The Color Purple

I don't like the color purple.

I know, some of you are shocked. You love purple. And that's the thing about purple. It's a strong color about which people have strong opinions. 

For eight years I have been the mother of a girl, and yet I have maintained a purple-free household. The occasional purple t-shirt we have purchased, but there has been no bedroom, no birthday party in which purple has prominantly featured.

Until now.

My eldest daughter's bedroom is now Bher's Premium "Hosta Flower" lavender with a white and purple duvet on the bed and purple curtains on the window. 

Sophia turns nine on Valentine's Day and what she wanted more than anything in the world was to redecorate her bedroom. While she was still in the womb, Mommy got to choose her colors.  Following the height of Pottery Barn baby fashion in 2004, I chose pink and green bedding with Vanilla Milkshake on the walls (Daddy said no to pink walls, or they would have been pink). Since infancy, we've obviously bought a big girl bed and a desk, but the vintage "Dick and Jane" art was still on the walls and the color scheme the same.

Slowly, Sophia has shed her baby accessories (a baby carriage-shaped vase that her first bouquet of flowers came in) and added age-appropriate trinkets (Harry Potter Legos, soccer trophies). It's been a blending of how Mommy envisioned her first baby girl to be and who she actually is becoming.

But now, in an obvious metaphor, Sophia has declared herself her own person, and I, very wisely if I do say so myself, have embraced it. Even championed her cause to Daddy who was still championing the yellow walls (he likes purple less than I do, and also dislikes painting).  See before and after photos!

And here's the odd thing: I love the new purple room! It's beautiful and soothing and so well-suited to my wonderful, creative girl.

Even more, I love the opportunity to ponder a great truth of mothering: We can try to direct our kids to what we like or wish for them, but ultimately loving them is about learning to love who they actually are and what they love. I have tried to shape my daughters' palettes with healthy food; their musical ear with diverse artists; their creative impulses by exposure to beauty; a love of learning by much reading; their relationship to God by exposure to His word and His love. (My mom did the same thing, and blames herself, by the way for my dislike of purple, because she dressed me in it constantly). But ultimately, I'm not in control of who they are and what they choose to love.

I know the future will give me ample opportunities to love what they love. Maybe it will be lacrosse. Maybe I'll be sitting (cheering silently) at chess tournaments. Maybe it will be admiring their first tattoo (oh please no!).

During both my pregnancies, I dreamed a dream of my little girls and imagined out their lives. So far, they have both surprised me and surpassed what I expected. They have, of course, exasperated me with unanticipated challenges as well. But I keep dreaming my own dreams for them, clinging to them loosely and giving their lives over to God.

Meanwhile, I'm getting lots of practice in the color purple. Before I tackled Sophia's walls, I made my new baby niece a quilt in the challenging shade. My sister in law, pregnant with her third daughter, decided it was time to bring violet into her household as well. I struggled with the project; it's so much easier to be creative in one's own familiar palette, but when it was done, I loved it. As I love my darling sis-in-law, and my new baby niece Hailey who I've not yet met (she lives several states away).

I hope she will love the color her mommy chose for her, but perhaps she will want Vanilla Milkshake walls when she's nine. We're dreaming dreams for her, our little five-day-old baby, but we still don't really know what she will be like, what she will love. Won't it be exciting to find out.

What My Portable Potty Says to the World

My car says a lot about me. 

* I care more about my kids being able to eat in the car than I do about my upholstery. 

* I am somewhat environmentally conscious (four-cylinder vs. V6, mid-size versus super-size SUV, reusable grocery bags in trunk), but not overly so (still an SUV, and not a hybrid).

* I have allergies (box of tissues in the center consul, used tissues in the door pocket). 

* I drink a lot of coffee (stains, old cups in the consul).  

* I'm either a little distracted, or have bad depth perception (scratches on three of four bumper corners). 

* I am a MOPS mom (MOPS sticker partially obscures deepest bumper scratch). 

These are all things I can't and don't particularly care to hide about myself, but on the other hand, none of them are there on purpose to communicate my personality to other drivers. Even the MOPS sticker;  I just put it there to hide the scratch. 

You may note that I don't have a Jesus fish on my car or a cross hanging from my rear view mirror. I feel that, as a driver, I might be pad P.R. for Jesus. I don't want to cut someone off accidentally and give them an excuse not to like Christians, organized religion, or God. 

But there is one thing my car is currently communicating that is really bothering me. In my trunk, there is a sign that screams: DRIVER HAS POOR BLADDER CONTROL! And I don't know how to cover it up.

Back story: Over the Christmas break, Jeff and I took our girls to sled in the snow, outside of Big Bear at a trail head on the side of the road. There are no public facilities there, and the nearest restaurant (The Oaks) is always filled with other day-tripping families. So my Boy Scout of a husband (always be prepared!) decided that we needed to buy a portable folding toilet. 

Way back story: The last time we visited the snow (two years ago), we ate lunch in The Oaks, but I spent 30 minutes waiting in line for the bathroom, since all the customers and every other person in a 20-mile radius had come in, dripping snow, to use the one (one!) toilet. Finally, frustrated beyond belief by a full bladder, the fact that my tuna melt was sitting cold on the table, and my husband was in the parking lot trying to get our already potty trained daughter to go pee in an old diaper he found in the trunk, I delivered a vehement lecture to the manager that they should have a restroom key and give priority to customers. Then the woman in front of me in line said, "That's not the manager. That's my husband." Then I saw that yes, he was wearing boots and snow bib overalls. Then I went and apologized to him as he ate his cold tuna melt. Then I nearly died of shame.

So. We bought a portable toilet. And we did indeed use it on the side of the road with our posteriors freezing and a quilt draped around the car door as a makeshift bathroom stall. (At this point, Jeff and I both wished we had had boys. The world is their urinal!) 

Now, the toilet lives permanently in our trunk. And it's not a cute little toddler potty like my friends have. It's a full-on man-sized toilet that you'd take camping or hunting, as it says on the box. Said box is construction sign yellow, and marked on all sides by the bold black letters "PORTABLE TOILET" or even, on it's most subtle side "portable TOILET." No matter which way I turn the box, it rats me out to every one in the parking lot. "THIS WOMAN CAN'T WAIT TO GET TO A BATHROOM! SHE CARRIES A TOILET WITH HER EVERYWHERE SHE GOES." This is not the statement I wish to make to the world.

Now, I can't conceive of any place in suburban Orange County, where I spend 96% of my time, that I would prefer to squat on an aluminum toilet in my trunk (my windows are not tinted drug-dealer opaque) rather than hold it till I get to the next Target in half a mile. Perhaps if I'm trapped under an overpass after a major earthquake it would come in handy, and I could lend it to other trapped motorists in exchange for food, water and bandages, since the only thing left in my car's emergency kit is a dead flashlight, an empty band-aid box and a couple of latex gloves. But how likely is that? 

Still, Hubby will not let me bring it into the storage closet. It is for potty emergencies in the car, so in the car it must stay. It's so embarrassing to me that I've considered wrapping the box in gift paper to make it prettier. But what if someone asked me what was in it. Do I want to communicate that to the world: I am the kind of person who decorates her emergency potty box? I'll think about it, and I'll let you know.

The Year of Joy

On January 1, 2013, my husband tripped in the attic while putting away our Christmas decorations and put his foot through our upstairs bathroom ceiling.

I was standing in the hallway and saw his foot and calf come down in a hail of dust and insulation. I swore. My husband did not. Happy New Year!

This all happened about one hour before my parents were expected for dinner and five minutes after I had got a call from a neighbor. Neighbor asked if she could come over for a cup of tea and refuge from her chaotic house, where she was half-way through a kitchen rennovation. I opened the door for her just moments after the ceiling puncture and told her perhaps she had come to the wrong place.

Thirty minutes later, as I swept up toxic insulation dust garbed in my husband's face mask and safety goggles (see mess at right), I felt a wave a gratitude come over me. Gratitude because (1) Jeff was not hurt and didn't fall all the way through (a la Tom Hanks in The Money Pit); (2) Neither had he come through the ceiling in our bedroom, just a few feet away, which would have necessitated many loads of laundry, but rather in our easily contained bathroom; (3) It was Jeff and not I that had made such a critical slip, so I didn't have to feel guilty about it; and (4) we had the money to fix the ceiling so this wouldn't constitute financial hardship. (Not that this is the way we would like to spend the money but still...). Then, remembering the sight of the foot through the ceiling, I began to laugh.

We had had a beautiful, healthy, peaceful Christmas break. Throughout December, I felt God had been speaking something to me about the coming year: "This will be a year of joy." Now, that is a good message to get from God. Funny way to start off though, with at attic accident at the absolute end of a 10-day vacation. 

I don't actually have trouble, typically, finding joy and gratitude -- or at least humor -- in the trials of life. For some reason, I struggle more to experience joy when all is well. The externals of my life have been marked by blessing (Thank you, God!): physical health, healthy children, marriage to a good man, financial stability, a safe home, a wonderful community, a sense of mission and purpose in the world. And I am grateful.

But I have lived in seasons where I can see all that I have is good, and yet am unable to rejoice over my blessings. I have had a sense that under all the present goodness was something sinister, a dark truth about the universe and the nature of God that made joy impossible. It felt like a chain around my ankle, just like they show in those animated depression medication commercials on TV.

The reasons for this inability to enjoy a life that should produce joy are complex: a combination of brain chemistry, learned behavior, and a spiritual stronghold. The first I do what I can to manage. The second likewise. The third, I needed God to do the work.

What I needed was a dose of truth, and the ability to hear it. My daughters just memorized the statement Jesus made in John 8:32: "You will know the truth and the truth will set you free." Over the last few months, I've been asking God to speak truth to me, because books, teachers, friends, my spouse and psycholgists have, but I needed to hear it straight from Him. I believe He answered me. And I believe I am free.

Over the last three months, I've been having a running dialogue with God, and what He spoke was startling, never the response I expected.

 Dialogue Part First:
me: What more can I do, Jesus? I know my faith has so many holes in it.
God: I am pleased with you. Your faith is pleasing me.
I was expecting a review, Jesus with a clipboard, casting a critical eye over my life; like a spiritual life coach here to help me achieve higher potential. His answer shocked me into tears. I know it came from something (Someone) external, because it was the last thing I would have thought.  And this He followed with, "Your new name is Joyful One."

Dialogue Part Second:
me: God, show me what you are like. I'm still afraid you are not good.
God: You are precious to me.
me: Thank you. I think I know that, but that's not what I asked you. What are you like?
God: You are very precious to me. 
me: Really, is that what you want to say? That's not what I asked you!

Dialogue Part Third (this one God initiated, at 5 in the morning in December)
God: I chose to love you.
me: I don't like that word "chosen." I don't understand what that means.
God: I have the right to choose you. Be chosen. If I want you for mine, you'll be mine. Be mine!
me: I don't understand what that means.
God: I'm not going to explain it to you, sweetie. But if I did, I promise, you would approve.

After part third, I went peacefully to sleep, until my husband roused me almost two hours later. And I can't explain it, but something about the way God spoke to me, the tone and tenderness in His voice, took the fear out of me. I've been wrestling for years with big questions about the universe, believing I knew that God loved me, but wanting to know that He loved the whole world as well.

As it turns out, I didn't know He loved me. Not like I do now. And as it turns out, if He loves me (Me! Me?) enough to speak to me in the voice that I heard, then He loves the world. What is He like? He's the kind of God that loves me. And if he loves me, well, I trust him to love anybody. I don't understand God. But He's nice enough -- sweet, actually, gentlemanly, gracious -- to tell me that if I were able to see Him fully, I would like what I saw.

So joy. I've got it. And I keep testing to make sure, poking around thought pockets that used to be rubbed raw with fear and sadness, like you might poke a sore muscle to see if it's healed. And I think there's some scar tissue there, but it doesn't hurt anymore.

Meanwhile, blessings continue to abound in my life, and small, ridiculous trials are abundant as well. In the 24 hours since I began writing this, in the same bathroom in which my husband broke the ceiling 23 days ago,  I destroyed the floor. I dropped a shoebox full of nail polish from a high shelf.  One bottle -- hot pink, of course -- exploded. The rest fell in the toilet. I couldn't make this stuff up. I spent the afternoon scrubbing grout with acetone and sanitizing my nail polish collection in a kitchen colander (which then went through the dishwasher on hot). And I laughed.

The Bible says we will experience joy through trials. So the year of joy shall likely be an adventure. I'm expecting it. And expecting also to be surprised. Bring it on. And happy new year.

What Wasn't In the Christmas Letter

 I like writing our family Christmas letter every year because it helps me remember what went down in the Anderson family for the last 12 months. I do it as much for me as I do for our friends and family who are far away or we just don't get to see as often as we'd like.  But this year, since I mailed our cards out,  I keep thinking of things I left out, which I wish I'd put in.

 I strive to make "The Anderson Annual Report" honest as well as hopefully amusing, and avoid straight bragging about my kids if I can help it. But some of the most defining things about my year are usually not it it. One reason: the letter is about my family, not just me. Another: there are some things you don't say in a letter to 100 people including some of your spouses co-workers. And another: sometimes the important things are too personal for your letter, but somehow appropriate for your blog.

What would a slightly more personal letter just from me look like? For some reason, now, at 4 a.m. on December 23, I feel the need to give it a try. 

This year I lost five pounds, roughly 50 hair rubber bands, about  a dozen significant receipts or coupons, and my temper (about once a week). 

I dented another fender on our car, leaving only one out of four corners of our SUV with it's bumper unscathed. 

I baked and frosted about 264 cupcakes for my children, godchildren, and best friend; and one cake shaped like a volcano for my godson. They were all pretty awesome.

I forgave someone that I had needed to forgive for a long time, with God's gracious help. And then they hurt me again. But I found forgiving them the second time was easier. 

I saw our eldest daughter struggle with what it means to make faith her own, wrestle with God in her eight-year-old way, and eventually decided to be baptized. My husband and I wept. 

I reread Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, the entire Anne of Green Gables series, and a couple other chick books I'm embarrassed I own. I need some good book recommendations.

In August, I went to the MOPS International Convention in Texas and was once again inspired to continue ministry to young  mothers. I applied to teach a workshop at next year's convention, and was warmly encouraged but not accepted. I felt -- surprisingly -- not sad the rejection but proud that I had at least tried. I may try again next year.

I made a few new friends -- mothers of kindergarteners in my daughter's class -- that I am really excited about. 

I finished a two-year term in a volunteer job at my church that I absolutely loved, and accepted a new job about which I have extremely mixed feelings. In December I realized that the job is about serving God and not about making me happy. Which didn't exactly make me happy, but gave me peace. 

I got one pretty bad haircut. I think I might still be growing it out. 

One of my best friend's lost a baby late in her pregnancy. Another got pregnant with twins. Both have affected my heart in ways I can't explain.

I learned how to pray for other women in need of healing. I myself was prayed for in this way at least three times. 

We took a week-long vacation to Utah and spent two days of it puking in my sister in law's basement. I'm still a little traumatized.

I took a 15-week Bible study about Jesus and how he relates to women. I fell in love with Jesus again. He is such a gentleman.

My husband logged about 300 extra hours of work this year, and I missed him while he was working, but was proud that he worked so hard. 

I realized I have a pretty darn good relationship with my mom. 

This year I have doubted my ability to be a good mommy, seen negative qualities of myself (and occassionally my husband's) in our children, and yearned to be able to save them from some of the psychological struggles or personality flaws that I have. 

I have also exulted over reports from their teachers that they are kind people and enthusiastic learners, and thanked God that He is helping us grow the best parts of ourselves in our children, too. 

I have felt joy, depression, frustration, satisfaction, grief, boredom and
exultation. On the whole, it was a fruitful year. I hope yours was too. 

So This is Christmas

On the center of my kitchen table is a small quilted table runner I made this year. On the runner is a hurricane vase filled with vintage ornaments, and a red wooden nutcracker who is missing both his feet.

And in the runner is stuck an embroidery needle. It has been there for four days.

So this is Christmas in my house.

Though Hubby and I technically "finished" decorating over Thanksgiving weekend while the kids were on holiday in the desert with their grandparents, the crafting and projects go on, pretty much until Christmas Eve.

I stuck the needle in the runner while I was embroidering a feather stitch on my new stocking, and haven't seen fit to put it away, because -- odds are -- I shall soon need it again. (I should mention at this time that my kids no longer put foreign objects in their mouth, and that sharp objects are so much a part of their life that they know how to handle them, much as Italian vintner's children don't abuse wine.)

The nutcracker is one of many forsaken of his kind, rescued from garage sale boxes and redeemed by my husband's handiwork. Our extensive collection is being repaired one stringy synthetic beard and missing limb at a time, over a period of years. 

For a week I have been in a crafting frenzy, trying to get everything "done" so I could rest and enjoy the season. And then my eight year old said something that changed my attitude, or rather, I said something to her.

"Mom, I can't wait for Christmas to come."

And my response, gesturing widely to our decked out house, piles of unaddressed Christmas cards and mugs of cocoa was, "This is Christmas."

Christmas for me is all this chaos. Taming it is not the goal. Embracing it is. If I finish embroidering stockings and stock the fridge with cookie dough and complete all the gifts I'm sewing for my nieces and nephews, then what will I do? My favorite way to spend Christmas time is curled up on the couch with my tree lights on, a pair of scissors hanging from a ribbon around my neck, and a needle and thread in my hands.

I don't do all this stuff because I feel I have to. It's not perfectionism. I know no one will care if I buy store bought cookies and give the little ones in my life gift cards. I do it because it brings me joy. That is, when I remember to savor the scraps of fabric lying around and not believe that picking up the mess is what I really want.

Not that I don't sometimes go overboard or loose perspective. In fact, my husband and I are going to Las Vegas for a Christmas party this weekend, and for an hour or so I was thinking, "Oh no, I'm losing a whole weekend!" Of what? Wrapping, baking, sewing? Hello! I'm gaining  48 hours of sight-seeing, dancing, eating, drinking and sleeping late with my spouse! That, certainly, is Christmas too.

Happy with What I Have Done

One night at dinner, Olivia made a departure from her usual grace. Instead of "Thank you for my family and friends, everything I have and the bunnies and birds," she said this:

"Dear God, Help my mom to be good to her kids and happy with what she's done. Amen." 

I honestly don't remember what kind of day we'd had, or what prompted this petition on my behalf. I jumped up from my chair and wrote it down immediately so I wouldn't forget a word of it. Because it's exactly what I would, or should, be praying for myself on a daily basis. 

The Hypocratic oath that doctors take begins with "First, do no harm." And pretty much every fair-to-good mother I know took the same oath the moment she looked in her baby's eyes. "I will try, dear one, not to do you any harm." And pretty much every mother I know is aware that she has done her child harm. We will pass some of our issues down to our kids, no matter what.

But in the meantime, we will also be good to them. I'm good at kisses, stories, food, band-aides, explaining the unexplainable (or attempting to), building their vocabulary, and  doing creative projects. I'm trying to be good at boundaries, modeling kind and gentle words, and teaching them to be responsible. The toughest part of being good to my kids in this second way, however, is that it doesn't immediately feel good to them. It therefore might have been a day of boundary setting that prompted Olivia's prayer.

This week I told my husband that I appreciated how hard he was working at his job and everything, but he actually liked his job whereas I hated being a housewife. Hormones may have been involved at this juncture. I don't actually hate housework. But there are elements of being a housewife that I hate.

I know I've said it before in this blog, and also dozens of times to my friends, but it's hard to be "happy with what I've done" just about every day at four thirty, because the house looks like I've done nothing.

Meanwhile, my young charges who have been kissed and fed and taught all day are often now tired and cranky and pushing every boundary I have set. The only way to be happy with what I have done in that moment is to remember I'm playing a long game and hope I come out on top in 15 years or so. And I'm tired and hungry too at 4:30 so I'm not likely to be so philosophical. 

What helps me, oddly enough, is Louisa May Alcott. Every year, I reread Little Women around the holiday season. The novel was published in 1868, but it is so full of truth that it resonates to my core. It is also simple, wholesome and good, and its heroine Marmie, is the sweetest mother possibly ever penned in fiction, based on Alcott's real-life mother. I want to be Marmie when I grow up. When I read her little lectures, I feel that my role as wife, mother and homemaker is beautiful, even transcendent. Here's one of my favorite, given after her four daughters have tried a week of all play and no work, which went horribly awry. 

"Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"

"We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls. 

"Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again; for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone; it keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion." 

"We'll work like bees, and love it too; see if we don't!" said Jo. 

So far, I've never delivered such an eloquent lecture, nor had it received so enthusiastically by my little women. More typical of my lectures is what happened yesterday: I tried to teach the girls to help me carry the little burden of laundry folding. They ended up putting panties over their faces like luchador masks and running around the house twirling pajama pants above their heads, eventually spilling a whole glass of water on half of the laundry and the living room rug.  

But with my mind filled with Alcott's prose which extolls feminine virtue and housewifely arts, I still feel hopeful that my attempts are at least honorable, if not yet successful. And I continue to pray that I will do good, and be happy. Amen.

Light Bringer

Then suddenly, Harold remembered. He remembered where his bedroom window was, when there was a moon. It was always right around the moon.

~ from Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson

"Mom, the moon is following us!" cried Olivia from the back seat. A brilliant white moon was in the sky a week or so ago, and my five year old daughter watched it from the car window, certain it was racing alongside us as we drove home. I remember my eldest daughter thinking the same thing years ago. Even further back, I remember my younger brother and I believing that the moon was journeying with us. Like Harold in the classic children's book, who with his childlike perspective finds his way home by drawing his bedroom window around the moon, we had no problem thinking the moon was in the sky just for us.

I've explained to both my daughters how far away the moon actually is and the concept of perspective. But neither of them understood it, just as my brother and I didn't...and as I don't really clearly understand it either.

But clearer is the memory of being a child and accepting that God had a message in nature for me specifically. As a child, it was very easy to be thankful for the natural world, and to be pointed by it to the beauty and power of God. Olivia is very much in this stage of life and faith. The grateful graces said at our table almost always include two animal species at the end. "Thank you for the bunnies and bees...the butterflies and dolphins...the sharks and birds."

I still find that God speaks to me in beauty. But at this moment in my life, my gratitude has a shadow underneath it. I don't easily say "thank you" like a child.

My back yard is the place I go to meet with God. Over the summer, I was -- literally -- religious about getting up before my kids and sneaking out to my lounge chair with a cup of coffee and a Bible study book, which I sometimes read, and sometimes didn't. My view from that chair is very precious. I am tucked back against the fence under a canopy of a bower vine that flourishes no matter how I neglect it. Though I live in a dense condo complex in a flat, flat city, I have a huge view of sky, framed by liquid amber trees. Though I can't see the sunset because of how many houses are around me, from my "happy place" I can see the trees change color under the sunset's influence. When they are yellow and red in the fall, it's particularly breathtaking. In the morning, the sunrise breaks just behind them, and it is amazing how often my suburban sky is spectacular, an explosion of pink.

This summer, looking up in that sky, I often saw Venus, so bright it overshadowed even the sun. One morning it was so vivid, I imagined the sky was a stretched canvas, and Venus a pinprick, revealing what was actually behind the sky: brilliant light.

The ancient Greeks called the planet Venus "Phosphorus" or "Light Bringer" when it appeared before sunrise, as though it was heralding the coming of morning and Helios the god of the sun. I can see why they believed this, or pretended to. This summer, up early seeking God, I felt in my heart as though He was sending Venus to me, reminding me that He is light.

One of my favorite verses in the Bible is 1 John 1:5:

"This is the message we have heard from him [Jesus] and declare to you:
God is light; in him there is no darkness at all."

I cling to this verse in this dark world, where God is sovereign and yet not fully enforcing his power, for how could he be when there is so much suffering among the innocent, so much injustice. Jesus came to tell us that the kingdom of God was coming...yet not yet fully here. And he showed the disciples that God was light: the embodiment of goodness and truth, and therefore to be trusted. 

If I was sitting anywhere else in my yard, I could not see Venus. Just from that one perfect vantage point from my chair does it peak over the ugly carport roof and between the trees. My child-like heart wants to say "Thank you, God for giving me this reminder of your light, sent just for me." But then my adult brain starts to analyze. Really? God ordained the construction of your condo complex so you could see a planet? Well, maybe not, but perhaps the placement of my chair? 

And then darker, and much more dangerous, my head asks the question: why would He send this light to you? The world is in darkness! God ordains a message of light to you and sends a tornado to someone else? My compassionate nature turns to a kind of codependence with the universe. No unearned gift (even from God) can come to me unless I can make the world right for everyone. 

How I long to just receive that "star of morning." How I long to enjoy the moon following me, perfectly framed by the car window. How I long to receive light and love without having to understand the way and the why it has come to me. And after all, is not the beauty of creation everywhere, and for all people? The star of Venus was not created just for me, but that doesn't mean that God is not speaking to me specifically through it.

In the Bible, God tells us to be grateful, to say thank you in all circumstances. He tells us that every good and perfect gift comes from him the Father of Heavenly Lights (James 1:7). And he tells us to be childlike, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to children. So in all my desire to both connect with God and make sense of the universe, is it possible that being simplistically thankful is the key to living in the light, and bringing it to others? 

It's Thanksgiving season, of course, and probably the holiday our consumer culture makes the least of, sandwiched between Halloween and Christmas. But I love it, for the reminder it brings. And I would once have said,  for the opportunity it gives me to teach gratitude to my children. But lately, they are teaching it to me. I made them a Thanksgiving wreath, with paper leaves that they were to add one day a time after writing something they were thankful for. They filled that wreath in three days, with entries like "gourds," "food to eat," "Grampy," "our house" and a few things I can't read in Olivia's kindergarten spelling. They don't ask why they have these things, or how exactly God provided them. They just say "thank you."

As I get back into my morning religious ritual in my backyard, I will add my own leaves. My view of the trees. The sunrise. Our house. My husband. Our children. The morning star. And the reminders in all of them that my God is all light and the giver of good gifts.