a wonderful heritage. Not one where the dishes and company were always the same. Not one entrenched in sameness and solidarity. Not one that they would necessarily continue generation after generation in their own homes as they grow and leave me. But I was giving them the heritage of love. I was leaving them the legacy of spending time together having fun as a family. I was giving them the ability to be grateful for time away, the ability to celebrate a holiday based on gratitude by being grateful for the moments they had, however untraditional they were.

They, in turn, were giving me the gift of a new definition of traditionalist.

Can You Do Me a Favor?

My neighbor called me last week to ask a favor. She is my good friend and we do things for each other all the time - pick up kids from school, watch the dogs while they play, borrow potatoes and get the paper when we're out of town - you know, neighborly kinds of things. So I fully anticipated a request for eggs or carpool when I saw her name on the caller ID that morning.

"Good morning!" I said.

"Hi Anna, do you have a minute?" she asked, her voice cracking a bit.

"Sure, what can I do for you?" I replied.

"I wonder if you would pray for me today," she said.

She then proceeded to share with me how worried she was that morning. She was anticipating an encounter associated with her job that she was dreading. She was emotional and vulnerable and needed a friend in that moment. Not just any friend. One that would pray for her.

"I know you are a good Christian woman," she said, "and I need extra help today. Will you pray and ask Him to help me do this?"

Now I share many things with this wonderful Christian woman, but not my faith. We have openly shared our beliefs with each other and even attended events at one anothers' churches. We have doctrinal differences that we have always respected with kindness. But we share a deep belief in a loving Savior who will help us in our times of need.

I have never been more touched at a request than I was that morning. My friend had granted me the priceless gift of trust in that moment, asking me to pray to the God I know and love on behalf of her, a woman I know and love. I listened to her, encouraged her and assured her that I would pray for her. I got off the phone and immediately went to my bedside and knelt in fervent prayer for my faithful, fearful friend. As I did, I felt comfort, peace and assurance that she would be all right.

I saw her at the school that afternoon as we were picking up our children. I knew her meeting had been just prior to that. As she walked over to me, she looked almost joyful.

"It went wonderfully," she shared. "I felt the words just come to me and I knew what to say. I feel so much better. Thank you for praying for me today."

All I could do was tearfully hug and thank her - my sweet neighbor who taught me by humble example what help really is. It's more than a cup of sugar and picking up mail. It's trusting and loving a friend enough to share fear, express concern about a difficult experience and asking that person for a specific, immediate prayer. It's asking someone to lighten the burden, to share the load, to pray in faith.

Since that encounter, I have tried to think if I had ever done such a thing. I certainly have had many moments in my life when I needed the faith and prayers of friends, but for whatever reason I didn't call. I have heard of people's illnesses or difficulties, and said I would pray for them, but rarely have I done so immediately or with such specific fervency as I had that morning. I couldn't think of any good reason why. Maybe I worried that I would feel weak or inadequate in my faith if I had to request the help of others. Maybe I thought asking for help would overly burden my friends. Maybe I thought I simply had to endure my difficulty or worry alone. I have begun to recognize how wrong and selfish I have been by denying others the opportunity to help me, to pray for me. In my friend's simple request for help, she lifted me. She asked for a prayer. She asked for my faith. I'm starting to see what a beautiful request that can be.

So, can you do me a favor?

Published

Well, the day arrived unexpectedly yesterday. The day every author waits for to be able to declare themselves an official writer - publication.

Monday morning I wrote a short story on a service project some youth from my church did here in my city. They placed flags on gravesites at a local veteran's cemetery. My good friend took some beautiful pictures and I sent them out to a myriad of local newspapers, hoping for some human interest coverage. On a whim, I sent the story to a national publication. By Tuesday morning, I had received an email from a colleague congratulating me on my story - published by the national paper. Today it is their top story.

It speaks to the state of our nation, I think, that a story about teenagers placing flags on graves would be national news. You see, they're not just any teenagers. They are children of military families. It also speaks to the state of our nation that my story has not received any local coverage. Not a bite. You see, I live in a military town. Here it is not big news that children have parents who are deployed. Here people honor veterans and soldiers ever single day. It's nice to place flags on veterans' graves, but we give our fathers, our husbands, our brothers and our mothers to this country every single day. We send them off for months at a time, wondering if they will return. We go to birthday parties and meet gold star wives - women widowed by the ravages of war. We have displays at school showing how many veterans are connected to the children there and we see row after row after row. We have breakfasts with veterans where many men and women show up in uniform to eat with school children knowing there are many, many more who wish they could, but are eating MRE's in the desert thousands of miles away from their children. We don't need to wear yellow ribbons or fly flags to remember our veterans. Our loved ones wear the flag every day on their uniforms and the strings pulled on our hearts from here to wherever they are too long and too strong to be represented by a little yellow string.

I wondered yesterday, as the nation celebrated Veteran's Day, if they thought of my friends, my neighbors. I wondered how many private citizens took the time to honor a soldier, a veteran in some way. I wondered as they went about their lives, grocery shopping, working, flying on a business trip, if they recognized that every piece of that freedom was bought by a soldier. It was bought by his family, by his children who sacrifice each day without him home, praying for his safety. Each moment of freedom in this nation is a moment someone sacrificed for.

So if my story touched anyone, lent any light or hope about our country, I am grateful. But my greater hope would be that the story would prompt a flood of gratitude to our soldiers, to their families, to their children. They are the ones who need to be remembered and recognized. They are the ones who are powerful and resilient and amazing.

I hope that one day these beautiful young people will not have to know the normalcy of sacrifice that exists here. I wish I could write a piece that would be the top story here, one that meant our soldiers were safe, our families were together and they wouldn't have to leave again. I long for the front page story of freedom from oppression, from hatred, from war. Until that happens, I hope that their sacrifices are never forgotten. I hope there's not an American soldier alive who thinks his efforts aren't appreciated or remembered by his countrymen.

I hope we as a country never forget how we got our freedom - now that would be newsworthy.

Photo by Amanda Anderson

Milestones

My odometer hit the 100,000 mile mark today. I knew it was coming. That line of nines for the past several trips had told me it was coming. I dropped my son off at preschool and noticed it was only seven miles til the turnover. But when I left for my next errand, made a quick phone call and went on auto pilot running errands, it happened. And I missed it. By the time I looked down it was two miles over.

I wonder how many milestones I miss in life because I'm busy running errands or simply on auto pilot. Sometimes I know they're coming and then when I'm in the moment, my mind is racing to consider the next task and I miss the present.

Still trying to learn to slow down, to better anticipate the precious moments that come and pass so quickly in life. Trying to capture the times that are - let go of what is past and stop anticipating what is to come.

Learning to mark the milestones...

It Doesn't Take Much

I think we make service too complicated. We work at raising our children and serving our families day after day and somehow still feel guilty that we're not doing enough to help other people. We feel like if we're not at a homeless shelter or cleanup project, it isn't really serving. We worry that unless we spend hours helping others at an immense personal sacrifice, we're not doing enough. But I learned this week that sometimes service can be simple. I discovered that God has a way of using us to serve others in deeply personal ways, if only we let Him.

Many months ago I bought a picture that had particular meaning to me. It has hung on the wall next to my bed since then and brought me significant comfort and perspective. A couple of months ago I was asked to share some thoughts with a women's group and brought the picture to share. After my remarks, one woman told me how much that picture had touched her, so the next time I was at the store where I had bought it, I picked one up for her. It didn't take much time, it wasn't expensive, and I simply stuck it in my bag.

The picture sat somewhat forgotten until a crazy day last week. I was trying to prepare food, costume my children and get out the door to a Halloween party. It had been another full day and I was already exhausted at 5:00. A friend called me and said she had been making chicken pot pie and it had taken on a life of its own. She had way too much and asked if she could bring dinner over. I had just begun to wonder what I could quickly throw together for my family before we left and readily accepted her offer. The pot pie was like manna from Heaven in that moment. She had no idea when she called that I was on the verge of an early evening collapse. She didn't, but God did.

Minutes before we had to leave for the party I remembered my trunk. At the end of the festivities we would hand out candy from our beautifully decorated car trunks. Already racing the clock, I realized I hadn't decorated the van and sent my children scrambling through the house to grab some pumpkins and pictures to throw in. As we hurriedly drove away, I looked with dismay into the back seat. It was strewn with bags. Some days I just about live in my van, so I always have an assortment of bags with me in case I have time to write, run to the gym, or prepare a lesson. I was so embarrassed that I hadn't even had time to clear out my mess, but rushed on to the party anyway. I hoped no one would notice the chaos when it was time to open up the trunks.

We got to the party, started to eat and play games when I noticed the woman who had talked to me after my presentation. I hadn't seen her for over a month and I suddenly remembered the purchase I had made weeks before. I walked over and told her I had something for her. She looked at me, a bit surprised, and said, "You thought of me today?" "No," I replied, "I got it a month ago." It then dawned on me that I actually had it with me. The picture was in my embarrassing disaster of a backseat. It was in one of my bags. I quickly said, "I'll be right back." I ran out to my now gratefully full van, got the picture and brought it inside. As I handed it to her, tears instantly welled up in her eyes and with considerable emotion she said, "You have no idea how much I needed this. And that I needed it - today." She told me later how lonely and discouraged she had been feeling that day. She had wondered if God really knew her and remembered her. She had prayed for comfort, to know if she was loved. When I handed her that particular picture, in that precise moment, she knew. I had no idea how much she needed that picture right then. I didn't, but God did.

Saturday afternoon I had my son make a phone call. He had scored the winning goal at his soccer game that day and was so excited. He had already called both sets of his grandparents when I had the passing thought that I should dial another number. I had him call my sweet friend who has been going through some tough times. He told her all about his soccer goal and chatted happily for a few minutes, then hung up. Off we drove to his team party to celebrate. She called me last night to thank me. She told me how that day she had been struggling, dealing with a difficult situation and was on the verge of tears. Then her phone rang. When she heard my son's innocent, excited voice talking about his accomplishment, it lifted her heart and helped her get through her day. She said I had no idea how much she needed that call at that exact moment. She's right. I didn't, but God did.

Service doesn't always have to be big. Most of the time it's simply thinking of another person and letting God work His miracles through us. He's that good. He can inspire us to serve in ways that only He knows will help. He can use kind neighbors, tired Moms and even little boys to help someone else. It doesn't take much. Sometimes service is a chicken pot pie, a simple phone call, and a messy van.