A Flockin', Bitchin', Smokin', Cloggin'

Good Christmas

 

For unto us a child is born,

unto us a son is given:

and the government shall be upon his shoulder:

and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor,

The mighty God, The everlasting Father,

The Prince of Peace.

-- Isaiah 9:6

 

 

My Beloved came home with a FLOCKED Christmas tree. You know: white fuzz stuck to all the tree branches. Maddy and I just looked at each other.

 

"What is that, a fossil?"

 

"That doesn't 'go' at all with our other decorations. We have Christmas greenery, not 'whitery.'"

 

"We don't want no stinkin', flockin', weird-lookin' Christmas tree!"

 

Undeterred, he set it up. We pouted. Days passed. We refused to decorate it.

 

Finally, we wore him down. We made it the Dog Tree, and moved it to the back porch. We put all our dog ornaments and stockings on it. We have girl dogs, so never mind what you were thinking.

 

 

The flockin' Christmas tree . . . happier on the back porch.

 

 

 With lights on it, it was pretty out there at night, when you couldn't see the flocking. So out he went again for a tree. Of course, by then, the only green trees left were forlorn Charlie Brown ones. But we were happy and all was well.

 

But it wasn't yet Christmas.

 

Next, we were excited to take our four daughters, one son-in-law and one freshly-minted fiancé to the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas concert in downtown Omaha. To my Beloved and me, this world-renowned, Omaha-based group's mix of new- and old-fashioned music with special effects and video is stupendous entertainment. But to the media-savvy Gen Y'ers in our party, it was Dullsville, Man. But I didn't know that when I bought the tickets at $40 a pop.

 

http://shop.mannheimsteamroller.com/

 

I wasn't supposed to hear it, but right before the concert, one of them whispered to another: "This is gonna be BITCHIN'!!!"

 

That term technically means that something is really great . . . or, when delivered tongue in cheek, means just the opposite. Uhh ohhhhhh.

 

Although I still enjoyed it very much, I saw it through a young adult's eyes. Oops. The videos that seemed so ground-breaking, rad and sensational in the 1980s now seemed odd, quaint and slightly disturbing. Ninety-six mouths on a screen mumbling the same Christmas lyric over and over was amazing the first time I saw it, years ago; now it looked like someone had been smokin' one of those funny, purple cigarettes.

 

Ohhhh, brother! It was a disaster. I cringed in my seat. This, at $40 each, too.

 

It was bitchin', all right. It was SO bitchin' that we laughed all the way home. Everybody felt the same way. Family unity! It was a good start for our Christmas weekend.

 

It was a start, all right. But it wasn't yet Christmas. There was more.

 

See, for Christmas Eve, I had envisioned our sweater-wearing family gathered around our two rarely-used fondue pots while the carols played and the snow lightly fell outside the frosted windowpanes. We would quick-cook chunks of mouth-watering Nebraska beef and sample the four - count 'em - four sauces I made.

 

For over 30 minutes, I dutifully heated the oil in the fondue pots on medium-low heat on the stove. But when it came close to serving time, I didn't think the oil looked hot enough. So, for a last blast before we moved the pots to the sternos on the table, I cranked up the heat to medium-HIGH. Then - no surprise here - I got distracted.

 

            Before we knew it, smoke was billowing out of the two pans. Smoke filled our entire main floor. My family, in the living room, started hollering. "Smoke! What's that smoke!?!"

 

We all peered at each other through the acrid smoke. I couldn't believe smoke could spread that fast. I actually fell into full defensive mode, suggesting that maybe something ELSE was on fire in our house, and don't you DARE blame my precious FONDUE for all that smoke!

 

            Mr. Man of Action picked up both pots of oil and hauled them out to the back porch. He opened all the windows, set up two fans, and, wanting to be helpful, proceeded to fry the mouth-watering chunks of Nebraska beef in a skillet over a burner.

 

"Burner" is right. They quickly formed into black lumps of Nebraska COAL.

 

            My poor family, wanting to bolster my flagging self-esteem, oohed and ahhed over the four - count 'em - FOUR sauces that coated their black chunks as they gamely tried to chew them.

 

            What broke the silence was our son-in-law, who always knows how to make me feel better. He quipped:

 

            "This Christmas Eve dinner is SMOKIN'!!!!!"

 

            Everybody collapsed in gales of laughter. Yeah, this year, the lumps of coal arrived BEFORE Santa did! So now our time together was bitchin' AND smokin'!

 

 

The two culprits . . . now seem innocent and harmless. Hmphh!!

 

 

But it still wasn't yet Christmas. The church service was lovely, the presents were delightful, we spent all afternoon getting ready for the feast, and the extended family arrived for a glorious, festive celebration.

 

            Somehow, trying to be helpful, one of the guests scraped a couple of plates of scraps down the disposal, not realizing that our plumbing system has more angles than an engineering textbook, and therefore we have to scrape into the wastebasket. Naturally, the pipes clogged and the sink backed up, spilling nastily over onto the floor.

 

            Some people were still dining, so I held the armload of beach towels behind my back as I smilingly race-walked by them to soak up the spill.

 

            We would have to just let the dishes for 20 people sit 'til we could get to the store the next day for some drain unclogger, or call in a plumber. The kitchen was a Grand Canyon of messiness: layers of dishes, food containers, foil and glasses. To a perfectionist, this was terrible, horrible, no good and very bad.

 

            I could feel my face turning beet red, my heart pounding in my chest, and tears welling up in my eyes. AA-OO-GAH! AA-OO-GAH! Strap On Your Helmets! Total Stress Meltdown Is About to Begin!

 

            But just then, our "tweener," Maddy appeared at my side. She had gone down to her room to check out her Christmas gifts and try on her new clothes. She was wearing a shirt from one of those overpriced mall rip-off stores catering to tweeners, that had topped her wish list this year.

 

            But the little clear plastic loop holding the tags was still attached. I am known for eschewing scissors when in a hurry, and literally using my teeth to remove those little loops.

 

            Maddy looked at me, saw the red face and the teary eyes, and said with great love and concern, "Mom? Would you please . . . BITE IT OFF?!?!?"

 

            We stared at each other for one heartbeat, then two.

 

She had no idea that "bite it off" could also mean to end or quit something. Quite often, the Holy Spirit uses things our loved ones say to give us a message we need badly ourselves. This was one of those times.

 

            In a flash, I realized that I had my whole family together, everyone had arrived here safely from faraway cities, it had been a beautiful day, everybody loved all their presents, we had just had a fabulous meal, the house looked great, my mom had just successfully pushed back cancer for the fourth go-round, our second daughter was engaged to a great guy and deliriously happy, and my husband and whole family were happy and healthy . . .

 

            . . . and so what was I doing having a stress attack on Christmas?!?

 

I had sooooooooo(30 minutes later)ooooooo many gifts and blessings.

 

I knew the Prince of Peace was prodding me to ignore the silly things that had gone wrong. Instead, focus on the major things that were so right and beautiful. Have the self-control to rise above the stress.

 

            BITE IT OFF!!!

 

            So I did. I beamed, removed the tag, and hugged her. She giggled, and traipsed off for more tween texting.

 

I wiped my tears on the one clean bit of fabric that could be found in the kitchen . . . surveyed my laughing, gabbing family over the mountains of dishes . . . sensed the love and cheer in the room . . .

 

. . . and it was Christmas.

 

            In fact, it was a flockin', bitchin', smokin', cloggin' GOOD Christmas! †