Holiday Bows, Holiday Knots

Anyone who’s ever wrapped a present knows how easy it is to mess up a bow. The ribbon frays. There isn’t enough of it to make a decent bow. The whole thing winds up becoming one big, tangled up knot.

Bows, though, are often worth the trouble, knotty possibilities notwithstanding.

Bows are pretty. They’re festive. They’re neat and tidy (when they cooperate). They’re reusable, for heaven’s sake!

Perhaps these are some of the reasons a couple of my mischief-making students vied for a bow during a Christmas season years ago. I recounted the story in a blog post at the time, thinking how remarkable it was that kids whose sole mission in life seemed to be portraying themselves as the toughest, least governable ruffians in the bunch – that these characters were getting their collective panties all in a bunch over a simple holiday decoration.

These high schoolers already knew they were on Santa’s naughty list. No two ways about it. Still, they
longed for some form of recognition that they weren’t irredeemable. That someone saw through their façade and recognized the frightened, insecure youngsters they really were.

It brings to mind a well-timed sentence my older son once uttered to our neighbor’s dog. She was a little thing with, I suppose, a bit of a Napoleon complex. She at times would try to come off as intimidating, which was totally laughable.

My son saw this bravado for what it was and responded to her antics one day by remarking, “Oh, you’re so not scary!”

I can hear my readers wondering if I’m not assigning too much meaning to an adolescent competition over a simple Christmas bow. My answer is an unequivocal no. Again hearkening back to parts one and two of my “bow” blog articles, I discovered no matter how rough and tough some of my students came off, almost all of them had a soft spot for a sticker, a carefully crafted piece of motherly advice, or the tiniest morsel of praise.

Who’d have thought such guarded hearts were so easily penetrable?

Well, there are bows and there are knots.

My life has been somewhat knotty lately. In trying to support others, I’ve unwittingly been tying myself up into knots. My prayer partner, Tina, pointed this out to me yesterday as I was agonizing about some plans that were far from definite. My end of the conversation went something like this:

“If I do x, what about y? Will z become an issue? I’m pretty worried about a, b, and c also. Do you think d, e, or f might present a problem?”

Tina cut through all this nonsense gently but firmly, pointing out that I was fretting over plans and possibilities that might not ever transpire. And, knowing me as she does, she recognized that such gyrations on my part could easily lead me into a state of resentment, a foible I constantly try to work on.

Too often I’ve contorted myself in efforts to please someone else – now, pay attention here, because this is the crux of the matter – on matters about which I’ve never even asked the other person how they felt! This has happened with celebrations I’ve put together for other people’s milestones, for example. I once concocted a party for someone I later found out detested being in the limelight. Needless to say, my hopes were disappointed, as were those of the guest of honor.

This past week, I was biting my nails over a holiday gathering. It’s something my family and I have done for years for a dear friend. We keep it relatively low key – except when I start overthinking it.

This year my altruistic but overzealous desire to include others took over. I decided that this family tradition (the person with whom we celebrate this annual tradition is not technically family, but she might as well be) needed to be expanded to include another friend who expressed interest in the festivities. In trying to fit a million square pegs into round holes to make this thing come off, I caused myself needless agita.

All this hoop jumping went on only in my mind. For various reasons, I never even consulted any of the other parties. In the end, I realized it simply wasn’t going to work and bagged the whole idea. We will do it eventually, Lord willing, but there was no way to make it work last week. I had to scrap the idea (and all my mental machinations), let go, and let God be God.

What a concept.

Here’s the kicker: it turned out the person I was trying to add into the mix became ill and wouldn’t have been able to participate anyway.

Talk about your wasted worries.

Sometimes these types of gyrations inconvenience others. I jump through all kinds of hoops trying to put everyone’s schedules together, and it becomes a knotty mess. Other times, like the scenario I just mentioned, all my stress is internal and no one else even knows about it. I may have decided it’s in someone else’s best interest to be part of a certain “fill in the blank” activity. Or, in my fevered imagination, someone may be waiting with bated breath to hear from me via text, call, or what have you. While this dear one may well welcome hearing from me, I misstep when I assume the role of be-all and end-all in another person’s life.

As my sister says, I overestimate my own nuisance value!

There’s one other area I want to touch on before wrapping this up so I can go do some wrapping.

I found myself fighting temptation – yet again – the other day. December is a rough month for any food worshipper, a label I guiltily admit to. I know how God feels about gluttony, so this is an ongoing battle for me. Anyway, after stringing together a bevy of days involving poor food choices, I was feeling “in knots” about it, powerless to detangle the rat’s nest my eating life had become. While Christmas shopping, I picked up a certain something that was affordable, yummy and promised to drive my weight higher and my walk further from the Lord.

At the moment of truth, here’s what I heard coming out of my mouth:

“Gotta start being obedient sometime.”

Just like that, I put the forbidden fruit back on its shelf and went on my merry way.

And my way did feel merrier. The best part is, my youngest grandchild was by my side. Little does this little one know that Mom Mom fights spiritual battles which often manifest as physical battles over food and a few other needful things (sleep, R&R) that don’t serve me well when I abuse them.

Maybe – just maybe – my one good choice in a sea of lousy ones can put me closer to the woman God intends for me to be, thereby serving as a better example for the next generation(s).

God bless us, everyone.

 

February Part 2

The Demon of Control

In my last post, I worried over things I couldn’t control and fretted over the futile pride that causes me to try to change things/people/events over which I am powerless.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

The Inevitability of Pain

This has been a month of fear and funerals. February seems to have that effect on a lot of us. We slog through wind and ice and cold (at least in our part of the country), and all we have to show for it is another day of the same - aching muscles and weary hearts.

But I mean this post to be hopeful, not despairing.

As I said, my family (and here I mean both biological and spiritual) has been doing its share of grieving of late. Loved ones are either sick – and I mean sick – or have left this world to gain entrance into another. My role in all of this has been more indirect than personal, i.e., I have served as a supportive presence rather than an actual participant. In short, I’ve been shoring up the troops.

Again, I’m striving to be upbeat but…

So far, not so much.

Let me switch gears.

The Value of Accountability

One thing that’s been useful during this period of semi-chaos has been to keep a ledger of sorts. Not to wax political, but I’m thinking of the current administration’s demand that government workers account for their activities on the job. I began tracking my own activities in 2020, when the COVID crisis kept me out of work for about six months. I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to waste that period of enforced leave. I was well experienced in frittering away down time, having spent many a summer vacation and holiday break wiling away hours and regretting it after the fact. So, this time, when the government and my employer were paying me to “stay home and save lives,” I created a schedule for myself and tried to catch up on things I couldn’t get to during a regular work week.

I drafted a book proposal. The recipients didn’t bite, but them’s the breaks.

I joined and even cohosted nightly prayer meetings. Recalling the impact of corporate prayer in the wake of the 911 attacks, my prayer partner and I drilled down in this particular area. Our efforts resulted in the formation of a weekly women’s Bible study. I can’t say how much these activities impacted others, but yours truly gained a lot of spiritual ground.

The Power of Community

I reached out to other members of my church to see how they were faring during this frightening time. There wasn’t much I could do to help, as we were all simply trying to keep our own heads above water, but it gave me a chance to go through the church directory and make contact with hitherto unknown attendees.

My Aunt Carole had a wonderful practice of checking in often by phone. She lived at a distance and didn’t drive. Her health was only so-so, meaning she couldn’t do much but encourage. But encourage she did. Regularly. Even forcefully, in the gentlest way possible, if you know what I mean. If a few calls went unreturned, a more urgent request for an update would ensue.

This lady understood the power of caring and made it a habit.

Aunt Carole’s earthly body has left this world, but her lessons have not. On days when I feel lazy or uninspired, even defeated, reaching out to others can bring me a sense of purpose. The vacuuming may remain undone, but another soul can be touched.

While I’m on the subject of aunties, Aunt Doris promised to be there for me after the death of my one remaining parent. Like Aunt Carole, her age and limitations made it unlikely that she could do much more than listen and maybe offer a few words of counsel. She did, however, coin a phrase which made its way into my head, my heart, and even my novel: “Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

I realize this last comment is a bit of a digression from the topic at hand, since Aunt Doris’s phone hugs began long before the COVID era. Citing author’s privilege, I’m leaving it in anyway because it reinforces the importance of community, and not exclusively from one’s biological family.

Community matters now, it mattered during COVID, and it will matter whenever and wherever we find ourselves. My friend, Tina, figured this out long ago. It’s taken me a little longer, perhaps because I’ve been blessed with a close family. Having something as a given can make for a sense of entitlement, or rather, expectation that it will always be there. Taking for granted, I suppose. Tina has experienced many losses and thus realizes the need to not go it alone. She is and always will be an example of casting one’s lot with others and living by that concept.

The Slow Demise of Pride

All these goals are worthy and good, but just when I’m feeling indispensable (yeah, right), I fall hip deep into a flareup of an underlying condition which had been behaving itself for several months. Out comes the cane and in go the NSAIDs.

Those palliatives may be little, but they pack a big punch.

It’s not the pain I mind so much. I know how to do rest and relaxation, but I’m not too keen on helplessness. Check that. I’m not helpless; I’m simply less able to be helpful, at a time when family and friends are in need of all the help they can get.

Apparently, my heavenly Father feels I need a lesson in humility.

So be it.

Accordingly, on this final day of February 2025, I offer up the power I can still exercise in the midst of powerlessness. Power to call on a Power far greater than any I could boast. Power to relegate pride to its rightful place – as so many people I love are involuntarily having to do right along with me. Power to slowly but surely admit that divine power overpowers, overshadows, and overcomes any perceived power I’m blessed to possess.

What a Savior.

Agony and Torture

These are the nicknames my nephews dreamed up for two kids their mother babysat when they were young. She ran a day care of sorts out of her home, which enabled her to earn a pay check while raising her own children.

The boys called the little ones "Agony and Torture" because they whined and argued and disrupted, which is pretty much the definition of preschoolers. Had my nephews possessed a bit more higher order thinking, they might have applied these same labels to themselves, as they were only slightly farther along the maturity continuum than were their mother's charges. Ah, but it's always easier to point the finger at someone else.

Which is what I'm tempted to do lately. I've been feeling a lot of angst over issues I can't control, and as a result, I'm butting into other people's business. I admit it - I'm a control freak, right up there with the title character of the old comic strip, Momma, and it frustrates me when things don't go as planned. That's created a bit of a problem over the past few weeks, as many things, personal and physical, have cropped up to rock my equilibrium.

Literally, as a matter of fact. One of the issues I'm referring to is a nasty case of arthritis and its cousin, bursitis, both of which are making me feel like a little old lady who only drives on Sundays. Several doctor visits and X-rays later, with painkillers on board and physical therapy looming on the horizon, I'm still treading carefully but much improved.

My body, that is.

My head could still use the mental equivalent of chicken soup and Rolaids.

I'm learning something very unpleasant about myself through all this. I'm a vain person.

I always knew I was a little vain. I carefully construct my hair and face in the morning (it takes more time than it used to, and seems to bring fewer results). I choose outfits that enhance what Mom used to call my "blonde coloring" (the blonde has long since given way to Preference by L'Oreal, "because I'm worth it," but the grays keep finding their way through the highlights). I make all this effort in hopes that it will keep acquaintances from noticing my lower body's resemblance to a pear. 

But these strategies fall apart when one's limping forces one to wear sneakers and sensible shoes with formal outfits, thus making one look like the aforementioned Sunday driver.

I was in just enough pain at the pharmacy, when picking up my medicinal Godsend, that I was pricing canes. They have some very pretty ones, and reasonable, too. Except I don't think I could afford the price it would exact on my psyche. Besides, I have a perfectly good "plain Jane" cane that my father used in the last days of his life. I can picture myself now, hobbling along the halls of  the school where I work, clinging for dear life to that silver stick, and praying no seventh grade track hopeful disrupts my gimpy gait.

I'm not feeling it.

I sought solace from my friend, Tina, who has been dealing with similar issues for years. In contrast to my prideful preening, Tina is eminently pragmatic and willingly tossed aside sandals for Oxfords long ago. She also thought nothing of clutching a four-footed cane for a couple of months when her legs were misbehaving.

How does she do it?

I mentioned earlier some personal matters which also have me on my knees (well, they would if I could get down on my knees, but at this point that's just a nice memory). Again, things I didn't ask for and could just as soon do without, thank you very much. Funny thing is, God never asks my permission when He sends trials. He doesn't give me a checklist or a drop down box, either. He sends or allows what He deems right for my character building, and I have very little to say about it.

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is, things may get worse before they get better. I'm not expecting joy and sunshine as the PT teaches my muscles how to, well, muscle through. Neither am I looking forward to an earlier wake up time to fit in exercises I don't want to do (did I mention I don't want to wake up early in the first place?). And fear grips my heart when I think of the unknowns I'm facing, issues I'll leave unspoken for the purposes of blogging, but trust me, they're there. 


So I'm back to counting blessings. I make gratitude lists on scraps of paper when my head starts taking me into dark, dangerous neighborhoods where I ought not go alone. I catch myself riding my one son who still lives at home, and to some extent the one who's off on his own, trying to control what I can instead of accepting things I can't change. I pack up bags of stuff for Purple Heart in an attempt to de-clutter my environment, when what I really want to do is de-clutter my mind. 


It occurs to me that perhaps the old devil, that wily serpent, could be trying to distract me with messes just when I'm on the brink of finishing my novel. In all honesty, he's done a pretty fair job of discouraging me in the midst of what should be a happy and exciting time. Tomorrow I'll be publicly reading a short story I had published in a women's anthology in March. Family and friends are coming to cheer me on, and I have so much to be hopeful about and grateful for. Yet, what I call the "Eeyore Syndrome," AKA, the "Puddleglum Doldrums" --that "Things may be great, but they're not as great as they could be" feeling -- has me in its grip. With the apostle Paul, I lament, "O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?" He instantly answers his own question: "I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Romans 7:24)

If God could use Paul, despite his former life as a bigot and murderer, I guess he can use me, too.

"In EVERYTHING give THANKS, for this is the will of God 
in Christ Jesus concerning you!" 
1 Thessalonians 5:18

"Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with THANKSGIVING let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:6-7

For more like this, check out:

Reflections by Thea: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

Reflections by Thea: "Yeah, But..."

Clipped Wings

I am "grounded" today. Snow is keeping me from carrying out the plans on my agenda, so here I sit.

The Lord has used weather to "clip my wings," for today at least.

I'm feeling grumpy and grouchy, mostly because of control issues that I refuse to release. Saying the serenity prayer, catching up on Scripture reading, resting in God (and in bed) will all help to alleviate the stress.

It's just possible that God has grounded me in order to ground me.

"The Lord shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even forevermore."  Psalm 121:8

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Clipped Wings Part 2