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  I picture that mother kissing sweet, rosebud lips, as I do yours. And she must have traced the curve of a turned-up nose a thousand times.

  Did that mother, while cradling her baby to her breast, whisper promises and secrets, hopes and dreams? Did she tell her son—as I tell you—about sunsets and holidays, puppies and stars? Did she describe for him his earthly father? Did she tell him about God?

  How she must have marveled at the grasp of five tiny fingers curled around her own and considered what wonders this infant being would accomplish when he grew tall. And as she did, did she ever whisper hopes about his future? Did she whisper promises from her past?

  And when she looked down at a chubby face relaxed in sleep—with lips parted and tiny lashes resting gently on rosy cheeks—perhaps she thought about how very soon her baby would be grown and gone. And perhaps, like me, she let the tears well up in her eyes, trace a pattern down her face, and splash unhindered on a chubby hand.

  This year, I have my own precious Christmas baby. And I understand, better than ever before, a mother’s love for a Christmas baby long ago.

  And when you are old enough to understand, I’ll tell you all about that mother’s baby. And I’ll tell you what she couldn’t have known as she swaddled, nursed, and loved him: that one day her baby would die so that mine might live. So that you might live. And of all the Christmas blessings today or yesterday, this is the greatest by far.

  11

  Cold Weather Sports

  IT’S COLD OUTSIDE.

  I know it’s cold outside because I happen to be visiting my folks in Colorado and, as I look out the window, I can see snow on the ground. Even back home in Texas, I hear they’ve had an unexpected cold spell and that the temperature’s been down to twenty degrees.

  When it gets chilly like this, it’s only natural to find ourselves thinking about cold weather sports.

  Such as applying moisterizer.

  If you ask me, the Olympics should recognize moisturizer application as a winter sport and allow women to compete internationally. I just can’t decide whether the competition should be based on speed or results. Should the gold go to the woman who can apply the most lotion in the least amount of time or to the woman who goes home baby-bottom-soft after beginning the week most resembling a Gila monster?

  Other cold weather sports? Scraping ice off a frozen windshield is always a riveting event. So is hunting for a preschooler’s missing mitten. And speaking of lost mittens, I’m waiting for a forward-thinking company to come up with telephone-activated locating devices that can be attached to mittens, blankies, even pacifiers. That way, when Junior is screaming at the top of his lungs for the saliva-stained blankie that has gone suddenly AWOL, you could walk to the phone, dial a number, and listen around the house for the responding beep. I’d buy a dozen such devices and attach them to all sorts of things that I can’t afford to lose: My car keys would be prime candidates. My five-year-old’s mittens could benefit as well. I’d even be willing to attach one to my bottle of moisturizer.

  Another popular cold weather sport is trying to keep the house warm. This sport requires good manual dexterity as well as a high tolerance for emotional pain. This is because it usually involves writing checks to utility companies for obscene sums of money.

  I remember one December when our heater went out. I called around, but no one could come out to fix it for several days. Larry and I tried to look on the bright side. We figured we’d save a little money on the electric bill that month. The bad news is that we were in the middle of a cold spell.

  We did everything we could to stay warm, including relying on the kinds of gritty survival skills my husband perfected during his years as an Eagle Scout.

  We built a fire.

  Ah, but this was no ordinary fire.

  After creating an architectural masterpiece of kindling and logs that would have garnered an approving nod from the most stringent Scout Master, my husband decided to get innovative. He collected palms that had fallen from the palm tree in front of our house, certain that the massive brittle fans would provide excellent fuel.

  And he was right. He tossed a few into the fireplace, and they immediately burst into flames. Indeed, the fire roared hot and ferocious, with long flames leaping out of the fireplace, licking their way toward the mantel and singeing the toes out of all the Christmas stockings.

  As black smoke began pouring into the house, Larry and I looked at each other and said, at the exact same moment, two little words. Savvy Eagle Scouts rarely have to say these words to each other, mainly because savvy-er Scout Masters only let them build fires in the woods.

  We said in unison: “The flue!”

  Indeed, the fireplace flue was firmly closed. The good news is that Larry eventually found a crowbar, reached in through the flames, and opened the flue. The bad news is that, to get rid of all the smoke in the house, we had to open all the windows for several hours, which meant the temperature in our house dropped even further, and we were forced to devise new ways to keep warm.

  Kaitlyn was born nine months later.

  This, of course, suggests a whole new category of cold weather sports. In fact, anyone who remembers the last Winter Olympics remembers that many commentators reported a disappointing drop in viewer interest. My guess is that the inclusion of this kind of sport would go a long way toward reviving interest and boosting viewer ratings.

  But I shouldn’t complain about winter. I shouldn’t complain about any season, really, because every season says something to us about the kind of Being who would create such masterpieces as snowflakes, tender spring growth, summer thunderstorms, and fall’s rich harvest.

  I hadn’t looked at a snowflake—I mean really looked at a snowflake—in years. But I did this week, with my kids, as we were playing in the snow. And when I studied the intricate design, exquisite even as it melted into my glove, I was filled with awe. “God made this,” I told Kacie. She was clearly moved, taking the opportunity of my reflective pause to plant a fistful of wet snow in my face.

  Not that I mind a little snow in the face. In fact, harsh elements don’t worry me a bit. I am, after all, a serious athlete, well-practiced in my chosen sport.

  Just give me a bottle of Jergens, and I’ll bring home the gold every time.

  12

  The Secret to Foolproof Resolutions

  IT’S THE BEGINNING OF A NEW YEAR, which means it’s time once again to take stock and identify changes that will make me a better person and improve the quality of my life.

  I’ve decided to save time this year. Rather than start from scratch making my list of resolutions, I’m just going to dust off last year’s list. I can do this because the same goals tend to show up year after year. For example, every single year, my list begins as follows:

  Resolution Number One: Never eat anything again for the rest of my life.

  I read somewhere that in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, each American gains an average of seven pounds. This tells me an awful lot of people actually lose weight over the holidays. I say this because my holiday weight gain tends to be in the triple-digit category, which means in order to end up with a national average of only seven pounds per person, some folks somewhere are dropping pounds big time.

  The worst part about New Year’s resolutions is that they are so short-lived. My wedding night negligee lasted longer than the majority of the promises I’ve made to myself on various January firsts throughout the years.

  But I think I finally have it figured out.

  I think I’ve finally come up with a surefire way to actually follow through with the resolutions I make this year.

  Best yet, I’m going to share my secret with you. In fact, by following my instructions you, too, can wow your friends in April by announcing that you have honored your New Year’s resolutions for four whole months with a flawless fervency that even Gandhi would have admired.

  My secret is simply this: When you make your New Year’s wish list
this year, select the kinds of resolutions that you could execute successfully even if you were in a coma.

  For example, this year I plan to remove, from my list, the goal of losing twenty pounds. I am going to replace it with a goal that states that no conventions attended by Elvis impersonators will be allowed to convene in my home during any month that ends in the letter y.

  And you know that resolution that says I will get out of debt by eating out less often, reusing tinfoil, and making homemade Christmas presents out of recycled dryer lint? Well, forget it. I’m going to replace that resolution with something a little more fail-safe. In fact, I’ve been thinking of resolving that I will never, ever allow my children to engage in science fair projects that involve the words “plastic surgery,” no matter how much they beg or how many chins I have.

  In fact, for even less stress and an even greater chance at success, consider resolutions such as these:

  “I promise to air out the sheets on my bed by leaving it unmade whenever I am running late for work.”

  “I resolve to reduce my intake of sugar and fat whenever I am not currently eating sugar or fat.”

  “I resolve to end the new year older than I am today.”

  Sometimes, less is more.

  If I were to put a passage from the Bible on my list of New Year’s resolutions, what might I choose? I could always pick the Ten Commandments, or even 1 Corinthians 13. There’s no doubt about it—these verses would certainly make worthy resolutions.

  But if less is more, the verse I’ve always loved can be found in Micah, chapter 6, verse 8: “What does the LORD require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (NASB).

  Now there’s a resolution that’s worth its salt.

  Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with my Lord.

  Okay, I’ll be the first to admit this resolution doesn’t exactly fit in the category of “things you can accomplish while comatose.” But you have to agree that it’s not too complex. It’s not unreasonable, either. Best yet, it comes with a perk or two. For starters, when I’m having a hard time following through with this resolution, the Holy Spirit is waiting to come to my assistance and help me turn these powerful words into a reality in my life. All I have to do is ask.

  And when I stumble completely—when I am downright unjust, mean, and proud—Jesus is waiting to forgive and give grace.

  All I have to do is ask.

  What a deal!

  Every January, I get frustrated because my New Year’s resolutions are usually the exact same promises I made to myself the previous year. But if you ask me, these words from Micah deserve to be on my list of resolutions year after year after year.

  Right next to the ban on Elvis conventions in my living room.

  13

  Meet Walter

  I TOOK MY DOG TO THE VET THIS MORNING.

  Walter is a white German shepherd puppy, although I use the word puppy loosely. This is because Walter slobbers like a fire hydrant. He eats like a vacuum. And when he’s not trying to scramble onto my lap like a fifty-pound Pomeranian, he’s ricocheting around the house like a loose balloon on amphetamines.

  So you can see why, when Walter started moping around the house a few days ago, I knew something was wrong.

  I got the prognosis (and the bill) this morning.

  Walter has tonsillitis.

  I didn’t even know dogs had tonsils.

  I guess I shouldn’t complain. As long as I’m paying a vet bill, at least I’m getting my money’s worth. At least tonsillitis is a real ailment, unlike the LAST time Walter had to go to the vet. It was about two months ago, and Walter had just spent three days limping and moaning around the house. I searched for burrs, broken bones, cuts, or bruises to no avail. I was heading out the front door to take Walter to the vet when my teenage daughter said, “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Kacie’s been standing on his leg.”

  I explained all this to the vet as he was examining my dog. When the exam was through, the good doctor gave me his recommendation: “I’d suggest you tell your five-year-old to stop standing on his leg.”

  That’ll be sixty dollars, please.

  But I’m not complaining. Walter is worth it. He adds a lot of value to our home. I can’t say how much in terms of dollars yet because I’m still researching the going rate for shed dog hair, but if there’s any sort of market for this stuff at all, we could be talking really big bucks.

  So I’m doing my best to keep Walter healthy. Actually, that’s my goal when it comes to the rest of my family as well. We’re going into flu season, and it’s time to stock up on cough syrup and decongestant.

  Not to mention Vitamin C, veggies, and warm mittens. After all, they say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. This is why I make my kids button up in cold weather. This is also why I tell them to “brush and floss after meals,” “don’t run with sharp sticks,” and “please stop leaning backwards in that chair right now before you fall and break something or I walk over there and wring your neck, whichever comes first.”

  But they don’t get it. They think they’re indestructible. They think I’m being Mrs. Killjoy. But when they get sick or hurt, suddenly I’m NURSE Killjoy and their favorite person in the world.

  Not that I mind. I love my girls, and I’m happy to be there when they need me. I just wish they’d listen to me more often. I can’t spare them from every virus, bug, or accident, but I sure could steer them clear of more than a few.

  Some things, as we’ve said, are just easier to avoid than fix.

  Same thing goes for other areas in my kids’ lives, and in my life and yours too.

  Like this one friend of mine. She told me talking to men in chat rooms is just fun, and nothing’ll come of it. She didn’t know that I thought that too, but that it started leading me down a scary detour. I had to cut through some brambles to get back to the main road, but I’m back where I want to be and wiser for the wear. I told her about it, but she says she’s fine. She’s in control. She’s handling it.

  Just like someone else I love. Someone I knew in college. She had it handled too. Just a drink now and then to relax. Now she’s downing three or four a night and wondering why she feels so trapped.

  Just like another friend. There were a few months at the beginning when her affair felt preventable, not that she tried very hard because, let’s face it, it felt pretty good at the moment. Now she’s in the fixin’ stage, trying to put back the pieces of her life, and she never dreamed it’d be this hard.

  Just like you. I don’t know the details of your story, but my guess is that you’ve got one. Something you could have prevented, maybe still can. I have two things to say to you:

  First, you’re not too late. Getting ahold of whatever is ailing your spirit today—no matter how long it’s gone on—is terrific prevention against creating more sorrow for yourself tomorrow.

  Second, whenever it is you jump in and say, “This is it! I’m going to get ahold of this attitude/affair/addiction/habit/feud/temptation right now before it goes unchecked another minute!” (whether you say it when you’ve merely lost control of your thoughts or whether your actions have jumped into the fray as well), one thing doesn’t change: You’re loved just the same with a passionate love by a holy God.

  My friend Linda once told me, “I’m just now realizing how much God loves me, and that there’s nothing I can do—NOTHING—that will diminish that love.”

  I said, “Then why not just live however we want? Why worry about holding back?”

  Linda said, “Because I don’t want the wounds that sin creates in my life.”

  Yeah, those wounds. I’ve had them. They’re no fun. And, if you ask me, that’s the best reason of all to buy an ounce of prevention. But as for God’s love, well, that never wavers. And if I end up needing that pound of cure after all, he loves me even then.

  As for Walter, he’s feeling much better, thanks for asking. In fact, I’m so st
irred up by all this “ounce of prevention” stuff that I’ve taken a few steps to keep Walter from future ailments.

  He didn’t seem to mind the vitamins, but trust me when I tell you he’s not at all happy about the mittens.

  14

  Clutter Management 101

  I’M GETTING THE URGE AGAIN.

  It hits me every year. Maybe it’s brought on from thumbing through Target ads and seeing all the plastic storage boxes and closet dividers on sale.

  But whatever the reason, every January I get this urge to organize my home.

  Some years, I’ll admit, I take two aspirin and watch reruns of Sanford and Son until The Urge goes away (I suspect this is because, compared to their home, mine looks like it belongs between the covers of Better Homes and Gardens).

  But other years I get really motivated and make an effort to tame the jungle of clutter in my home.

  Of course, this is easier said than done. Sometimes I get the feeling my house is a little like the Eagles’ Hotel California: Things check in but they don’t check out. (Or is that the Roach Motel? I can never remember!) What kinds of things? How about clothes that haven’t been in style since I had to have my pet rock put to sleep, or my collection of Barry Manilow songs—on eight track—or the two dozen plaques I own that try to assure me that “A Messy Desk Is the Sign of a Creative Mind” (all gifts from friends who know me a little too well).

  The only good thing about clutter is that, indeed, one woman’s junk is another woman’s treasure. One month I managed to clean out two closets and hold a garage sale. I made $400. (I figure if I clean out the rest of my closets I can probably put one of my children through college.)

  I’m not sure where all the clutter comes from. Oh sure, junk mail is a big chunk of it. Happy Meal toys comprise another large portion. Half-used tubes of abandoned makeup and facial care products are another hefty category. And what about those wire hangers? Have you ever once in your life actually purchased a wire hanger? Me neither. I always buy the plastic tube hangers.