Dreaming of a black Christmas

Today I’ll share a December excerpt from my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir. The scene takes place on a mission center, Lomalinda (pretty hill), in South America, during our family’s first December there. 

But first, review Your Christmas stories need sensory details, and then notice those that I included in my excerpts, below. (Sensory details: What do you see, hear, taste, smell, and feel?) 

Lomalinda was into the dry season with clean cerulean skies and hardly a wisp of a cloud. Daytime temperatures rose to over a hundred degrees in the shade—cruel, withering. The green scent of the rainy season had given way to the spicy fragrance of sun-dried grasses. Immense stretches of emerald disappeared, leaving grasslands stiff and simmering under unrelenting sun.

      Muddy paths and single-lane tracks turned rock-hard and, with use, changed to dust. Yards and airstrips and open fields turned to dust, too. 

      From sunrise to sundown, a strong wind blew across the llanos, a gift from God because it offered a little relief from the heat. On the other hand, we had to use rocks and paperweights and other heavy objects to keep papers from blowing away. Dust blew through slatted windows and into homes and offices and settled on our counters and furniture and in cracks and crannies and on our necks and in our armpits and up our noses. . . . 

      During rainy season, sometimes laundry took days to dry in our screened-in porch, but in dry season I hung laundry outside and, after pegging up the last garment in the laundry basket, I took down the first pieces I’d hung—the hot wind had already dried them.

      Dry season gave homes and furniture and clothing and shoes and photos and slides a chance to de-mildew. Roads were easier to navigate, no longer gooey with mud. The parched wind gave us a break from the profuse sweating we endured in the rainy season so, in that way, it was a friend.

      But dry season could also be a foe. One sizzling afternoon, Dr. Altig hollered at our door, “Call for help! We have a fire!” Across the road behind Ruth’s house, flames leaped and smoke billowed. . . .

That year, our family’s first there, we learned December traditionally was a time of wildfires in and around Lomalinda, leaving acres of black ashes. Shortly after that day’s fire, the following happened:

One December day I walked a sun-cracked track while that celestial fireball cooked my skin and the smell of charred grassland swirled in the breeze. The school principal puttered up to me on her red motorbike. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!”

      Pris watched me for a few seconds and then laughed—my face had betrayed my thoughts. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “This looks like Christmas? You’ve got to be kidding!”

    To me, Christmas looks like frost-covered evergreens, and snowflakes, and frozen puddles. Heavy coats, scarves, mittens, boots. Runny noses. Sledding. Ice skating. Swags of cedar and pine and holly tied with red ribbons.

      I learned a lesson on that hot, dry December day. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” means different things to different people. To most Lomalindians, especially kids, Christmas looked like a bleached landscape, charred fields, hot wind, and a whiff of ashes in the air. Folks enjoyed saying, “I’m dreaming of a black Christmas.”

What are your memories of unique Christmases? 

• Did you spend one Christmas fighting a war overseas? 
• Or did you celebrate the holiday in Hawaii one year? 
• Or did you take a trip to the Holy Land?

What about traditions you enjoyed? 

• Playing fun games 
• Serving Christmas Eve dinner at a homeless shelter
• Going to the Nutcracker each year
• Watching It’s A Wonderful Life or Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer
• Christmas caroling in nursing homes

What memories of traditional Christmas food do you have?

If you have a Nordic background, you might have traditions around smörgåsbords with

• lutefisk, 
• pepparkakor, 
• gubbröra, 
• liver pâté,
• vörtbröd, 
• pickled herring, 
• pinnekjôtt,
• glögg, and
• julekaker.

If you have a Scottish background, you might have 

• haggis 
• tatties and neeps, 
• black pudding, 
• Cock-a-leekie soup,
• clootie dumpling, and 
• Yorkshire pudding. 

Have fun remembering Christmases past.

This is a super busy time of year, but if you keep a pencil and paper handy, simply jot down ideas for now. When things settle down after the holidays, you can spend more time on a rough draft.

And be sure to include sensory details.

Are you too busy to write?

 

Life has been busy, busy, busy for the past few weeks, and I suspect you haven’t had time to write your stories.

 

But that’s not a problem.

 

Why not?

 

Because your brain and heart

are working even when you don’t have time

to sit down and get serious about

working on your memoir.

 

Christmas is a time of remembering. So many memories pop into our heads at this time of the year. If your memoir will include a vignette about Christmas, you’ll like today’s post.

 

What memories came to mind when you put decorations on your Christmas tree? Do you have ornaments that used to be your grandmother’s? Decorations you made as a child? Or that your kids made when they were little?

 

What memories came to mind when you sang Christmas songs at church, or when you watched your favorite old Christmas movie, baked a recipe from your childhood, or watched kids or grandkids perform in a Christmas pageant?

 

When you have a spare moment,

jot down a few key words and images

that will help you remember

those details later.

As George W. Carver said, "Do what you can, with what you have, and do it now."

 

For now, don’t worry about

composing a well-written vignette

for your memoir.

A few hurried notes to yourself

will be a big help later

when you compose

your detailed, polished stories.

Happy New Year!

 

 

YOUR WORST CHRISTMAS

 

We’re going to take a mini-break from our Back to Basics for newcomers and instead, we’ll discuss CHRISTMAS! But with a twist. . . .

 

Maybe you recall a Christmas that was simply awful—a time you were heartbroken, or homeless, or broke, or far from home, or jilted, or frightened, or sick—and your future looked bleak.

 

You remember it as the worst Christmas ever.

 

But I invite you to think again.

 

Writing a memoir can be such a blessed project. Memoir requires taking long, deep looks at the past. Memoir involves pondering, rethinking, unearthing, and finding gems we might not have known were there.

 

Sometimes what seems to be our biggest disaster

can turn out to be a blessing—

one we couldn’t have received without the difficulty.

 

Sometimes we think a calamity will destroy us, but God works in the midst of our situations and, in the way only He can do it, He turns everything inside out and upside down and—instead of destroying us—it makes us stronger and better.

 

Failures. Tangled messes. Catastrophes. Tragedies. Conflicts. Blows. Adversity. Upheavals. Disasters. Setbacks. Unwelcome surprises.

 

God can use our deep disappointments to

• get our attention,
• shake us up a little,
• clear our heads,
• help us see we were putting our hope in something we shouldn’t,
• open new doors for us,
• give us new perspectives,
• tenderize our souls,
• give us fresh starts.

 

God can do all that.

 

That’s what Romans 8:28 is about:  “God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purposes for them” (NLT).

 

A long, long time ago, H.C. Trumbull told this story:

 

“The floods washed away home and mill, all the poor man had in the world. But as he stood on the scene of his loss, after the water had subsided, brokenhearted and discouraged, he saw something shining in the bank which the waters had washed bare. ‘It looks like gold,’ he said. It was gold. The flood which had beggared him made him rich. So it is ofttimes in life.” (Quoted by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, Streams in the Desert, January 20 selection.)

 

When turn-arounds and relief and solutions

eventually come our way, it’s so easy to snatch them,

run with them, and never look back.

 

We too easily fail to recognize God’s intervention

on our behalf, and we pay too little attention

to the good He has brought to us

out of our hardships.

 

Take time—make time—to dig through the dirt and ashes

of what you thought was your most disastrous Christmas,

and mine those bits of gold.

 

Search for evidence of God’s healing, new directions He offered you, new friends, and new hope.

 

Pinpoint the ways He strengthened your faith for the future.

 

Recognize these were all part of God’s unique plan for you and your life.

 

Gather those discoveries 

and write stories in your memoir 

that detail the ways God was with you 

n the midst of your worst Christmas ever.

 

Write stories about the way He took a disaster and turned it into something good—blessings you couldn’t have received without that difficulty. Instead of destroying you, it made you stronger and better.

 

If you’ll make time to do that, you can receive heaps of blessings.

 

But it doesn’t end there. Your readers can benefit, too.

 

Take in what Jeff Goins said,

 

“At times, you will hold the keys to another’s prison. . . . 

when you write from the heart, 

your pain will become someone else’s healing balm.”

 

Tuesday Tidbit: As a memoirist, you need eyes to see and ears to hear

As you write your memoir, think about Howard Thurman's words:

 

“Angels hide in every nook and cranny, magi masquerade as everyday people, and shepherds wear garments of day laborers. The whole earth is brimming with glory for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.” (The Work of Christmas: The Twelve Days of Christmas with Howard Thurman, by Bruce G. Epperly)

 

When have key people in your life

seemed to be angels sent by God?

 

What regular old everyday people

might have been magi-like characters in your life?

 

Who were the shepherds God brought alongside

to guide and protect you?

 

You see, God reveals Himself to us in many ways—and the job of a memoirist is to have eyes to see and ears to hear.

 

“Christ is revealed to us by both shepherds and kings,” writes the Reverend Deacon Geoffrey Smith, “by people of all stripes and walks of life. . . .

 

“We find him not only with those around our dinner table, or with those whom we sit next to at church, but also in the invisible ones who mow our lawns, who shovel our snow, who bag our groceries. . . .

 

“Regardless of whether they’re rich or poor, whether they look like us and talk like us, whether they’re Democrat or Republican, God gives us the chance to see Christ in everyone we meet.”

 

And so, as you write your memoir, consider again those questions:

 

• When have key people in your life seemed to be angels sent by God?
• What regular old everyday people might have been magi-like characters in your life?
• Who were the shepherds God brought alongside to guide and protect you?

 

Write your stories!

 

There you have it: Your Tuesday Tidbit

 

Covid-19 and those “Beneath life’s crushing load”

 

Tragedies caused by Covid-19 can certainly be called one of life’s crushing loads. As of this morning, more than 1,700,000 people have died around the world. I estimate that for each one, at least fifty family members and friends are grieving. That number comes to 85,000,000 people mourning those deaths. That’s probably a low figure, and it will continue to grow.

 

Add to that financial disasters to businesses and employees, the enormous emotional and physical toll on first responders and healthcare workers, and people being evicted from their homes.

 

Add to that the isolation so many are experiencing from families at Thanksgiving and Christmas, teachers exhausted as they teach online instead of in person, and students struggling to keep up with their lessons.

 

Add to that careworn parents trying to work from home and supervise kids and help them with their schoolwork—all at the same time. Families are struggling financially because breadwinners have lost their jobs. Thousands every day wait in line for food. Others have enormous medical bills. Those recovering from the virus can have long-term health issues, making it difficult for them to get back on their feet.

 

And doctors and scientists are concerned over a sometimes-deadly syndrome related to Covid-19 which effects children’s “heart, lungs, blood vessels, kidneys, digestive system, brain, skin or eyes.”

 

Now there’s news that the coronavirus has mutated in England, and probably has reached other nations as well, and that the new strain spreads much more quickly than we’ve seen so far.

 

And that just scratches the surface when it comes to Covid-19.

 

In addition, in recent months our nation has experienced political unrest, violence in streets, racial tensions, and significant disagreements among Christian denominations.

 

That’s a lot of heartache to bear.

 

And I’m sure you’ll agree: All of this has added an element of sadness to this Christmas season.

 

In my family, we have our own layers of sadness, but really: We have little to complain about compared to millions of families that have many more problems than we do.

 

I ran across this artwork (see photo below) in an antique Christmas book and its caption took my breath away. “Ye, beneath life’s crushing load,” words from the beloved song, “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

 

The words are so familiar to me—I’ve sung the song for as long as I can remember.

 

But this year, those words take on deeper meaning. I’m glad they caught my attention and jostled my heart and made me care more deeply.

 

Sometimes we want to block out the grimness of a time like this—we desperately want to ease our pain. We grab hold of distractions like Christmas parties and movies and music and decorations and gift-giving.

 

And yet, it’s good to step aside from our giddy Christmas festivities to pray for those suffering around us, in our nation, and around the world—those staggering beneath life’s crushing load.

 

But let’s go beyond that—let’s remember the suffering and sadness we have experienced in the past, and let’s remember the ways God stuck with us and got us through to the other side of the pain.

 

Remember the people He used, the Bible verses, the sermons, the stories He used to minister to us and keep us from going under.

 

Let’s always remember the good God brought to us within our past heartaches and sufferings. And then let’s comfort others with the comfort He has given us (1 Corinthians 1:3-4). How? By telling them our stories.

 

“Listen to your life,” wrote Frederick Buechner. “See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and  hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” (Frederick Buechner, Now and Then)

 

Marlene Bagnull wrote, “I discovered the answers he [God] had given me could be a source of help and reassurance to others who asked . . . ‘How Much Longer, Lord?’ . . . I sensed the most difficult things for me to share could be the very words someone else needed to read.” (Marlene Bagnull, Write His Answer)

 

Which people did God use to comfort you when you were staggering beneath life’s crushing load? Thank God for them, (and thank them, too, if you can). Then pass it on: Share your stories with others.

 

Search your mind and heart for stories you need to include in your memoir, stories that will bless and encourage readers.

 

You don’t know what’s in the future—you can’t know now what will be happening in the lives of your kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, and all the others who will someday read your memoir.

 

Right now you can’t know what crushing loads your readers will be carrying.

 

But this is what you can do right now: Ask God to help you remember the good He brought out of your past heartaches and disasters. Dig deeply, layer by layer, and find the gems. Connect the dots.

 

Spend time recalling specifics of your situation,

Bible verses that made a difference,

God’s answer to prayers,

and people who loved you and stuck by your side.

 

And then, ask God to help you write your stories.

Ask Him to use them to give others

courage and hope and faith,

stories that will help them persevere

beneath life’s crushing load.

 

Of Sears Christmas catalogs and Bing Crosby and aluminum Christmas trees

 

Your childhood Christmases were significantly different from those of your kids and grandkids.

 

So, make time to search your memory for specifics so your words and scenes invite readers into your story with you.

 

Did you spend hours looking through the Sears Roebuck Christmas catalog?

 

Did you ask Santa for a cap gun? Or a transistor radio? Or a poodle skirt?

 

I remember asking Santa for a walking doll. (Do you remember walking dolls?) And my little brother asked for, and received, a Howdy Doody puppet-doll. He treasured it for years.

 

If someone in your family got sick on Christmas, did the doctor make a house call?

 

Did you have a real Christmas tree or one of those new-fangled aluminum ones?

 

What unique Christmas traditions did your family carry out?

 

What were your favorite Christmas movies?

 

If you had a TV, did you watch Christmas specials? Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Pat Boone come to mind. To change TV channels, did you have to get out of your chair and walk over and turn a dial? Did you have a rabbit-ear antenna on top of your TV?

 

And don’t miss this blast from the past: Click on Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby’s 1957 TV Christmas special.

 

What were your favorite Christmas songs? Did you play 45s on an old record player? (Just curious: Do you remember Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer?) Because I grew up surrounded by large numbers of Scandinavians, I have fond memories of one of them, TV personality Stan Boreson, and his classic performance of Vinter Undervare. Don’t miss this video clip! 

 

Did you and your family dress up in fancy clothes and go to church on Christmas Eve? Did your mother sew you a new Christmas dress each year?

 

Or, if you’re a man, did your parents make you wear a tie to the Christmas Eve church service? And did you use Butch Wax to keep your flat-top hair in place?

 

Did Santa leave a pack of Black Jack chewing gum in your stocking? Or candy cigarettes?

 

Did you usually stay home for Christmas, or did you join someone else—grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, or . . . ?

 

What was likely on your Christmas Day dinner menu? What did your mother or grandmother do with leftovers? If plastic wrap had not yet been invented, what did you use instead? And before plastic garbage bags were invented, what did you use?

 

When I was a kid, no one had a dishwasher. Do you remember helping mom, grandma, aunts, and cousins wash and dry dishes for hours after Christmas dinner?

 

Did your family take photos with a camera that used flashbulbs—or maybe flashcubes—the kind that left you with a glaring blind spot for half a minute or so? Were the photos black and white?

 

Because your childhood was so different from that of your kids and grandkids, such details will invite readers to join you in a rich experience of your Christmases past.

 

Have fun! And be sure to include old photos!

 

Guest Post by Carol Swift: A moment of Christmas joy, love, and hope within a broken and shattered world

Today we welcome Carol Swift 

who tells us a Christmas story from her childhood. 

Read more about Carol at the end of her story—

she’s a lady with a tender heart, 

a lady dedicated to helping those in grief and mourning.

I awoke to my first Christmas morning away from home, not as an adult celebrating Christmas in my own newly established home or as a college student spending the holiday abroad, but as an eleven-year-old whose father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack only two weeks before Christmas.

Memories from that morning are both blurred and distinct. Strings and strands of Christmas lights, squeals of young children opening their gifts, paper strewn everywhere serve as a hazy backdrop for a clear and compelling image I can still recall.

My sister Janet and her husband had invited my mother and me to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in their home, knowing that it would be difficult for us to be alone in our home so soon after my father’s death.

At ages twenty and twenty-one, they had married two months before I was born. Their sons were more like brothers to me, and their home was always a place where I experienced love and fun and acceptance that was not based on any similarities Janet and I shared, but on our acceptance and love for each other despite our different personalities.

Janet was passionate about sports, all kinds of sports. She loved watching them, participating in them, and having grand discussions about them. Their back yard became a place for neighborhood families to gather for volleyball and whiffle ball games. Children were encouraged to join the sporting events, but I always opted out and chose to sit under the shade of my favorite tree surrounded by books and pets.

Janet approached life in practical and straightforward ways and, at times, she grew weary of my whimsical ponderings. I remember one day she asked me, in an older sister's exasperated tone, why I never could see things in simple black and white terms.

My response to her was, “I don’t try to see things differently than you do. Where you see black and white, I can’t help but see pewter and charcoal and silver.”  

She could have viewed my words as smart and sassy, but she chose to view them as truth, truth that was woven through all of our years as sisters, and truth that is illustrated in one of my most vivid and distinct memories of that Christmas morning.

Back when I was ten years old, my sister had first allowed me to be part of the secretive gift wrapping for their sons’ presents. and I quickly learned how her practicality seeped into her wrapping techniques. Precise paper measuring, carefully folded corners, and perfect bow placement were important to Janet, and I followed her gift-wrapping guidelines as best I could, grateful she had invited me to be part of her Christmas preparations.

The following year, when my mother and I awoke to the many presents piled under their Christmas tree, it was no surprise to me to see the beautifully wrapped gifts awaiting us.

In the frenzy of children unwrapping their treasures, I hadn’t noticed one gift that was tucked among the many boxes. Janet eventually reached for it and eagerly brought it to me.

The gift was not in a box but was instead wrapped in the shape of a cylinder with multicolored ribbons creatively tied on each side. Its stark contrast to the other wrapped presents captured me, and I opened it hesitantly, wanting to hold on to its uniqueness for a few more moments. Eventually, my curiosity won out, and I unfolded it to find a simple but frilly white blouse, a gift I had hoped for and adored, a gift from a sister whose closet held mostly tailored and dark-colored apparel.

At the time, her gift brought a momentary sense of joy and love to me in a time when my broken and shattered world felt confusing and empty.

Decades later, as I reflect on Janet’s gift, it evokes a memory with far deeper meaning for me. Joy and love were surely something I desperately needed that Christmas morning, but hope was what I unknowingly needed even more.

Many view hope as future-focused, the equivalent of a wish. Without Janet or me realizing it, she stretched her love, in ways that were not as natural for her, and she allowed me, for a brief time, to step away from focusing on the uncertainty of the future and linger in the present moment, in the present reality of God’s promises. Emmanuel. God with us.

Its impact has reached across the years from that Christmas long ago to every Christmas I experience as I savor and embrace the gift of Jesus, God’s hope for all humanity. 

Carol uses her roles as educator, speaker, and writer to heighten awareness of the dimensions of grief and mourning. She has written materials for use in church studies, seminars, and retreats. She and her husband are currently facilitating a six-hour workshop for use in church studies, seminars, and retreats. They are offering Shared Sorrow: A Faith Community’s Response to Grief and Mourning to churches throughout Pennsylvania. Carol earned her M.S. in Education at Johns Hopkins University and received training in Death and Grief studies from Dr. Alan Wolfelt, the founder of The Center for Loss and Life Transition.

Guest Post: “Christmas Spirit—Lost and Found,” by Nancy Julien Kopp

Today we welcome writer Nancy Julien Kopp and thank her for sharing her story, “Christmas Spirit—Lost and Found.” It was a winner in the Kansas Voices contest in 2015 and published in the December 2016 issue of The War Cry (Salvation Army).

Be sure to come back next week for the Christmas story Carol Swift wrote!

“Christmas Spirit—Lost and Found”

Nancy Julien Kopp

The first Christmas commercial flicked across the TV screen in early December. My eyes were closed, head resting on the back of my chair, a cup of tea balanced on my lap, but I heard the tinkling of sleigh bells, the sound of carolers and laughter. I stayed still, wishing the joyful sounds away. I didn’t want to feel Christmas this year.

I didn’t spend my days Christmas shopping or decorating the house or baking cookies. Instead, I read books about babies born with spina bifida, asked questions of doctors about hydrocephalus, and made phone calls to a hospital an hour away from our home to ask about the condition of our only child, born in November.

It was 1966, and we didn’t have the option of staying with Julie at the large children’s hospital over an hour away from our home. When she was a few days old, we drove on icy roads to admit her after our pediatrician had made the arrangements. A paperwork snafu gave us four precious hours with her in the crowded waiting room before the clerk told us to go to fourth floor west where a nurse waited for us.

Ken and I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down a long corridor breathing in the hospital antiseptic odor. A white-uniformed woman walked toward us. She put her arms out to take our baby girl. As I placed Julie in this stranger’s arms, I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to crumple in a heap. Instead, I looked into the nurse’s eyes, and we smiled at one another, woman to woman.

She held Julie in the crook of one arm and smoothed the pink blanket with her free hand. “We’ll take good care of her.” She turned and proceeded down the long, empty hallway before I could make any farewell gesture to our sweet baby girl, before I could hold her close and inhale that special baby smell.

Ken and I walked down the hall, hand in hand, too choked up to say a word.

We returned a few days later to find that we could only view our daughter through a nursery window. She lay on her tummy so there’d be no pressure on the bulging tumor in the open area of her spine. She would soon have surgery to close the opening. Later, a shunt would be placed at the base of her brain to drain fluid. Farther down the road would be more surgery to straighten her legs in hopes that she might one day learn to walk on crutches, not a certainty, only a hope.

I asked a nurse about the big wooden rocking chair that I noticed sitting in the nursery.

“Oh that’s for our hospital volunteers who come in to rock the babies. It’s nice to have a personal touch.”

Why couldn’t it be me who rocked her? Why not a mother’s touch? But hospital rules in those days were stringent, and parents were discouraged from asking favors. The rocking chair appeared to be the one thing that didn’t scream institution. Bare walls, bare hallways, no color except in the waiting rooms. But that would soon change.

I still didn’t care about Christmas, but the hospital volunteers must have signed on as Santa’s helpers. The next time we visited, the halls glowed with Christmas banners and ribbons and small, decorated trees sat on tables in the waiting areas. The babies had dolls or toys tied to their cribs, a gift from the hospital auxiliary. The nurses wore Christmas pins on their uniforms, the green and red colors standing out on the snowy fabric. I chose to ignore these obvious signs of holiday spirit. When Christmas drew too close, I pushed it away.

As we waited with other parents to talk to our child’s doctor, I wondered if these mothers were skipping Christmas this year, too. I’d probably go out soon and buy the necessary gifts for our parents and siblings, but it would be an obligation, not a joy as in past years.

On Christmas Day, we stopped by the hospital before going to my parents’ home. By this time, Julie had been there for nearly four weeks and come through two surgeries. When the elevator doors opened onto fourth floor that Christmas morning, holiday music played softly over unseen speakers. The melodic carols fairly floated down the long corridor. The banners and ribbons on the walls seemed brighter than they had on our other visits. A nurse passed by us with a “Merry Christmas” greeting, which I didn’t return.

Julie was awake when we arrived at the nursery window. Still lying on her tummy, she raised her head and looked right at us with her big blue eyes. I had a sudden vision of Mary and Baby Jesus looking at one another just like Julie and I were doing. The message was there for me. I needed Mary’s faith, needed to stop the sorrow and self-pity, needed to dwell on the positive strides Julie was making.

Ken put his arm around me while we watched our little girl on her first Christmas morning. The music surrounded us, and I felt the ice around my heart crack and break into tiny bits as I let the spirit of Christmas warm me. I’d pushed it away with every bit of force I could muster, but today thoughts of Mary and her precious son took over. After all, wasn’t this what Christmas was all about? The birth of a child the world had waited for? Wouldn’t we want to teach the treasured story to our child one day, too?

Shame for the way I’d tried to shut Christmas out of my life brought a single tear trickling down my cheek. I should have embraced this special holiday from the day I’d heard that first TV commercial. I needed the spirit of Christmas more this year than any other.

We blew a kiss to our little girl and walked hand in hand to the elevator. I’d finally opened my heart to what Christmas had to offer when I found the spirit in the face of our baby girl. The carols sounded sweeter, the nurses cheerier, and the decorations more elegant. It would be a Christmas etched on my heart forever, the one when God and his holy angels spoke softly to me.

Nancy Julien Kopp, of Manhattan, Kansas, writes creative nonfiction, memoir, inspirational, children’s fiction, poetry and articles on the writing craft. She’s published in 22 Chicken Soup for the Soul books, other anthologies, newspapers, ezines and magazines. She blogs about her writing world with tips and encouragement for writers at www.writergrannnywworld.blogspot.com.

In the noise and happy messiness of Christmas, “Remember Me”

Whew! I don’t know about you but, for me, the past few days have been busy, busy, busy! And fun. And full of laughter. And love.

When the dust began to settle, I saw award-winning singer Rory Feek sing “Remember Me”—both he and his song were new to me—which cut through the noise and happy messiness of the Christmas season.

The words go something like this:

When you’re tearing open Christmas gifts, “Remember Me.”

When you’re enjoying your favorite Christmas meals and snacks, “Remember Me.”

When you’re putting up your sparkly lights, “Remember Me.”

And He sang about the birth of Jesus and all he did—through his life, ministry, death, forgiveness, and the hope for the future.

It was a powerful experience for me to sit quietly and listen to the song, to take in the message, to readjust my focus on the real reason for our Christmas celebrations.

And the song made me think of you and your memoir. It’s fine and good to write about the fun of Christmas decorations and gatherings and gifts and caroling and food—but within those stories, include messages about what Christmas is really about. “Remember Me,” he said. 

Write charming stories, funny stories, sentimental stories, surprising stories, quirky stories, just "Remember Me," too.

For inspiration, take three minutes to listen to Rory Feek sing his song, "Remember Me."

You don’t know who will read your memoir—

maybe years from now,

maybe after you no longer walk the earth—

but your message about the real Christmas

could significantly impact your readers,

maybe for eternity.

Don’t miss this great opportunity!

Your story is important!

Too busy to write? No worries.

Life is busy, busy, busy for most of us this week. We just don’t have time to write our stories.

But that’s not a problem. Really.

Why not?

Because your brain and your heart are working even when you don’t have time to sit down and get serious about working on your memoir.

Christmas is a time of remembering. So many memories pop into our heads as we set out Christmas decorations.

Our daughter invited us to help decorate their tree recently and—oh, what memories those decorations stirred up! We sorted through a big box of decorations that had belonged to her great-grandma, her grandma, and even decorations I’d made when she was an infant. As we placed each on their tree, we shared so many snippets of memories.

No doubt the same happened to you when you decorated your tree—or when you sang Christmas songs at church, or when you watched your favorite old Christmas movie, or baked a special recipe from your childhood, or watched kids or grandkids perform in a Christmas play. Such precious memories!

When you have a spare moment, jot down a few key words that will help you remember those stories later.

For now, don’t worry about 

composing a well-written vignette for your memoir. 

A few hurried notes to yourself is all you need.

Later you can use those notes 

to compose your detailed, polished stories. 

For now, enjoy yourself, your family, friends, 

and the Real Reason for This Season.

Illustration in public domain