Christmas Reflections

Jeff and I were asked to either find a story, write a story, or share a Christmas story in our adult Sunday School class two weeks ago and it had to have a happy ending. Since Jeff was working alot, trying to catch us up and get ahead financially for when he's off a week in January while we're at our IMB Candidate Interview Conference, I decided to write my own memories, and below is what I shared. I want to give God all the glory and credit for loving each of us so undeservedly. I wasn't planning to share this with anyone except for my class and my parents/siblings, but I realized there are a few of you out there, friends and loved ones alike who may be able to relate and appreciate the lengthy epistle posted below. I pray each of you had as merry of a Christmas as we wound up having. I did write this before Christmas.

PART 1:

Christmas. Just the sound of that word brings a smile to my face. Images of times gone by reel, frame by frame, through my mind’s eye. Sounds of joyous songs ring in my ears. Tastes of buttery goodness linger on my lips, and feelings of warmth and security course through my veins.

With a father who chose ministry before money, there was always an abundance of one and a serious lack of the other. I never noticed it in my early years, though, for we always packed up the car and headed to Daddy Dick and Mama Lavinia’s big, old, yellow, colonial plantation home in rural North Carolina. That house, for the longest time, epitomized Christmas for me. We always seem to arrive around midnight when the world was asleep and our sojourn was solitary and enchanting. All 6 of us children would fall asleep nestled against one another, packed into our ’79 station wagon, while dad alternated the radio between Christmas tunes and oldies. We’d snuggle deep into our coats because, to keep himself from nodding off, dad would roll down his window to let in a current stream of artic blast. Between that frigid air attacking our little faces and the steady rhythm of him slapping himself to stay awake, we’d doze pretty peacefully, if not completely warmly, until we safely arrived.

My grandmother would have all her little candlestick lights peeping out each window, twinkling their midnight welcome. The Christmas tree was always lit in the foyer, and my sleepy be-robed grandparents would greet us, my grandpa with a “hello der” and my tiny grandmother with gentle hugs, and both would help gather the sleeping youngest and tuck us all safely into bed. My grandpa would tell us to close our eyes because in the morning “Santy Claus” would come.

It was almost magical, except for the fact that we knew Santa Claus wasn’t real and that Christmas wasn’t really about him.

I honestly don’t remember much about those early Christmas days except for the food and family. My grandmother was a typical genteel Southern born and bred lady. We’d wake up every morning to pancakes, sausage, eggs, bacon, biscuits, fruit, toast, and cereal, and then she’d spend all morning cooking and prepping for our big Christmas lunch, or dinner, as a proper southerner would say. Supper, fyi, is the evening meal.

For little kids who had to eat spaghetti four times a week because it could feed, and feed, and feed some more the miniature army of growing boys and solitary girl, going to our grandparents house, eating name brand sugar cereal, being allowed to watch Nickelodeon and cartoons on two t.v.’s stacked one on top of the other (if Elliott could sneak the remotes away when Daddy Dick wasn’t looking), and drink soda more than just on Saturdays was a holiday like no other.

Once I was upgraded to the adult table, I’d always choose to sit by my grumpy old grandpa. He didn’t have any patience for the boys, but if he was reclining in his easy chair, he’d let me comb his few strands of hair drenched in tonic, and give me a quarter for my efforts. At the table, he mostly let his garrulous children talk while he solely focused on his plate and black coffee, but occasionally he’d chuckle and mumble something sarcastic under his breath, and I’d always strain to hear what would get a rise out of him.

I guess the tradition of trekking up to North Carolina ceased when money grew tighter, the family grew larger, and dad was loathe to leave the church behind because of her demands on Christmas Eve, for as I grew older, new traditions replaced those at my grandparent’s house.

We’d hang our single strand of colored lights up to outline the A-frame of our parsonage, and then we’d drive around looking at other houses whose lights glittered against the black night. We’d walk next door from the parsonage to our sparsely attended Christmas Eve service, dad would force me to participate in a horrible rendition of whatever song I had to croak out or play the piano to, my brothers would snicker at me from the back pews, and then we’d practice gingerly walking home again with our candles still lit, as I vowed never to let anyone convince me to embarrass myself in public again. It was a contest to see who could make it home without the wind blowing the candle out. We were allowed to open one present after the service, and it was usually from the sibling who picked our name. Every year I hoped Alex got me, for he was the only one who kept my miniscule family of Barbie’s slowly growing.

Because our grandparents would send us 40 dollars each (a wealth of riches we hardly knew what to do with), we always tithed on it first, then we were allowed to buy our “person” a gift, and then use the leftovers for ourselves.

Every year dad would tell us that we were going to have a small Christmas, smaller than the year before, and even in my childhood, I always wondered how it could possibly get any smaller than it already was.

On Christmas mornings we weren’t allowed to get up before 6:00, and if one of us woke up earlier, we’d be sent right back to bed. Santa Claus, a.k.a. the “Christmas Angel” had our presents each piled (piled being a very generous word here) orderly on a chair or sofa along with our candy-filled stocking. We were allowed to look at those “piles”, but not open any which were wrapped, until every family member had awoken and gathered in the living room with mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls.

I remember my parents trying to set an example of giving and thinking about others. Once my dad dressed up like Santa Claus and drove down the road to a very poor family’s home, which was really more like a one-room shack with no heat or running water. The mother’s rumored name was Coota-Gal and she had about 8 small children, none of whom we had ever seen at school. My dad had a sack full of wrapped gifts he passed out, and yet the thing that I have never forgotten was him coming home and saying was that even after he distributed the gifts, there wasn’t a smile to be seen on a single face. That made me really sad. Wasn’t giving and receiving supposed to bring joy?


Today, being married hasn’t changed much in the way of having a surplus of money to buy Christmas presents with or even decorations. What didn’t affect me as a child has sometimes bothered me as a mother and wife. I want to be able to give my children things. I don’t think I ask for much. At least, I don’t think I do. I wanted to be able to give my little girl a Christmas dress, I wanted to get my son a bow tie to match his daddy, I wanted to string lighted garland across the mantle, I wanted a pretty Christmas tree, I wanted to have a little gift for each extended family member coming to visit, and I wanted to make Christmas stockings for each member of my family.

But, when the harsh reality hit me that we wouldn’t be able to do many, if any, of those things on the list, I had to consciously decide whether I was going to let disappointment ruin this Christmas season or force us to focus on the bountiful blessings that we do have and remember those with much, much less.

In talking to my mother, I realize things could be much worse. She reminded me of a Christmas when she and my dad were first married and in seminary. They only had one child and five dollars. On Christmas Eve, they bought a leftover tree and went to K-Mart to buy some plastic army soldiers for my brother and that was the end of their five dollars. My brother never knew the difference and he was simply a happy little appreciative fella.

I say that I don’t want to have a materialistic outlook on life. I say that I know Jesus is the very true reason for the season. I say that everything I have is really only on loan from God anyway, and it all belongs to him. I say that I care about those less fortunate than me. I say that I have a very generous and giving heart. I say that I chose my husband from among all the men in the world because he truly understood what it meant to live a simple life fully focused on doing the work of the Lord. I say that my life is full of happiness, peace, joy, and contentment. But, do I really live like I do? Or do I still maintain a rather warped focus that selfishly twists my pure desires into a falsehood that claims I can only be happy this Christmas if my little wish list is met?

Christ wasn’t born so that my wish list could be checked off. Christ didn’t suffer so that I could give myself and my family presents on his birthday. Christ didn’t die so that my focus would be self-centered and inwardly motivated. Christ didn’t rise again on the third day so that I could buy decorations and make stockings. Though none of those things are sinful, as they exist apart from my desires, Christ’s purpose, as I have been reminding myself when the outlook seemed grim, was to come to earth to live as a man, to die nailed on cross-beams of rough unfinished wood, to voluntarily take on the penalty of a painful death he didn’t deserve because of my sins, and to rise victoriously from his dank tomb to prove that our Great Redeemer is omnipotent, good, all-mighty, and just. Christ’s birthday, for me, should be about him, not about me.

It’s so easy to get caught up in even the obligatory pressure of giving to others. Am I giving out of a true desire to give, am I giving because I’m expected to, or am I giving because I know they’ll have something for me? I must examine my motives, and then ask myself the most important question I can ask this Christmas season. Instead of…what can I give myself, I should ask: What will I give to Christ this year on his birthday?

For me, it is to give up the selfish prideful desires that are not motivated by purity or integrity.

PART 2:

As I sit here several days later, I am in awe of Christ’s willingness to bless in spite of ourselves. The verse comes to mind, found in Matthew (6:33) - - “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all of these things will be added unto you.” I see the lesson I was to learn. God was trying to solely get my focus on him and off myself. And then he had something unexpected in store for me.

For you see, almost every single thing on my so-called wish list was met. My sweet mother and sister-in-law both sent my baby girl a Christmas dress, so she has even more than I hoped for. My mother sent me beautiful material so I could get my homemade stockings done. My mother-in-law sent gift cards so we were able to find an almost matching outfit for my littlest man. One of my brothers, his wife, and her parents all descended like busy little Christmas elves on my house yesterday. They brought decorations and adorned my house. One helped me figure out that dratted bobbin on the sewing machine and even stitched up my stockings. Another ran errands to the store for me. Yet two more raked up massive quantities of leaves in the yard. In a whirlwind of activity which I could barely keep up with, they brought love and blessing like I didn’t deserve. And in a snap they were gone with hugs and kisses.

It all didn’t dawn on me until they had left. I sat on the floor, looked at everything they had sacrificially done for me, and cried. Though God sent his son for a far greater reason than my temporal happiness, he saw fit, this Christmas, to answer those now purified desires. I am so grateful, for his love reigneth in the lives of those who wanted to bring blessing to our home.

Thank you, Jesus, for your tender love and mercies.

Christmas

Christmas is a wonderful time of year, don't you think? In spite of not having much money to spend on "things", God really helped us focus on him and the blessings others bring to our lives. For example, my sister-in-law came over and not only brought decorations, she decorated for me. See below. And, I made stockings-- the ones on the left, with the aid of mom sending material and my sister-in-law's mother helping me with the bobbin. I did have to hand-stitch the cuff, though. Couldn't work that bobbin by myself.



Jeff's dad and his family came to spend Christmas with us. We had a wonderful time with them as well. I always get a little stressed with visitors (especially those who are VERY clean and organized) because I want things to be perfect for them. I'm too tired these days to spend much time on extra cleaning. We get to the basics and that's about it. But, Jeff's family came and not only cooked several meals for us, they tidied up the kitchen every night, organized our "junk" room, raked up all the leaves in the yard (and it had rained) and simply helped us with things we just hadn't been able to get to. I am so very thankful for their love and support! And for those of you who know that "acts of service" is on of my love languages, you'll know just how much all of this meant to me :)

Here are a few pictures of our time together:

A Crazy Tale of Woe

Have you wondered when something “crazy” was going to happen in the Medina household and when you were going to hear about it? I know you’ve been waiting impatiently for a tale of woe and misery. Well, wait no longer. Have I a tale of affliction to share with you.

I can look back on today with a little more amusement than misery at this point…because…I am assuming the worst of it is over.

Background: Gideon had been super cantankerous this week, refusing to go to sleep at night (taking 2 or more hours before he’d fall asleep), refusing to nap, refusing to eat his soup, and just well, as I assumed, trying to assert his independence and control. I even read about it on babycenter.com, though I usually disregard much of what they say. This behavior, I assured Jeff, was completely normal conduct for a two-year-old. I did hear him coughing occasionally, and he’d had a runny nose with a streak of greeny-goo every now and then, but I just thought my little guy had a cold to go along with his two-year-old orneriness. Quite honestly, he was wearing me slap out. We thought he caught the cold from us running out of oil (ahem, I won’t point fingers or play the blame game at the man in charge of checking said oil because I didn’t think about it either) and thus we’d spent a VERY COLD and MISERABLE weekend last weekend WITH NO HEAT. (That is a story unto itself and better left for another day)

In addition, Scarlett is just getting over an ear infection and finished up her medicine a few days ago, but she is trying to cut a new tooth, and that stubborn pearly gem refuses to emerge and is causing her much pain for her and for us many a sleep-deprived night.

Today: This morning around 5:00 a.m. when Jeff was getting ready to leave for work, and we’d heard Gideon coughing pretty regularly for at least an hour or more, Jeff came back upstairs and said that maybe we should take Gideon to the doctor since they were opened on Saturdays and just so we wouldn’t have to take him to Urgent Care on Sunday. I guess I was feeling like maybe something could actually be wrong with him, so I got up, woke up the babies, and took Jeff to work all the while planning what to say to the doctor because, remember, I still only thought he had a cold.

Boy was I wrong. I explained Gideon’s symptoms and said “I know it’s just a cold for which you can do nothing but he is coughing, not sleeping, and not eating like normal. I think maybe his throat is just sore from the drainage or something.”

After listening to Gideon breathe and checking his ears, the verdict was in. He had a respiratory infection AND an ear infection. Good one, mom. You really paid attention to the signs real well. Suffering child meet dismissive mom. Makes for a great team, don’t you think?

So, while I was tormented from the guilt of missing the obvious, I ran my few errands with the children just because I was happy to be out of the house. Jeff has been working long hours and since we only have one car I was going a little stir crazy…had only been out of the house to check the mail in 4 days and nowhere else. No pity please. Just stating the facts.

Anyway, the tale deepens. We leave the house after the children have their naps to go back downtown to pick up Jeff from work. On the way home, Scarlett starts coughing, or so I think. Jeff whips his head around and yells at me to “Quick, hop in the back. Scarlett is choking and throwing up.”

I move as quick as this pregnant bulbous body can go. It’s not quick and I get stuck midway between the front seat and the back seat. Remember, we own a 2007 Chevy Cobalt (a compact car). I cannot maneuver my every-growing body any which way AT ALL.

“I’m stuck,” I tell him dramatically.

But, good little mama that I am determined to now be, I ignore my own discomfort and twist just enough to proceed with using up all the wipes/napkins in the car to mop up the mess dripping all down Scarlett’s front. It’s mostly trickling down between her legs, oozing to the back of her cars seat where I can’t reach. And the stench is unbearable. I see chunks of cheese and curdled milk and I start to feel queasy, much like in the first few months of pregnancy. Knowing I can’t throw up, too, I will myself into emergency mode and focus on the task at hand. I clean her up as best I can, and stuff the odious used wipes in a plastic baggie. Jeff rolls down the window for a little fresh air and I just pray I can keep it in. I do.

In the meantime, I still can’t move and we have a good 25-minute ride left before us.

“Jeff, I’m really stuck.”

As he’s driving, he tries to pull me by the legs back into the front seat. No good. He swerves a little and I holler at him to watch the road. I’m wedged tight, like a pig trying to squeeze its massive girth through two slats in a picket fence. Obviously, not happening.

My left arm is resting on Gideon’s seat. He pushes it off and orders “Get up, Mommy. Get up.”

“Mommy can’t. Mommy would if mommy could.”

I now pray that no police cars will see this odd sight and ticket us for me not wearing a seatbelt, endangering lives, reckless driving, and so forth. I wonder if maybe Jeff should pull over. Naw, let’s just get home, I decide. Miraculously, we make it home and I’m only in a slight amount of aching unpleasant distress.

I do manage to dislodge myself from this position, and with most unladylike maneuvers, I’m free!!

I gingerly remove Scarlett from her chair, holding her away from me, tell Jeff he and Gideon get to clean out the chair, and I whisk Scarlett upstairs to toss her in the tub.

At this point, I can only smell the appalling aroma of throw-up and nothing else. I whip off her clothes and her diaper, only to discover she has also made yet another personal recorded best mess in her diaper.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter to myself as I notice it’s up her back. I decide it would just be easier to rinse her off in the tub than try to put her back in the diaper, hunt down wipes, and clean her up that way.

I toss her under the faucet which I had neglected to check, but her scream was enough to inform me that it was much too hot. I pull her back, adjust the temperature, and then look down in utter and complete horror, as a log (which was still attached to her cheeks), now sorely flattened, slides down her leg into the bathtub.

I don’t DO logs. My mind starts yelling for my mom in yet another unladylike verbal squawk. “Mom, come quick. Scarlett’s crapped in the bathtub and I need you!” And then I remember, no mom. She’s 800 miles away. I’m the mom. Jeff’s outside hosing down the car seat, so he’s no help. It’s just me. No, not me!! I’m not that caliber of mother yet. I need my mom. I don’t do throw up (though I forged through that terror) and I REALLY don’t do wet skidding logs across the bottom of my tub, especially the pea-green smooshed-up type.

Again, as I stare at the unwelcome bits and pieces of unrecognizable solid food particles, I start to feel that queasy sensation build up.

Don’t think. Don’t think. Just act.

I finally convince myself I can do it, and I come back to reality to see my poor little baby girl holding on to the edge of the tub for dear life, lips purple and quivering, and her little feet spread eagle, practically doing a split of which Shawn Johnson would be proud. I grab her up with my left hand, and much to my disgust (if I had stopped to think, WHICH I DID NOT), I used my right hand to wipe off the remaining poop from her baby bottom. The flattened log, meanwhile, is still sliding around as if it were contending for a place in a bobsled race.

Don’t think. Just act. I repeat my new mantra, and pull the now-drenched-but-poopless Scarlett out of the tub, run into my room, grab the wipes, snatch a handful out, close my eyes, and PICK UP the log. I toss it into the toilet, flush, and refuse to watch it swirl into its watery grave. With a shudder, I turn to tackle the particles o’ poop still remaining.

I then retrieve the disinfectant from under the sink and scour that tub to the point that I felt a little woozy from inhaling the chemicals. I probably shouldn’t have put Scarlett back in right away, but she needed a proper bath.

Splashing and chattering as if nothing happened, she was having a blast in the tub,watching me and saying "mama" especially since she wasn’t sharing her time with big brother Baby Sharky.

The queasiness lingers, but I ignore it, bathe my little girl, take her downstairs and flop to the floor.

My wonderful husband has just started dinner for me. Blessed man. But, that queasiness that began in the car is now an insistent drum of gurgling in my belly.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

When I’m pregnant, you’ll remember that once I’m past the throw-up stage, the other end sees all the action. And yes, for the next two hours, I’m in and out of the bathroom myself, wondering what in the world I could have eaten that caused the little baby growing inside me to kick it back out with such terrible ferocity! I was miserable, but if you want a picture of that, check back into the old blog archives. The nastiness hasn't changed.

What a miserable mess. But, as I sit here and type, it’s over. I breathe in and out, in and out. Thank you, Lord, that this is over.

At least, I think it’s over.

It's Been Awhile

Not updating the blog, to me, is like not spending time with a very special friend, or spouse, for that matter. I think about it everyday. However, between sicknesses and lack of sleep, my free writing time has been devoted to my own sweet necessary napping.

It’s been an eventful few weeks. For anyone who doesn’t know, Jeff and I have been prayerfully considering/working our way through our denomination’s international mission board process. We really feel called to serve God with our lives, and seminary education, in Spain. We have been plodding along in this extensive process for not quite a year, and two weeks ago we had a very in-depth interview, and as a result, we were invited (‘cause that’s the way it works) to a candidate conference next month. Praise the Lord! That doesn’t mean we’re in…still a few more opportunities for them to say “no” but this is a very good sign.

We got our call right in the middle of a little scare. I was at the doctor for my 24-week checkup. The midwife and I were catching up. It seems we recognized each other, and had gone to high school together, though we weren’t friends. We must be now. Anyway, she was having trouble finding the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler machine. I knew the baby was fine because he (has to be) was kicking the junk out of my belly the whole time she was looking for the heartbeat. Since she couldn’t find it, she called the on-call doctor, who had her hook up the ultrasound equipment (by this time it was way after hours and the technician had already gone home). Between she, another lady, a doctor they pulled in, and the technician on the phone, they got the machine up and running. They could see the heart beating just fine, but couldn’t hear it…they were having trouble locating the audio switch on that very complicated-many-buttoned machine. I wasn’t worried until they started patting my legs telling me not to worry. I then thought “well, good night. SHOULD I be worried?”

They finally got the audio on (6:00 by now), and heard the heartbeat, but the doctor they had drug in wasn’t sure if it had dipped or had stayed constant. That was enough for them to send me next door to the hospital for a 4-hour monitoring session. It was weird to march myself up to labor and delivery and check myself in. I felt like I should have been in pain, mental anguish, or something!! They still had me strip down to my nothingness and put on those loosey-goosey gowns that cover nothing and keep even less warm. I hopped in bed, got plugged into the machines, and called Jeff to give him the update. I had originally told him not to bother coming up to the hospital because I was only going to be there for a few hours, and I’d be home shortly.

I actually do prefer caution as opposed to carelessness, but I was a tad bit irritated by the whole ordeal because had several ladies not gone into labor while I was at the doctor’s office, my appointment would have been on time, the technician would have still been there, checked me out, and I could have gone home as expected. That was not to be. I wound up even having to spend the night in the hospital and let me tell you what a miserable experience that was.

I was hooked up to a device that monitored my heartbeat and the baby’s. This baby HAS to be a boy. Did he stay in one position long enough for me to fall asleep? Hardly. And that insufferable beeping in my ear ALL NIGHT LONG was almost more than I could handle. I could hear his heartbeat all night, and when he’d move or the monitor slipped, in swooshed the nurses to re-adjust and make sure all was okay. That must have happened every hour to hour and a half. It was awful. I could go into more detail about my misery, but suffice it to say that I only got about 3 hours of sleep (not even consecutive), and by the time the new doctor came in to discharge me, I was up, dressed, and out the door before they could change their minds. Nothing like a perfectly healthy individual spending the night in the hospital. I can only wonder how much this will cost us.

Jeff’s first night at home alone with the babies fared just about like mine. Scarlett had been cutting teeth (and we now know she also coming down with an ear infection) and she wasn’t sleeping at night. Jeff woke up with her 3 times during the course of the evening, and then, to top it off, Gideon wet through his overnight diaper, all over his clothes, AND his sheets. By the time Jeff got Gideon cleaned up, settled, and almost back to sleep, Scarlett woke up screaming again…which, of course, woke them all up for who knows how long. I thought I'd be snoozing peacefully spa-esque-like in my hospital bed, not muttering muted almost-curses at the machines who sneered in disdain at my attempts for cozy slumber. I would much rather have been at home with my equally unhappy family.

I did, somehow, think this episode would give Jeff a new appreciation for what I do, but I don’t think it worked. He reminded me that he gets up every time I get up…to get a bottle or whatever I need. It’s true. He is a helper, but I thought I’d get a little more empathy for my mothering-in-the-middle-of-the-night skills. Twasn’t to be this go ‘round.

Anyway, enough blathering. I just thought you’d like to know why I’ve been neglecting my cathartic writing. I haven’t had the energy.

Hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving yourselves, though. I was very thankful, just so you know, after getting some sleep, that my growing baby was just fine.