CHRISTMAS STORY #2

ADVENTURE WITH GRANDMA

by Anonymous (But I'd love to find out!)


I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous, cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in thosedays. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes,"I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, >From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house,explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.

That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous.

Santa was alive and well and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

The Title of LIberty is Raised Again

I've spent quite a bit of time lately, listening and reading wonderful talks in preparation for a women's conference at which I was recently invited to speak. I've also been thinking a lot about the election and the Prop 8 results. Some people are still angry about the election. Some are filled with hate and no longer feel America is their home. Conversely, some are angry with the Church because of Prop 8. After all this thinking and pondering, what I've concluded is that I have no place for hate or anger in my heart. Resolve? Yes. But hate? Anger? Bitterness? No. My heart has no place for these. There is simply too much work to be done to allow ourselves to be crippled by these feelings.

I think the Title of LIberty was raised again by Elder Packer in October's Conference during his talk entitled "The Test". Americans who understand Democracy also understand that sometimes the pendulum swings away from their position, but the examples Elder Packer illustrated about the Saints and their love of America, despite being denied the protection of her principles, seems prophetic now.

Perhaps it was.

Is there any question that the Brethren knew about the battle to defend the family long before we did? I believe they knew this firestorm was coming way back before 1995 when they drew the line in the sand, defining marriage as a union between a man and a woman and asserting that gender matters. The Proclamation to the Family was as much an effort to align us on these principles as it was to teach the world. And in these last weeks, we discovered how critical it was to have unity among the saints on this.

Likewise, I don't think it was by accident that Elder Packer spoke about love of country and passing the test of patriotism, especially during times of adversity. The media foments what they will to drive their numbers up. But listen to the voices of the Brethren who advice us to find happiness in our circumstances, to be unified, to seek peace and to remember that God is at the helm.

Still, there is much work to be done. While Prop 8 passed this round, new battle fronts are being raised in new states. Like Captain Moroni's relentless efforts to rally and protect his people, I don't think we will ever be able to rest from this fight. The American Revolution was a young person's cause because those who began the fight knew they would be long dead and gone before the dust settled on the new republic. Likewise, this battle we fight to defend the family is also going to be our children's battle, and our grandchildren's.

But we must remember what our end goal is. In the words of Elder Holland, "Something is going to be asked of this dispensation that has never been asked before. [We] must be prepared to present the church of the Lamb, to the Lamb. And when that happens, we must be looking and acting like His Church."

As we rise to the task before us, we must look and act like members of the Church of the Lamb. We must be positive and joyful, and we must use our talents, which are many, to allow the Spirit, not force, to change hearts. I am going to work harder on this. I hope we all will.

I discovered this lovely song on youtube. Thank you, Barry Hansen, for inviting the Spirit to teach better than words alone. May we all be united in our cause, which is the cause of love.

Laurie


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ez0vgS5UDdg

"THE OLD GRAY MARE" and other disturbing truths

I can color the gray, take Tylenol for the joint aches and I can arm myself with some pretty cool songs, stories and games, but the truth is, after a few hours of serious play time with the grand kids, it's apparent. . . the old gray mare really ain't what she used to be many long years ago. . .

I remember the games I played with my kids when they were young. Especially my oldest son, Tom who, having no siblings old enough to provide any suitable entertainment, turned to Mom to be Wonder Woman to his Super Man. We'd tie receiving blankets around our necks and "fly" around the house, vanquishing evil and devouring all manner of healthy treats to maintain our super powers. Sometimes I'd try to pull a spiritual sneaky--inviting him to be Moses with a magic staff that would turn into a snake and scare the bad guys away! That worked great for a while until he discovered that no one else thought being Moses was "cool".

Tom and I are in Utah visiting that son's family right now, and to celebrate our grandson's fifth birthday, Tommy IV wanted a "Spy Party". My daughter-in-law, Krista, and I went searching the stores for spy-type items for the gift bags. Following the party, after enduring the noise created by thirty-four whistle-blowers, we realized a great truth--whistles are of the devil.

Two days after the party, Tommy wanted to actually BE a spy. So we went downstairs to play and I discovered another truth--I can no longer be his horsey, or wrestle or crawl around like GI Jo--without the aid of analgesics.

My son stayed home from work today, inviting us all to go and play at the Splash Park. (Can you hear the sound of my tentative swallow?) "Can I go like this?" I ask as I display my Lane Bryant ensemble. "Go put your suit on. It's a great day outside!" he replies with typical boyish enthusiasm. My smile saddens as I try to explain to him that for the good of all humanity, I'll pass on donning the swim suit.

While he and the kids were out, I tried climbing upon the platform bed attached to their two-level playhouse (my daughter-in-law created all this amazing stuff), so I could straighten the covers. I rolled flat out onto the floor. I'll probably be in traction by evening, but I have to say I should have earned at least a 6.9 on the Olympic Diving Scale. More analgesics.

Enough said?

I am a great story teller and I can sing about 59 silly songs. I'm still pretty good at make believe and I now actually look forward to the next installment of Dora or Franklin, so I've still got some tricks up my sleeve, but I'm not that same flying mommy of days past.

Luckily, my grand children's mommy is. She plays like a teenager with them, but she's expecting right now so she can't wrestle like she usually does. But once that baby is born she'll be back in full form and grandma will be able to return to her rocker and wait with my book and my remote for the quiet shift to begin.

My daughter Amanda and her husband Nick are expecting their first baby in a few months. I know they, and my unmarried sons, look at my husband and me and wonder if we'll still have any steam left when their children are ready to play horsey and super heroes with us.

We think about it a lot too. In truth, each of our kids grew up in a slightly modified family. Tommy enjoyed the world of childhood magic and pretend the longest and probably had the best and greatest percentage of my undivided attention, while our youngest child, Josh, grew up the fastest, leaving mom's side earliest to chase after his siblings. Amanda and Adam, the middle children, probably each had a successively shorter childhood as they too followed Tom's lead.

Likewise, I'm sure each grandchild will know us differently. I hope we'll be able to play hard with all our grandchildren. We might be easier to catch in a game of tag by then, and we might have to modify our entertainment somewhat. And of course, we'll be keeping our bottle of Tylenol a little closer each year.