Is This What Christmas Feels Like?

I was sitting in Church today (Sacrament Meeting for those saavy on Mormon lingo), and this post smacked me in the face....  Not literally.  Figuratively.  I was figuratively smacked in the face by an unwritten blog post.

And now that that's out of the way...

I want to tell you another story-- it's actually several different Christmas stories strewn together over the last several years.  I think I've made it fairly clear in my other posts that, while I was teaching in Colorado, I watched some of my students tackle some serious issues.  Issues like homelessness.  Like being in charge of the care of younger siblings because Mom and her boyfriend are too drugged up to care.  Like hiding in the closet when Christmas day rolls around, because that's when Dad does more drinking than usual, and that's never a good thing.

For me, I always looked forward to the holidays, because there were traditions and memories--all of them comforting.  It was such a strange thing to see something different in the holidays for my students--it was a time too many of them dreaded, because school--their comforting and safe place--would be sending them home for prolonged periods of time.  And they'd be left crossing their fingers that there'd be enough food to eat or a place to sleep.

And that's why I put my mom and a classroom volunteer from a local church in charge of my classroom's holiday parties.

Year after year, my mom would outdo herself, hauling bags of food and crafts from Wyoming so that my students would have a real taste of what the holidays are supposed to be like.  (And my classroom volunteer always matched my mother's efforts.)  I remember that first year when even I was overwhelmed with everything that she was able to fit into her Chevy Equinox.  There were boxes of food and a stocking for each of my students--each stocking labeled with a student's name and filled with candy and toys.  My mom always went even so far as to make sure she brought extra stockings for the siblings of my students (because she didn't want them to feel left out).

Over the years, my students have enjoyed crock-pot chili, vegetable and fruit platters, even individual-sized pies-- all homemade.  I remember last Christmas when my mom and volunteer purposefully brought too much food so that they could send the leftovers home with a little boy who would need it.

On one of those years, I remember my dad came too.  During that particular school year, I had a student--a little girl who we'll name Carmen--who didn't speak English.  In fact, I seldom heard her speak in English or Spanish.  But during that Christmas party, she looked at my dad and said, "I'm so happy."  And later, she came to me and said, "This is the best day of my life."

Another little boy--though I don't remember which one or when--at one of these Christmas parties came to me and asked, "Miss, is this what Christmas feels like?"

And to him, my answer was (and is) yes.  Yes, this is what Christmas feels like.

Christmas doesn't feel like wrapped boxes stacked beneath a tree or like taking advantage of the ever-important Black Friday deals.

Christmas doesn't feel like watching holiday-themed Hallmark channel movies until our eyeballs fall out.  (I submit that that could actually happen.)

Christmas doesn't feel like tinsel or lights or snow.

Christmas does feel like hope.  Like comfort.  Like peace.  Like knowing someone cares.

Christmas feels like there has always been, and will always be, goodness in the world.

Christmas feels like service, like caring about others before we care about ourselves.

Christmas feels like the understanding that, no matter what happens, everything will be OK in the end.

Christmas feels like the love of Christ, that He is ever aware of our struggles and our needs.  That because of Him, we will all forever have a friend to comfort us in our sorrows and celebrate with us in our triumphs.

It's my hope that all of us, like my students in years past, will truly get to know (or remember) what Christmas feels like.  Because it's so much more than decorated trees and reindeer.

Who's Going to Love Me Now?

Ok, folks, so—here's the deal: I was up until about 11:30 last night fretting over last-minute travel details, and then I got up at 4 to make sure I got to the airport in time for a flight. And then I flew to Boston and wandered around said city until I passed out and a homeless person had to carry me back to my hotel. (Ok—that last part didn't happen. But it could have with how tired I feel.) I also ate copious amounts of seafood.

So, here I am, lying comfortably on a bed that very closely resembles a marshmallow. But, try as I might, I can't get to sleep. The thought keeps running through my head that this post needs to be shared, and I had better get it done. So—I had better get it done or else I won't be sleeping very well tonight. And that would be tragic, because I need to have ample energy for more exploring (and a conference, I guess) tomorrow.

Here's what I'm thinking about: families. Parents—and, more specifically, the role of a father in a family.

I have a few thoughts to share on the subject. The first stems from this new Carrie Underwood song that I just love and have listened to more times than is probably psychologically healthy.... Anyway—here it is:

It's so true. Once, while dj-ing a school dance, I played a song and called it the "parent-child dance."  I will forever remember one father—a tall and stocky gentleman—as he lead his tiny daughter through the dance. She barely reached his knee, even as she stood on his shoes. Her hair had been put in two little pig-tails, each with a pink bow to match her frilly pink party dress. The looks on their faces were precious—a father who clearly cherished his baby girl. And a baby girl who clearly idolized her father. Maybe I'm just naive, but I believe many of the world's social ills could be solved if every little girl had a father who invested in her, cheered for her, and bolstered her up in the midst of societies so often trying to tear her down.

But girls aren't the only ones who need fathers. Little boys (and big boys) need fathers too. Just as I remember the happy moment between a father and his daughter, I just as vividly remember another event involving fathers. But this one is more tragic. In one of my years of teaching, I encountered a little boy who was quite sensitive to the feelings of others. He was bright and cheerful and always tried his hardest—even though academics didn't come easily for him. One day, he pulled me aside and said, “Miss, I don't know what I'm going to do.” As tears welled in his eyes, he continued, “My real dad used to play basketball with me, but I was stupid, and he left us. Now my step dad is moving back to Texas.... Miss, who's going to love me now?”

We both had a good cry as we hugged it out. And I've never forgotten that question, or the desperation in which it was asked. “Miss, who's going to love me now?”

Perhaps as a result of this event, or the result of many others, I found myself calling my own father. I remember, on more than one occasion, venting to him that there were children—too many of them—who wondered who was going to love them, some of them not even knowing who their fathers are. I had known children despised by their fathers. Beaten by their fathers. Molested by their fathers. The task felt insurmountable to combat such deplorable circumstances. I remember speaking poorly of these wretched “fathers” who didn't deserve their titles. I remember, during one conversation, telling my dad that every one of my students would be so much better off—and not just academically—if they knew they had a father (or father figure) who loved them.

And his answer to me was this: They do have a Father who loves them.

That was all I needed to hear. Such a simple, yet complex, concept.

They do have a Father who loves them—immeasurably and perfectly—even at their weakest. It's been said that “Heavenly Father sees us in terms of our potential.” (I think it was Dieter F. Uchtdorf who said that, but don't judge me too harshly if I'm wrong.)

If I were only allowed to preach one doctrine from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, it wouldn't be about controversial decisions made by church leaders. I wouldn't teach of church history or the Book of Mormon or even the Atonement. (Though, those are great topics of conversation.) The doctrine I would preach for the rest of my life would be this: That every member of the human family has a Father in Heaven who cherishes them, invests in them, cheers for them, and wishes to bolster them up in a world so intent on tearing them down. It would be that everyone has a Father in Heaven who will continue loving them in spite of whatever errors they make.

This is a truth I would shout from the rooftops and defend to the death. Because everyone deserves to know that they need never ask the question “who's going to love me now?” Especially because one particular Father never has—and never will—stop loving us.