Doing Life Together

Love Letter Begs for Date

Posted on January 31, 2017 by Betty Mason Arthurs

Love Letter Begs for Date

Betty Mason Arthurs

Long before the internet and online dating sites, young ladies communicated with potential “matches” by letter, hand-written or typed on ancient typewriters. Like most senior folk, I miss those days when you could unfold a piece of stationary and reread a love note, not an e-mail, from your sweetheart. When I was dating my husband John, he left me sweet notes in my college mail box. I also loved getting letters from my mother when I lived miles away from her. So it was no surprise that I found some letters she had saved in a box from the 1950s and 1960s. One mysterious letter, written to my 19-year-old brother Mark, when he was in junior college, made me wonder, “Why did Mom keep this? Who typed the letter, its keys skipping and smudges of ink on every line?” I’ll share the letter.

November 17, 1960

Dear Mark,

I have often thought of you but I have never been able to bring myself to the point of actually writing to you. I hope you don’t think that I am too forward. Actually I am very shy, and somewhat cute, if I do say so myself. My problem is this: I don’t have a date to the banquet yet and I was wondering if you could possibly (now if you won’t don’t hesitate to say no, for it wouldn’t hurt my feelings too much. I mean, I would get over it in a couple of weeks, I think.) find it in your heart to try to help me out of my predicament which is very embarrassing to me. You see, I was once homecoming queen of my high school and since then I have never wanted for dates, that is, until now. Now I come to (Christian college), which they all told me was just about as close to heaven as one could possibly get and I haven’t had a single date as of yet. This is really hard to take. I have noticed that you haven’t had too many dates this year so I thought you might be in a similar predicament. So I am writing this letter to tell you I would be happy to date you even if no one else is. If you want to contact me, please write to Box 26, as I have a private box at the post office. I am a town student but am only 20 y/o. Of course I am too shy and modest to sign my name, but as soon as I receive your letter I will gladly let you know who I am. Until then, love, ????????

Can you imagine a young lady pouring her heart out like this on a dating site today? I cringe when I think of the ridicule and bullying a desperate girl would receive if she admitted she needed a date. I think my tender-hearted mother kept the letter because she had once longed for dates. I know I did in high school in the 1960s. I can’t ask her because she died in 1985. I would like to tease my brother and ask him, “Did you take her to the banquet?” but he is gone too. Mark, who always had girls chasing him, often wrote to our folks, “I’ve got a banquet coming up. Can you send $20?” The joke in our household was, “When we hear from the boys it’s because they need money.” Even today, girls don’t understand that not all guys have a nice suit or tux to wear or a car to drive, plus money for prom, a corsage and dinner at a nice restaurant.

This letter speaks to me about teen girls and self esteem. Not much has changed even with the advent of internet communication. Maybe you’ve heard the story of a young lady who had a pair of men’s jeans on the end of her bed. Every night she knelt and prayed, “God please fill those jeans with a man for me.” I don’t know if God ever answered her, but I chuckle at her ingenuity.

My heart goes out to the writer, since she thinks having lots of dates will bring her happiness. I want to hug her, like I did with my daughter, and say, “Sweetheart, tell God your desires and your dreams. No one will ever love you as much as He does. Only He can be trusted to give you the love you long for.” Scripture is full of promises and one of my favorites is found in Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV), “’‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

Do you know a lonely young lady who longs for dates or wants to be married? What advice would you give her?

Posted in Doing Life Together, Dreams, Hope, Love, Nostalgia, Prayer, Romance, Trust in God's promises, Uncategorized | Tagged 1960s, college life, Dating, longing for love | 1 Comment

Fear of Driving

Posted on January 27, 2017 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 19.

I got my first learner’s permit when I was a senior in high school. My dad took me out driving several times in his huge Buick LeSabre. Our sessions usually ended with him red-faced and shouting at me, and me crying. At the time, I didn’t understand why Dad was so frustrated.

The day of my scheduled road test was also the day of the first blizzard of 1970. I had no experience driving in snow. Even though Dad promised the test course would be plowed by the time we got there, this was not the way I’d imagined it. I pictured myself driving us to the Motor Vehicles office on non-scary, dry roads. I didn’t want a last-minute lesson on driving on snow-covered roads. So I refused to go. Dad said I could call and reschedule, but I just didn’t want to practice and be shouted at and burst into tears any more. Besides, in the fall I would be going away to college, and there was no place for dorm residents to park on campus. Plus, I didn’t have a car.

Fast forward to the middle of my sophomore year in college. Concerned that the focus of my program was not the best fit for me, I decided to transfer to the college closest to my parents’ house. That would be a savings, I reasoned, because they wouldn’t have to pay for my room and board (that’s how a 19-year-old’s brain works; of course they were paying for my food and the roof over my head and the utilities I was using).

My Tempest looked like this, but mine was turquoise. Is that road snow-covered? Show-off.

The first week at my new school, I discovered that the two buses I had to take got me to school in an hour and a half, and the return trip was just as tedious. So Dad bought me a used Pontiac Tempest and driving lessons. The room and board savings flew out the window. But I actually got my driver’s license.

Of course, a few days later, the first blizzard of 1972 struck while I was in class. I called Dad, and he bummed a ride to the college from a neighbor, and drove me home in my new car.

I never got over my fear of driving in snow. (I’m glad I live in the Arizona desert now.)

In 1974 I married my sweetheart. We lived in an apartment in a subdivided house in Edison, New Jersey. Which meant that every day, traveling to and from work, I had to cross the Morris Goodkind Bridge. Like its companion, the Donald Goodkind Bridge (though neither of them were particularly good or kind, by the way), it was three lanes wide. From the outer lanes, it was a very long, terrifying drop to the water. And I was sure my car was destined to take the plunge. Southbound on Route 1, I could stay in the middle lane, where I only had to worry about the 18-wheelers whizzing past me on both sides. But northbound, I had to stay in the right lane, mere millimeters from a watery grave, because my exit was just past the northern shore of the Raritan River. Many years passed before I could make that drive without dissolving into panic. Moving to a different part of New Jersey helped.

The Morris and David Goodkind Bridges may look pretty from this angle, but when I drove across them, they seemed neither good nor kind.

I finally became comfortable with driving, at least under favorable weather conditions.

And then I had kids.

Becoming a parent gives you a new respect for the perils of the road. One second’s inattention could cause the loss of my family’s next generation. The sense of the responsibility made me hypervigilant and phobic.

By the time I had five children, I came up with a strategy for minimizing distractions in the car. If the kids got too noisy, I’d find a place to pull over and we wouldn’t move again until everyone was calm. It worked so well that after a few years, if I stopped at a traffic light, one of the kids would ask, “Mom, what did we do?”

At this point in my life, I have 45 years of driving experience. I’ve only had one accident—when I was still in college and drove on an icy bridge on the way home. (Honestly, why are people that young allowed to drive? I think the driving age needs to be raised—to 35.) But my friends all know I won’t drive at night if it’s raining. Too scary. The reflections confuse me. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

How about you? Do you drive? Are you comfortable driving in rain or snow? Have you ever been afraid to cross a bridge? What scares you? Share in the comments below.

Posted in Fear, Humor, Memoir | Tagged driving | 5 Comments

Children and Politics

Posted on January 20, 2017 by Linda Carlblom

(This post first appeared on the Christian Children’s Authors blog in Nov. 2016. I thought it might be a good reminder for this Inauguration Day.)

First, let me be clear, I hate political rants. This post is not one of them. It doesn’t raise one party over another or cheer one candidate and boo another. It is a guide for how to help your children navigate this emotional time in our country.

Think back to your childhood. What emotions come to mind? As I reminisce on mine, I see days of happy play with my siblings. Neighbors and church members looked out for one another and people lived relatively peacefully together.

Continue reading →

Posted in America, Doing Life Together, Elections, Parenting, Politics, Respect, Uncategorized, United States of America, Voting | Tagged children, Children and Politics, election, good citizens, news, politics, protecting childhood | 4 Comments

In the Meme Time: Hold On

Posted on January 17, 2017 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

hold-on

Posted in Christian Living, Doing Life Together, failure, Faith, Fear, Life, Perserverance, Prayer, When life seems too much | Tagged Adversity, comfort | Leave a comment

Happy Birthday, Mother

Posted on January 3, 2017 by Carol Boley

Today is my mother’s 92nd birthday, the first one since her death four months ago.

Today I am acutely reminded of my loss. I will be glad to get through this day, to have checked off one more “first” without her.

I am filled with mixed emotions: happy she was born, glad for the life she lived, grateful to be her daughter; yet, this year, missing her laugh, missing buying her a card and baking her a cake, missing her.

She always chose Olive Garden for her birthday lunch. Eggplant parm, salad, breadsticks, and anything chocolate for dessert. I think I’ll go there next year.

Today I will visit, for the first time since her burial, the national cemetery where she rests with my father. It will be the first time I will see their joint marker, with the inscription, “It Is Well With My Soul” added to their dates and Daddy’s years of service.

I will go with my husbnd, one of her two “sons- in- love,” and my youngest daughter, her youngest granddaughter. The last time we were there, we watched the hearse leave with Mother’s light blue casket (the one she chose 30 years ago) from the committal shelter toward my father’s grave site. I hugged family and friends, picked up my purse and got settled in the family car with barely enough time to see my mother drop into the open grave.

Just like that, it was over.

The years of wandering in the wilderness of dementia…over. The eleven days of active dying, without a drop of water or morsel of food…over. The funeral preparations…over.

As much as we wanted her to be free of earthly limitations, we didn’t want to lose her. As much as we knew it was happening, we didn’t want it to be true. Yet it was.

And so we filled her final days and hours with as much love as possible.

“Jesus will carry you home on his strong shoulders,” we assured her.

We played her favorite hymns by day and held her hands throughout the night.

“You loved people with the love of Jesus,” we reminded her.

“Jesus loves you,” we repeated. “I love him,” she whispered in response, with some of her final words.

We re-committed her into the loving arms of Jesus, confident He will do exactly what He said He would do.

“And this is the will of Him who sent me; that I shall lose none of all that He has given me, but raise them up at the last day.” (John 6:39)

Today I will stand at her grave and imagine that day.

Thank you, Jesus. I am grateful for what you will do for my mother, and for all who believe. I am grateful we will be together again. I am grateful that you love us, forgive us, free us of guilt and condemnation, declaring us righteous by faith in you. I am thankful for your comfort and peace. I am grateful for your grace.

And on this day, as every other January 3, I am grateful for my mother and will celebrate her life. Only this year it will be through tears. Happy birthday, Mother. I love you.

Posted in Aging, Bible, change, Christian Living, Death and Dying, Faith, Faithfulness, Family Life, Grace, Grief, Jesus, Mom | 4 Comments

Santa and the True Spirit of Christmas…by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Posted on December 23, 2016 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Note: This article was originally written in 1994, published in The Annals of Saint Anne and later in Active Christian News.

A portly man with a white beard, wearing a flannel shirt and suspender-supported blue jeans, pumped gas into his car. My then two-year-old son Matthew watched through the car window.

“Who is that, Matt?” I asked.

“Santa,” he whispered.

The man noticed Matthew’s peering eyes and waved.

We saw the man again a year later as he exited a delicatessen we were approaching. This time he wore a tuxedo with a shocking pink bow tie and cummerbund. Perhaps this was the day of his daughter’s wedding.

“Who is that, Matt?”

“Santa!”

As we passed, the man winked at Matthew and asked me, “Has he been good?” Obviously, he knew whom he resembled and enjoyed playing the part.

Every December, the man spent his free time attending preschool and Sunday school Christmas parties. He assumed the role of guest of honor at my children’s preschool. Wearing a finely tailored red velvet suit and cap trimmed in white plush, with black leather belt and boots, wire-rimmed glasses, white gloves, rouged cheeks, and his home-grown full white beard, he appeared to be the genuine article, not a department store imitation.

He listened attentively to the children’s requests, commenting on their wishes. When someone asked for a popular toy in short supply, I heard him reply, “Well, Mike, I’ll try. I’ve had a lot of orders for that one, and I’ve got my elves working overtime, but I can’t guarantee I’ll have it in time. Please don’t be disappointed if I leave you something else instead.”

Though he was willing to provide his services for free, when payment was offered to him, he said, “Thank you. I’ll send this right out to the American Cancer Society.”

Some might say the man really epitomizes the spirit of Christmas. Yet, he’s a mere caricature of the original Saint Nicholas, the legendary fourth century archbishop of Myra in Asia Minor (now Turkey).

As the story goes, a poor man had three daughters, for whom he could not provide dowries. He agonized over their fates should he die. With no father, brothers, or husbands to support them, they were doomed to lives of poverty and degradation.

Nicholas, aware of the poor man’s dilemma, tossed three sacks of gold through the family’s window in the middle of the night.

Out of this folklore grew the custom of surreptitious gifts on Saint Nicholas’ Day, December 6. Eventually, someone (no doubt an advertising executive) got the bright idea of combining Saint Nicholas gift-giving with the celebration of Christmas.

Sadly, many people measure their self-worth by the quantity of presents they receive. Nothing could be more pitiful than not getting any gifts at all. Feeling guilty about the poor and the homeless who might not experience any Christmas bounty, we look for ways we can contribute.

Charities increase their appeals during the Christmas season. Many collect more money during the period between Thanksgiving and New Year’s than during the whole rest of the year.

All December long we hear about individuals or corporations who provide gifts to needy families, thereby demonstrating the “true spirit of Christmas.” We hear about scout troops that donate toys to hospitalized children, and youth groups that sing carols at retirement homes. We sigh and say, “Ah, that’s what Christmas is all about.”

Sadly, the same shelters and food banks that were inundated with offers of good cheer in December get almost no attention in January or August.

The original Nicholas gave three dowry-deprived girls what they needed for a bright future. He wasn’t merely concerned with giving toys to underprivileged children. His motivation was changing lives, bringing hope where there had been despair.

Nicholas’ own model was Jesus, the man whose birth we celebrate on December 25. Jesus described His life’s goal with these words: “…I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10: 10b ESV). The abundant life Jesus offers is eternal life, with God, not earthly possessions.

And that’s the true spirit of Christmas.

Posted in Christmas, Gifts, Holiday, Jesus, Santa | Tagged Christmas, family stories, St. Nicholas, traditions | Leave a comment

Diamond Ring and Christmas by Betty Mason Arthurs

Posted on December 21, 2016 by Betty Mason Arthurs

Diamond Ring and Christmas

Betty Mason Arthurs

Christmas time brings both happy and painful memories. Today, I share one of a father’s love and his gift.

A father kept a memorable gift tucked away in the top drawer of his dresser. Among his extra keys, spare change, combs and handkerchiefs nestled, like delicate eggs in a nest, a small blue velvet box. David often touched the box and then opened it to gaze at the beautiful diamond ring, a gift for his lovely daughter.

His daughter was the sunshine in his life. It’s not often parents give birth to a selfless child who loved them “to the moon and back” even after she married. Marcy gave them a delicate granddaughter and handsome grandson. She and her family lived close by and every visit overflowed with her love and concern for her parents.

Marcy would turn 30 years in May. David visited a jeweler and they fashioned a custom gold ring with three small emerald cut diamonds for her birthday. The ring captured a visible, glittering expression of his love. Perhaps someday his granddaughter could wear the ring.

Then a few days before her birthday, and Mother’s Day, came the horrific news every parent dreads. “There’s been an accident. Marcy died instantly.” A few miles from home on a busy city street the van was hit head-on and Marcy’s two children in the backseat were badly injured. One driver was arrested for a DUI.

David, a retired fire fighter, and his wife, Catherine, fought to overcome their own sorrow while caring for Marcy’s grieving husband and their grandchildren. “God help us,” they prayed. There were days and days of hospital visits until the motherless family moved in with them. Sleepless nights followed hectic days of comforting three-year-old Jennie and six-year-old Troy. Catherine often held a weeping Jennie in her arms and rocked her to sleep. Troy said when asked about his mom, “I miss her a lot, her hugs and her smell.”

Christmas approached and the family tried their best to decorate a tree and hang outdoor lights. The children needed new holiday memories. Yet David knew, due to all their extra expenses, money was tight and he wondered how to buy the children presents. How would they pay for the sumptuous dinner Catherine always fixed for all the relatives?

In the black days following Marcy’s death, in the quiet of the bedroom, David would gently open the box and gaze at the precious diamond ring. Sometimes he cried, knowing his sweet girl would never wear it.

Two weeks before Christmas he felt God gave him an idea. Could he sell it to have Christmas money? Would his good friend across the street buy it as a gift for his wife? It would be painful to part with Marcy’s gift, but David was sure she would want her children to have a happy holiday. Catherine agreed, “We need to sell it.”

The next day, David knocked on his neighbor’s door. Teary-eyed, he told the story of Marcy’s ring and opened the tiny box. The ring’s diamonds glistened, beaming forth a sparkling message of love. “We’re really short on Christmas money.” Then he asked, “Would you like to buy it for Lois?” Mark embraced David just as he had on the day of Marcy’s death, “Yes, I’ll buy it. Lois has never had an engagement ring. I’ll save it for our 35^th anniversary in June.”

My husband, John Mark, is the neighbor in this story from 15 years ago. I have also changed the names of our neighbors. Yes, John gave me this priceless diamond ring on our anniversary. I am Betty Lois and you can imagine I wept when told the story of a father’s love when given the ring meant for his daughter. Every time I look at my ring I am awestruck…it’s a symbol of unending love.

One of my favorite Christmas carols is “Merry Christmas, Darling,” sung by the Carpenters in the 1970s. Today we can still hear the rich voice of Karen Carpenter singing about being apart but together in heart and soul. It’s a timeless message for all who have lost a loved one. On Christmas I dedicate this song to David and his daughter.

God the Father so loved us that He gave the incredible gift of His son, Jesus. Christmas shows the almighty, powerful love of God for mankind. Jesus, the perfect gift, “tucked away” by the Father until the right time.

“Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift.” 2 Corinthians 9:15 (NIV)

Posted in Christmas, Christmas music, Doing Life Together, Faith, Family Life, Family Stories, Fathers, Gifts, Greatest love ever, Grief, Jesus, loneliness on holidays, Love, Parenting, Uncategorized, When life seems too much | Tagged car accident, Christmas love, Christmas story, Diamond ring, father's love, grandchildren, neighbors | 7 Comments

My Favorite Christmas Books

Posted on December 16, 2016 by Linda Carlblom

At Christmas, I sometimes like to read something that gets me in the Christmas spirit. I’ll share a few of the books that have helped me do that.

Mary’s Journal, A Mother’s Story by Evelyn Bence gives life to Jesus’s mother, before she conceived him, during her pregnancy, and in the early years of Jesus’ life. It is imaginatively written, but done in such a way that it seems very believable. I gained fresh insight into that time period, its customs, and what might have been some of Mary’s thoughts and feelings as the mother of God’s Son.

Shepherd’s Abiding by Jan Karon is the heartwarming story of Father Tim trying to restore an old nativity for his wife, Cynthia. It’s filled with the usual quirky characters from Mitford and written with Karon’s typical warmth and humor. If you’re a Mitford fan, you need to add this to your collection.

The Modern Magi, by Carol Lynn Pearson is short, only 71 pages, which may be one of the reasons I love it so much. I actually read this one to my children when they were upper elementary age, one chapter each night. It’s about middle-aged Annabelle Perkins, who dreams of visiting the Holy land to give Jesus a gift at his birthplace just like the wise men did two thousand years ago. She saves her money for months and months and is about to fulfill her dream. But then some surprising things happen that force Annabelle to rethink her trip. I highly recommend this book.

Two from Galilee by Marjorie Holmes is a classic. It’s the love story of Mary and Joseph and includes the early life of Jesus. Holmes uses her generous imagination to bring the pages of scripture alive. If you love this book, you might also want to read its sequels, Three from Galilee and The Messiah.

God’s Precious Gift in a Manger – by Rebecca Ann Lamb is unlike any other children’s Christmas book I’ve seen. Written for kids ages four through seven, it begins at creation and, as the back of the book says, “puts the Christmas story in historical perspective. Ever since sin separated people from God, God had a plan to restore their relationship with Him. Since the beginning of time, He knew His gift would give life back to humanity. And that gift was given…in a manger. Follow God’s plan through the Bible to the birth of Jesus. And gain a deeper understanding of God’s love for His people.” The illustrations by David L. Erickson are absolutely beautiful and the text is written simply enough for young children to understand. At the back of the book are activities and questions for parents to use with their children.

The Christmas Conversation Piece (or as I like to call it, The Christmas Question) by Paul Lowrie and Bret Nicholaus is a book of Christmas related questions. You can use it to spur conversations and get to know people better. I’ve used it as an ice breaker in Sunday school classes, parties, Christmas open houses, and with my own family. However you choose to use it, it’s lots of fun and because of that it has earned its place on my favorite Christmas books list.

Mercy Inn, by Lee Warren, is a new release this Christmas and I confess that I haven’t quite finished it yet. But I’m enjoying it so much I had to include it in this list. Three people traveling to spend Christmas with their loved ones are sidetracked by a snow storm. They all take refuge at The Mercy Inn and find new friendships, faith, and healing.

So there you have it, my favorite Christmas books. Did I leave out your favorites? List them in the comments. Happy reading!

Linda

Posted in Book reviews, Books, Christmas, Doing Life Together | Tagged Christmas books, Christmas spirit, Linda Carlblom | 4 Comments

How to Play “Jingle Bells”

Posted on December 13, 2016 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

This article originally appeared last year on ARHtistic License.

Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Family Singing at Christmas by Betty Mason Arthurs

Posted on December 7, 2016 by Betty Mason Arthurs

Photo by Jeff Weese

Family Singing at Christmas

Betty Mason Arthurs

Memories of my family and our love of music and singing together, now that my parents and one brother are gone, help to overcome my sorrow of missing them at Christmastime and bring me joy. I share a memory from Christmas Eve long ago.

My family stomped their boots on the porch of the old, two-story nursing home. Soft-colored lights and garland adorned the porch railing and reflected off the powdery snow in the early evening. Through the front windows I caught a glimpse of red and green crepe paper streamers draped over the staircase railing and the small Christmas tree in the foyer. It was Christmas Eve.

Giggling with excitement, I pushed open the heavy oak door. “Come on. The nurses are expecting us.” I urged my family forward and shut out the frigid air in Albion, New York.

I was home from college on holiday break in the 1960s. Mark, my middle brother had just arrived on leave from the army and Don, my oldest brother, and his wife Margie, had driven 30 miles over icy roads to join us. Mom’s chili supper warmed our stomachs and Dad, his blue eyes shining above his red wool scarf, couldn’t stop grinning. Our celestial family-choir was ready.

“So glad you’re here.” Yvonne, the evening nurse, shook our cold hands.

“I told our patients you were coming so anytime you want to start singing is fine.”

The smell of antiseptic and the supper of roast beef mingled together in the air. In the room to my left, I could hear Mabel’s gentle snore for she was already tucked in bed for the night. Joan slumped in her wheelchair in the bedroom to my right, staring at nothing while her roommate Bessie snuggled with one of her baby dolls, rocking it to sleep.

For me, the elderly patients in every room were my friends. During the summer I worked with them as a nurse’s aide; the other months I pursued my nursing studies. Because of tight quarters in the Victorian-style house, we stood in the foyer to sing.

Our family tradition every Christmas was to go caroling at a nursing home, sing in church, or perform in school musicals. For us, music permeated every part of the holidays. My brothers went on with their own lives to college and careers, but every time they managed to get home, we sang. If all we did was carol around our old piano, it was a tradition we loved.

We burst out in song, “Hark! the herald angels sing.” Don and Margie sang the melody. Mark and Dad belted out their sweet tenor. Mom and I carried the alto. It seemed like we split the air with three-part harmony up to heaven. Music had bound us together through the good and bad times as a family. Could we bring some joy to the lonely patients this cold winter’s night?

“Joy to the world, the Lord has come” and “O little town of Bethlehem” we sang even louder, infused with an inner joy Christmas brings. We sang song after song, until finally “Silent Night” ended our winter serenade. Then we quietly spread out, going our separate ways to greet all of our listeners. We held fragile hands, gave hugs, and kissed wrinkled cheeks.

Mabel, now awake, her face beaming like a white candle lit in a holy place, took my hand and whispered, “Oh, that was so beautiful. Thank you.” Bessie stood up from her rocking chair and squeezed me along with her baby doll. “Pretty, pretty,” was all she said. Joan, sat up straighter in her wheelchair and tried to talk as I bent to hug her.

Yvonne opened the front door for us and said, “Thank you for coming. It meant so much. We don’t get many singers.” Calling out “Merry Christmas” we stepped out the door. Several called back in feeble voices, “Merry Christmas.”

Back home, Dad turned on the lights of our tree and we munched on Mom’s sugar cookies and drank hot chocolate. We reminisced and laughed about past holidays, recalling when our ginger cat attacked the tree and it crashed in a hail of broken ornaments. Mark and I tied the tree up with rope.

In a few years I married and finally our musical chorus had a bass, my husband John. Then Don’s children and my children joined us with their sweet angelic voices. Singing, whether together or in our own parts of the country, bonded our family.

Now that my parents are gone and my brother Mark too, I treasure the memories I have of singing together, especially the Christmas Eve we sang in the Albion nursing home and touched the hearts of lonely patients.

What are some of your Christmas traditions? Do you hang stockings or bake and decorate Christmas cookies? Please share them with me in the comments below.