In a Barn

An acquaintance of ours died recently. 

Though I couldn’t attend the funeral, I spoke with her daughter a few weeks later. She told me that at first, the family decided they weren’t going to have a public service. Just the family. Six or eight people. But as they were leaving the funeral home after making the arrangements, both sisters had the sinking feeling they’d made the wrong choice. They went back inside and changed their plans to include whoever wanted to come. To their surprise, over a hundred people signed the guest book. From those guests, they heard stories of love and appreciation they’d never have heard otherwise.

“We would have cheated ourselves of so much,” she said. “But we would have cheated a whole bunch of other people, too.”

Her words cinched it for me. A few days later, on our drive to our grandsons’ Christmas band concert, I replayed the conversation for my husband.

“When it’s my turn to go, I want a big party,” I told him. “Why is it so hard for people to understand that these types of gatherings are for the living? The love, support, and stories can provide healing as we cry and laugh together. I hope there are gales of laughter at my funeral, but I don’t believe in saying ‘Don’t cry over me,’ either. It’s an honor to think my friends might cry for me, just as I will honor them with my tears if they go first. Tears are healing. They acknowledge our humanity and they value the person’s life.

“Well, there, now you know my views on this.” I ended my rant, we reached the school, and we enjoyed the concert.

Afterward, we stopped at our son’s home briefly. The boys changed out of their concert clothes and the middle one, Allistar, went out to take care of his chores. Within minutes, he returned with the news that he’d found their cat, Scamper, dead under a heat lamp in the barn. This was not unexpected, since the old tom had become disinterested in food. Still, I’m sure it was a shock for Allistar. His brothers went out to see for themselves and returned shortly to the house.

I put on my boots and coat and headed for the barn. I found Allistar kneeling in the hay, stroking the dead cat. Overhead, the guinea fowl roosted on their perch, adding soft sounds of life and warmth to the otherwise forlorn setting.

As though God had granted me our driving time for rehearsal, I voiced the same thoughts for the second time that evening. “It’s okay to cry,” I told Allistar. “Your tears honor Scamper’s life.” I talked about how good it was to know the cat had died warm and safe and how he wouldn’t have to endure another cold winter. How appropriate that Allistar had been the one to find him since he cared the most.

Then I kept my mouth shut and simply cried with him. My tears had far less to do with the death of a barn cat than with the pain in my grandson’s heart. Less about this fresh grief, and more about the distressing losses and upheaval he’s had to work through in recent years. More about my helplessness to fix any of it, as much as I wanted to.

After his dad came to sit with him, his grandpa and I drove away, a far quieter ride than the previous one. Somehow those few heart-rending minutes in the barn with my grieving grandson became a defining moment for my Christmas this year. I received a profound reminder of the way God came to us in a stable, in all our dirt and squalor, pain and tears. He came not only to give us life but to grant us peace in our pain, comfort in our sorrows, and healing for our broken hearts.

My prayer for you this Christmas is that, by God’s grace, that baby in a manger will meet you in a profound way, wherever you are—turning grief to joy, brokenness to healing, and despair to hope. Merry Christmas!

 

 

Christmas Surprises, Part 5: When It's Not All Merry and Bright

Do you remember the first time someone special was absent from your Christmas circle? I sure do. Although 1986 was our first Christmas without my dad and we dearly missed him, the imminent arrival of our third baby didn’t allow me to focus on much else. With a due date of January 2, I secretly hoped for a New Year’s baby and any windfall that might come with the distinction. Instead, our little guy made us wait until January 7. His arrival brought tremendous healing to my grief over losing Dad.

Our little family stayed at five for two decades. Gradually, we grew to eight as our kids found partners, and eventually to thirteen as grandchildren came along. The thought that our family might shrink never occurred to me. Even when one relationship ended and we faced that awkwardness at Christmas 2021, in my naivety or maybe optimism, I truly believed we’d witness reconciliation before Christmas 2022 rolled around. How I prayed for it!

Instead, we were floored by yet another relationship ending. Our family now numbers eleven instead of thirteen, and we deeply miss the missing.

Though these unfortunate break-ups happen in more families than not, the sadness and pain caught me off-guard. No one wants this, especially for the children’s sake.

Isn’t it odd? We sing about joy to the world and peace and goodwill to all mankind. But in Luke 1:51 Jesus asks his disciples, “Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division.” He goes on to explain how families will be divided against each other. Somehow, we all entertain these idyllic ideas of what our family should look like. Yet we’re helpless when it comes to making it look that way.

So what do you do when prayers for reconciliation are not answered the way you hoped, when your family looks smaller than it once did, when your heart aches and your eyes leak? I’m choosing, trying, and recommending three things.

1. Remain thankful. Though this Christmas felt unusually quiet, I can feel grateful for so much. Our grandsons still have two parents who love them and are involved in their lives. Not everyone can say that. Plus, I can embrace the extra stillness and alone time to rest from a busy year.

2. Look forward. We’re still a family, and if we allow our hurting hearts to draw us closer to one another instead of driving us apart, if we continue to laugh and have fun, and if we turn to God with every hard and happy thing he allows, we can eventually be a stronger unit than before.

3. Grow inside. By allowing the pain to make me more compassionate, I gain a greater understanding of what other parents go through when their families become fractured.

Of course, continuing to pray provides the umbrella over everything.

Those first holidays with someone missing make the message of Christmas doubly poignant. Jesus came into our messy world to provide a way to reconcile us to God, regardless of the choices we make. The decisions we regret. The people we disappoint. The times we feel betrayed. He came for it all. He loves us through it all. He made a way for us to thrive through it all. And to enter into a new year with an increased level of gratitude, hope, and compassion. May that prove true for you in 2023.

Happy New Year!

Christmas Surprises, Part 3

In the fall of 2002, we moved our mobile home from the country property on which it had stood for 15 years, into town. It’s weird, living in the same house but seeing a different view out the windows. Our first night, I rose at some point to use the bathroom. Seeing a bright glow in the distance, my muddled brain feared the barn was on fire. A closer look revealed the big lighted sign at the Co-op. We were townsfolk now.

It was especially confusing for our two college kids who weren’t around for the move. When they came home at Christmas, they were immediately transported “home” when they walked in the door but stepped into a different world when they went out. The closest they ever got to Narnia. It didn’t help that the trailer was turned ninety degrees from the way it had previously sat. We were forever gesturing in the wrong direction when telling stories.

We’d been in the mobile home for a month when I decided to take a huge leap out of my comfort zone. Christmas was coming. I would invite all the neighbors on our street to a come-and-go open house! What better way to meet people? 

I picked a Saturday afternoon from 2:00 until 5:00 just before Christmas and designed colorful invitations which I delivered to every home on our street. Not wanting to pester people by knocking on doors, I placed the invitations in mailboxes. “We want to get to know you!” the invitation proclaimed. The event would be casual and non-threatening.

Then I spent two weeks baking, cooking, cleaning, and decorating. I informed the kids, even the ones home from college, that they were expected to hang around for the event. I wanted our neighbors to meet us all.

When Saturday came, Hubby and the kids pitched in to help. We rearranged furniture to maximize space, set up board games, and covered the table with treats. At 2:00, we were ready. Twenty minutes in, no guests had arrived. I agreed the kids could start playing board games but they weren’t to get into the snacks. By 3:00, I caved. They filled their plates and began chowing down on cheese balls, crackers, pickles, veggies, cookies, punch, and hot apple cider.

“This is great. You should have the neighbors in more often, Mom,” our oldest said around a mouthful.

Smart-aleck.

Eventually, someone did come to the door. By the end of our allotted time, a total of seven neighbors had shown up and introduced themselves, representing three homes out of twenty. Some even came bearing goodies and gifts of their own. Unfortunately, none of them came at the same time as any of the others. And offering booze hadn’t even crossed my tea-totaling mind. Lamest. Party. Ever.

I felt disillusioned. In hindsight, I needed to ask myself, “Would I have gone?” If I’d received a random invitation in my mailbox from someone on my street whom I hadn’t met, someone who claimed they simply wanted to get to know me, how would I have responded? Most likely, I’d be filled with suspicious questions. What’s their angle? What are they selling? A pyramid scheme? Some product I don’t need? Religion? I can’t blame my neighbors.

Hospitality is not my number one gift. In truth, it’s pretty far down the list. That should never be an excuse, though. Several places in the Bible tell us to practice hospitality if we wish to call ourselves followers of Jesus. What better time than his birthday to open your home to others? I hope yours is filled with joy and laughter as you get to know one another better this season.

"Everyone knows, it's..."

What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs, and makes a slinkity sound? I’m glad you asked.

Richard Thompson James was born in 1918 and graduated from the Pennsylvania State University in 1939 with a degree in mechanical engineering. Doing his bit for the war effort in 1943, James worked on a method for suspending sensitive instruments on board navy ships, using springs. One day, he accidentally dropped one and needed to chase it as it sprung its way across the floor on its own. The rest is toy industry history.

James invested in a coil-winding machine while his wife Betty came up with the name Slinky. They cranked out 400 pieces. Each was 98 coils of high-grade blue-black Swedish steel, two and a half inches tall in its relaxed state. Although they convinced Gimbels Department store to carry the one-dollar toy for Christmas 1945, the static Slinky impressed no one.

At first.

Once James demonstrated the toy in action, however, their entire production run sold in 90 minutes. Since then, 300 million Slinkys have sold world-wide.

Slinkys also prove popular with high school science teachers and college professors because they perfectly demonstrate the properties of waves. Astronauts on the space shuttle have even used them in zero-gravity experiments.

Like every other successful product, the philosophy seems to be if one toy is good, more is better. Slinky Dog debuted in 1952 and was quickly followed by other pull-toy characters like Slinky train Loco, Slinky worm Suzie, and Slinky Crazy Eyes. Along with Mr. Potato Head, Slinky Dog made it into the Toy Story movies beginning in 1995. Betty James agreed that Pixar’s movie version of Slinky Dog was much cuter than what they’d manufactured.

What makes a Slinky so fun to play with? Sure, you can explain how it performs tricks, flipping down stairs end-over-end as it stretches and re-forms itself with the aid of gravity. How, when dropped, a Slinky appears to levitate for a split second. How it will even walk itself across a flat surface once you get it going just right. But something about its wondrous simplicity appeals to kids and adults alike, doesn’t it? At Betty James’ insistence, Slinky has maintained its affordability. The price and size make it a perfect item to include in a Christmas shoe box or stocking.

Sadly, Richard and Betty James divorced in 1960. She took over the company. Richard joined Wycliffe Bible Translators in Bolivia, where he died at the age of 56 from a heart attack. The incredible toy he developed (it was really more of a discovery than an invention) has entertained generations. I heartily recommend the adorable “Trained Slinky Circus” bit on You Tube by Jack Kalvan if you need a laugh. HERE's the link.

The Slinky song holds the title of longest-running jingle in television advertising history. If it isn’t going through your head by now, I can help with that. “A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing! Everyone knows it’s Slinky.”

May this column “spring” you into 2022 with joyful anticipation and hope. I know it’s been a difficult year. I also know God is still on his throne, he loves you, and nothing has caught him off guard. He’s got this. He’s got you. Happy New Year!

Classic Toys, Part 5: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

You may feel disgusted with me for including this in my “classic toys” series, but the tickle truck I keep around for the grandsons who are rapidly outgrowing it includes a plastic Ninja Turtle shell, typically the first choice among my selection of costumes.

Blame their parents. Memories of my elder son naming his pet skink “Leonardo” and explaining to me how you could tell the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT) apart by their weapons made me curious about their origin. When I first heard of them, I assumed it had to be a joke. I wasn’t wrong.

American comic book authors and artists Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird enjoy telling the story of how they sat around doodling new concepts for comics. Eastman drew a turtle with nunchucks and labelled it “Ninja Turtle.” Laird laughed with him, then drew another and added the words “Teenage Mutant.” They laughed some more. The concept seemed too ridiculous to go anywhere. (Reminds me of Amish Vampires in Space, a book that started as a joke by cover designer Jeff Gerke of Marcher Lord Press, who granted author Kerry Nietz permission to use the concept—and write it straight. The crazy genre-mashup became a thing.)

Eastman and Laird kept going with their characters, developing four of them, naming them after Italian Renaissance artists they admired (Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni—which got misspelled “Michaelanchelo” in the early comics—Raffaello Sanzio, and Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi). The pair proved equally imaginative in creating the turtles’ backstory. Do you know it?

A canister containing an isotope accidentally strikes an innocent bystander carrying a fishbowl. In the bowl are his pets, four baby turtles. The turtles and canister fall down a grate into the sewer below. The canister empties onto the babies, causing them to mutate. At some point they meet a mutant rat named Splinter, the former pet of an exiled ninja warrior. Splinter becomes their martial arts master and adopted father. As teenagers, the turtles naturally live on pizza.

Or something like that.

In May 1984, Eastman’s uncle Quentin loaned the pair a thousand dollars for the first print run of a forty-page, black and white comic book. Would you have done the same? Eastman and Laird had no studio, only a kitchen table and lapboards to use while seated on a couch. I suspect Uncle Quentin considered it a decent investment when the second issue brought in advance orders of 15,000 copies—five times the initial print run of the first. Their creations rapidly became a popular cultural phenomenon that forced them both to take sabbaticals from their artwork to deal with daily pressures of running a multimedia franchise. In 1990, the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie released, with Eastman playing a small role as the garbage man. Indigo’s website displays 357 TMNT products, from clothing to books to action figures.

If there’s a point to make, it’s that no one can accurately predict what will become popular—especially with kids. Our God-given imaginations take humans to places that boggle the mind because we were made in the image of someone far more creative still. This is why I’m convinced that eternity won’t bore us for even a second.

“No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” (I Corinthians 2:9)

Classic Toys, Part 3: A Little Red Wagon

 

I’m thinking of asking Santa for a Radio Flyer Wagon this year. That is, I might if my wish list were not already filled with books. And if I believed in Santa.

I don’t recall desiring a little red wagon as a kid, but as an adult who tires easily, I can see where a wagon might come in handy, in any color, around the yard and garden. Ever wonder who decided kids might enjoy a wagon of their own with which to let their imaginations take flight?

In 1897, Antonio Pasin was born in Venice, Italy to a cabinetmaker. At 16, he moved to New York City with dreams of operating his own business. Too young and broke, he instead found himself working endless odd jobs for low wages. Not one to give up, Pasin invested his meagre savings in woodworking tools and a one-room rented workshop. He married a fellow Italian immigrant named Anna. They eventually moved to Chicago with two daughters and one son.

Pasin used a little homemade wooden wagon to carry around the tools he used for making phonograph cabinets. When customers began requesting duplicates of his wagon more than his cabinets, he began building toy wagons and selling them to area shops in 1917. By 1923, he’d formed the Liberty Coaster Company. Demand kept growing for the “Liberty Coasters.”

“I enter so many ventures with more nerve than capital,” Pasin said. In 1927, he tore a page from the auto industry’s book and began mass-producing stamped steel wagons. This move made the wagons affordable for nearly every child. Painted red, the wagons sold for three dollars each, about $50 in today’s economy (although a quick look on Amazon shows me a Canadian price of $170 for the classic wagon).

Pasin was a long-time fan of two other inventors: Guglielmo Marconi, credited with inventing the radio, and Charles Lindbergh, who completed the first non-stop cross-Atlantic flight in 1927. In tribute, Pasin renamed his wagon “Radio Flyer.” His company became the Radio Steel and Manufacturing company. Even during the Great Depression, 1500 wagons a day rolled off assembly lines, earning Pasin the nickname “Little Ford.”

“To give work to others,” Pasin said. “That had something to do with my desire to be in business.”

During World War II, production of wagons stopped while the company produced five gallon “Blitz cans” (now known as jerrycans) for the U.S. army. Once the war ended, the company returned to producing the little wagons that have continued to enjoy much popularity for their high quality, nostalgia, and practical usefulness. So popular, in fact, that in 1987 Radio Steel changed its name to Radio Flyer. By this time, Antonio’s son had taken over.

Since 1997, Antonio Pasin’s grandson, Robert, has been CEO. The company has grown to include tricycles, scooters, and more. Though they also began making plastic wagons, the metal ones remain the most popular. In 1999, the Radio Flyer Wagon was inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame.

Antonio died in 1990 and was inducted into the Toy Industry Hall of Fame in 2003. His little red wagon has shown up in movies and never fails to add nostalgia to any scene in which it appears.

For a heart-warming video that tells Antonio’s story, click here. What moved me most was his desire, having known poverty himself, to provide wagons for as many children and jobs for as many adults as possible.

“Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay him for his deed.” Proverbs 19:17.

Practically Twins

Barbara Millicent Roberts was born March 9, 1959, two weeks after me. Though she appeared about eighteen years my senior at the time, she has somehow managed to maintain her youth and still doesn’t look a day over 23.

Plastic will do that.

Prior to Barbie’s debut, most dolls represented babies—designed for children to cuddle and care for like real infants. Married to the co-founder of the Mattel Toy company, Ruth Handler probably kept a lookout for new toy ideas. When she noticed her daughter, Barbara, assigning her paper dolls adult roles, it sparked the idea for a teenage fashion doll. The concept did not impress Mr. Handler or his board.

His wife persisted. Mattel introduced the first Barbie doll, named for the Handlers’ daughter, at the 1959 American International Toy Fair in NYC. The first year, Mattel sold 350,000 of the 11.5-inch dolls.

By the time I became interested in Barbie, her empire had exploded. Alas, I never actually owned one. I’m not sure whether my parents didn’t buy into the hype or if they took issue with Barbie’s impossible body shape, but they chose to give me a “Tammy” doll instead—12 inches tall and shaped more like an average teenager. I didn’t mind until I realized Tammy couldn’t fit any of Barbie’s clothes. Her flat feet called for nothing but simple rubber sneakers. Though my mother sewed some brilliant outfits for Tammy, I still craved a “real” Barbie of my own. (Ungrateful little snot!)

Over the years, more friends joined Barbie, including her boyfriend, Ken (named for the Handlers’ son), her best friend, Midge, and little sister, Skipper. One could purchase every conceivable outfit and accessory, as well as homes, cars, boats, and more for the popular doll.

In her 62-year existence, Barbie has managed over 150 careers. As an astronaut, she reached the moon in 1965, four years ahead of Neil Armstrong. She’s run for U.S. president numerous times. Although she’s clearly never won, I wonder how many ballots she’s spoiled as a write-in candidate? She’s even been a mermaid.

Her original body shape became the topic of much criticism when someone calculated that a similarly proportioned human woman would stand five feet, nine inches tall and be severely underweight. (In 1965, Barbie came with a fuzzy pink bathroom scale permanently set to 110 pounds.) Concurring that Barbie’s shape might contribute to an unhealthy body image in children, Mattel increased her waist size in 1997.

Barbie continued to evolve with the times, fashions, and political correctness. In 2014 she made the cover of Sports Illustrated in her original black and white swimsuit. Meanwhile, her friend “Ella” underwent cancer treatments as Mattel distributed bald dolls to hospitals in limited numbers.

Mattel reinvented Barbie again in 2016, responding to public pressure that she did not reflect diversity of modern women. Barbie now comes in 22 skin tones, 94 hair colors, 13 eye colors and five body types. I suspect this move profited Mattel, given all the new sizes of clothing needed to go with the various dolls. Still, good for them.

Barbie has appeared in books, films, and video games. She has her own TV show, You Tube channel, and vlog. Streets have been named for her, painters and photographers have captured her, the wealthy have collected her. If you’re ever in Taiwan, you can even visit a Barbie Café.

A quick look at Amazon tells me you can order a doll for as little as five Canadian dollars, or for up to sixty for this years’ “Holiday Barbie” in all her sparkly glory.

As for me, I’ll thank God for the four or five “careers” I’ve learned, my closet filled with previously owned clothing, and a 1959 body that still mostly works.

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last; but a woman who fears the Lord will be greatly praised.” Proverbs 31:30

I'M TELLIN' YOU WHY

(Part 2 in a 4-part series on popular Christmas songs)

You may not have heard of Haven Gillespie, but he became a millionaire thanks to one little song that you know well. 

 

In October of 1934, Gillespie (whose real name was James Lamont Gillespie) left his brother Irwin’s funeral and took the subway to Manhattan to meet with his publisher, Leo Feist. Known as a talented composer of children’s songs, Gillespie was commissioned to write a new Christmas tune for kids. Gillespie left the office, and while still on the train, jotted the lyrics for “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” on the back of an envelope. J. Fred Coots wrote the melody, and the song became the hit of Christmas 1934. Radio audiences went wild for the song and requests for sheet music were off the charts. In the 86 intervening years, the song has been recorded by countless artists.

 

Meanwhile, according to the nephew who wrote his biography, Gillespie himself never felt enthusiastic about the song or its success because it always reminded him of his brother’s death.

 

I can’t say I’ve found the song all that appealing myself. The lyrics caution us about a Santa Claus who not only watches our every move but keeps track—even when we’re asleep.

Creepy.

Parents use the song as a warning for kids to behave in the weeks leading to Christmas, lest they end up on Santa’s naughty list. I’m not sure what happens then, but it can’t be much fun. A lump of coal in your stocking, I suppose. It’s enough to make you cry, but according to the song, crying is one of the things you’d better not let Santa catch you doing!

 

For too many, this version of Santa is also their version of God. Not an attractive image. Watch out. Be nice. He’s keeping track. Your nice deeds better outnumber your naughty ones. No pouting. No crying. He sees all. Knows all. He’s gonna getcha. So be good, for goodness’ sake. 

 

Here’s the irony. If any of us were capable of being that good, we wouldn’t need Christmas in the first place. God wouldn’t have had to send his son to save us because we wouldn’t need saving. If it all depended on us, would God have gone to such great lengths to make a way for us? 

 

Psalm 103 promises us a tender and compassionate Father who has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west. Christmas made that possible.

 

Psalm 121 describes a God who will never let me stumble, slip, or fall. Who is always watching, never sleeping, protecting me day and night. But never in a disturbing way.

 

As for that crying business, Psalm 56:8 tells us of a God who keeps track of our sorrows, collects our tears in a bottle, and records each one in his book. Who will one day wipe away our tears with his own hand because there will be no more mourning or crying or death. (Revelation 21:4) 

Yes, I believe God sees me when I’m sleeping and knows when I’m awake. The beauty in that? He sees me.

And he sees you. The real you. The one that others miss. The one hiding behind masks, both literal and figurative. The one you fear will never be enough.

And guess what? He loves that real version of you.So this year, when you hear that playful song, tap your foot and sing along. Because whether Santa Claus comes to town or not, you know the truth about God. And you know the bottom line.

He sees you. Period.