I remember years ago Robert telling me about Leith Anderson’s poker chip analogy with regard to ministry. The basic gist that we get from it is that sometimes you through someone a chip or two and you almost invariably ending up earning back more. Certainly the reason to give “chips” (compliments, recognition, etc.) to people is not motivated by increasing your own stash of chips. However, it is just a nice benefit and usually just naturally happens. In ministry, as you give away chips to people then you better equip them to be ministers, you encourage them, and they usually end up being people who have your back.

I happen to think I have the coolest job in the world and I work with some pretty incredible people. I’ve written about it before, but one of my favorite things about academia is that everyone is so passionate about what he/she does and I just love passionate people. English professors love to gush about meter, voice, prose, and deep reading. A history professor will wax eloquently about the importance of primary documents and the narrative of history. Dietetics professors get me to think about sustainable food and physics professors can make even a subject like optics and acoustics seem appealing and in my grasp. They love their students, they enjoy reading and talking about what they are learning, and they usually have a plethora of unusual hobbies and interests outside of the academy. So how does this tie in with chips?

When I was interviewing for my first position in higher education five years ago this month, I had read on a forum at The Chronicles of Higher Education about how important a dean was. In every university interview, at least the four that I had (and I hear it is common practice), in the 2-3 days of interviews there is at least an hour or so to meet with the dean. When I met with the dean here I really liked her, but a brief meeting isn’t any way to really get to know someone. However, she had gone to high school in Mobile and graduated from the University of Alabama, so I took that as a sign that she was “good people.” My hunch was correct.

This past week we had our annual day-long teaching conference. Even though she retired two years ago, she came back to speak. She saw me and came to sit with me and we chatted for about 10-15 minutes before she got up to address the crowd. Here’s what is significant about that. We have over 100 instructors in the college of which she was the dean.

She retired two years ago. She only worked with me for two years. However, she remembered who I was, what school/department I worked in, and personal tidbits about me. We had a great conversation which she then mentioned our conversation in her speech. While I don’t care so much that she mentioned me publicly, the comments that she made showed that she knew me and remembered my name and that she listened to me. She threw me some chips! Know what? She got them back too, because things like that really impress me. When a busy and important person takes time to have a heartfelt conversation with me and really listen, I’ll be loyal forevermore.

It doesn’t end there. Our current dean is the same way. When he stepped into the position from another department in the college, he made appointments to meet for 30 minutes with every single faculty member and academic staff person. The discussion wasn’t about vision or how to teach or strengths and weaknesses. He asked questions about who we are and what makes us tick. He asked about hobbies and our families and he told us about his. He took notes, he got excited, and he followed up every single one of these meetings with a personal, handwritten note. In the 2 years he has been dean, I have gotten several random notes or emails from him citing something I have done (I have no idea how he knows) and commending me. I led a workshop at that teaching conference last week and he sent me an email about that. It was short and sweet, but since my love language is words of affirmation, a well-placed “Atta girl!” makes me putty in your hands. I thrive off of a well placed compliment or word of encouragement. I don’t need a raise (although it would be nice), a corner office with windows, or an extra week of vacation. If I am verbally told that I am valued or have contributed something, then that is solid gold to me. Again, our new dean is a chip-giver as well.

I try to give chips to students and colleagues as well and they generally do come back…but not always. Some people are chip-stealers. Some people don’t steal them, but willingly accept them and never share in return. That doesn’t mean that we still shouldn’t continue to give our chips away. I’m going to work tomorrow with a pocketful of chips that I hope to give away.

1. First, we have Kasey Kahne, a Nascar racer of whom I had never heard, tweeting that he saw a woman nursing her baby in the grocery store and “Just walking through supermarket…one boob put away one boob hanging!!! #nasty…I don’t feel like shopping anymore or eating.”

2. Then this past December a woman was asked to stop breastfeeding her baby in a Target store in Texas, which prompted a nationwide nurse-in at Target stores across the U.S.

You can do a simple Google search and find that women have been asked to leave the Smithsonian, restaurants, stores, parks, and even courtrooms. I shudder to think it, but I am sure it has happened at some churches too. This angers me immensely!! It is a woman feeding a baby with her breasts. That is the functional purpose that breasts serve. They are not merely sexual in nature. Yes, I do believe that breasts do serve a sexual purpose (Proverbs 5: 18-19 May your fountain be blessed, and may you rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving doe, a graceful deer— may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love.), but they also have a very utilitarian function of making milk and delivering it to a baby (Job 3:11-12 Why did I not perish at birth, and die as I came from the womb? Why were there knees to receive me and breasts that I might be nursed?)

Those like Kasey Kahne who think public nursing is “#nasty” or perverted or indecent are the ones with a problem. Breastfeeding is natural, best for baby and mom, saves money (yes, even for taxpayers), improves the health of children, and is a win/win situation. Anti-public breastfeeding people will suggest that a mom should just go nurse her baby in the bathroom. Would you want to eat your lunch in a bathroom? And where’s mom supposed to sit while she nurses–on the toilet? Hardly comfortable or sanitary. Did you know that 45/50 states in the U.S. have laws that say that public breastfeeding is legal and not indecent? What boggles my mind is that there even needs to be a law. It should be common sense. I have never in my life seen a woman just pull out her breast in full view, then get the baby ready to start nursing in public. Most use a blanket to cover themselves and even if they don’t, it is still a very discreet act.

I breastfed both of my sons, each for a full year. I am a very discreet and modest person. I don’t think my own mother and sister saw me naked or even in my underwear past the age of 7 or 8. I was always fully clothed. In college, with roommates and all that I certainly changed clothes, got dressed, etc. with other females around, but I was never totally in the buff. No way, no how. I remember my parents being shocked when they met up with me at a professional conference in Chicago when my oldest son was 6 months old. I flew in from Dallas/Ft. Worth and they drove over from St. Louis. They were going to babysit while I went to the conference. My son had to come along for the ride since I was nursing. My parents were incredulous to find out that I nursed on the airplane. Not because they thought it was wrong, but because of my lifelong modesty. However, I was feeding my baby who needed to eat. He had never had formula in his life and I wasn’t going to pump and give him a bottle just because some stranger might feel awkward by my breastfeeding. I nursed him well concealed under a nursing bib while I sat, even touching elbows on the armrest, by a businessman. He didn’t see anything and probably wouldn’t have known I was nursing at all except for the sounds a nursing baby makes.

Because I learned to nurse discreetly, I nursed anywhere and everywhere–restaurants, church, the mall, etc. There were a few awkward times, like when Robert was on an introductory interview for his first youth ministry position and they wanted me and Adam to come along. It was a breakfast meeting at a restaurant and as it went on Adam started getting hungry and I was getting full. I needed to nurse, but I couldn’t quite figure out the etiquette of nursing during my husband’s job interview. Another time, Robert was playing in a church softball league. It was the summer, so Adam must have been around 4 months old. He got hungry, so I threw a blanket over my chest and shoulder and proceeded to nurse him. At this point the game was over and one of the guys on the team realized I was nursing (even though he could see nothing but a blanket and two little feet sticking out) and asked, “Is this where we all line up for a drink?” What a ridiculous statement! When I pumped at work, some of my co-workers would “moo” as I carried my pump (in a bag) down the hall to the room where I could pump in private. At different different places of employment, a nursing home in Texas and an elementary school in Missouri, a male custodian accidentally walked in on me pumping milk. They both turned 40 shades of red and never, ever made eye contact with me again.

So what can we do to make breastfeeding in public more acceptable in the United States? England has done a national campaign encouraging women to breastfeed called “Be a Star.” The campaign shows real women breastfeeding their real babies in photos such as this.
I think it’s great because it is a young, hip mom showing that “it’s cool” to breastfeed and…look how discreet it is!

However, I think there is a danger when the media enters in, such as this example:

I think the problem here is that breastfeeding IS being sexualized, with the high slit in the skirt, black hose, lace, etc. Breastfeeding doesn’t need to be so glamorized that it is then sexualized. There’s a fine line.

What would be the most awesome is this

I got these photos from this blog. This woman is talking with Hugo Chavez, president of Venezuela (thanks peeps for identifying him for me!). When I have been in Honduras, Nicaragua, and Brazil, breastfeeding is a very common cultural thing. Obviously this woman hasn’t thrown a blanket over her child’s head (which I did and it was miserably hot and terrible in the summer in Texas), but she not flaunting anything either. She has made her breast accessible to her nursing baby. No big deal. I love how the man she is talking to her president and he is comfortable being near her, looking her in the eye, and even putting a hand on her shoulder. There is nothing sexual about it. He’s talking to a woman feeding her baby, the same as if she was feeding the babe with a bottle. (I will admit, the guy behind him is a bit suspicious). However, in other countries even teenage guys don’t bat an eye at a women very openly nursing her baby. It’s an accepted and normal part of the culture. Can you imagine our elected officials having the same type of interaction with a constituent? Maybe one day the U.S. will catch up.

Now it’s back to work and back to a schedule. Stay tuned for upcoming posts that are making my finger tips itch. Riveting topics like:
*What I’ve been reading
*Why a dean is important
*A day in the life of a professor
*Look what I made from Pinterest!
*Breastfeeding
*Women and self-esteem
*Do I look fat in this?
*I love you, but I’m not in love with you
*”enjoy the go” (Have you seen these commercials? Ridiculous!)

Make new friends and keep the old,
Some are silver and the others gold.

I opened a surprise letter from some golden friends today.

Robert and I have lived in 5 states during our 21+ years of marriage. We started out in Mobile, AL for my grad school, moved to Texas for seminary, then onto Missouri for Robert’s first ministry job, down to Louisiana, and now in Wisconsin. This golden friend from long ago has also moved many times with his family.

We met Max and Sandra when we lived in Carthage, MO. They moved to town after we had been in Missouri a couple of years. Sandra and I were in women’s Bible study together and we did things occasionally as families since their son was just a year older than Adam. They had a daughter that was in the youth group for a bit before we left to move to Louisiana. We haven’t seen them in over 10 or 11 years. However, we have done the annual Christmas card thing almost every year. They have changed our address from Louisiana to Wisconsin in their address book and we have done the same for them as they have moved twice in Oklahoma. So today I am rifling through the mail—bills, junk, and the like when I notice a large 5×7 envelope with their city in Oklahoma in the return address. Since they are the only people we know of in that city and we had already done Christmas cards, I was curious as to what it could be. Here’s what I found inside…

Max had handwritten a 2-1/4 page letter to me. It isn’t often that I get a handwritten letter in the mail anymore and especially not one so lengthy from someone I haven’t seen or talked to in over a decade. In the letter, Max referenced the Christmas newsletter we sent out this year (we always do a funny family photo and a letter). In the second paragraph I wrote:

We were thinking that with the rapid and constant social connections via email, Twitter, texting, and Facebook that Christmas cards seem a bit redundant. Most of you know what our kids look like and what we’ve been up to this past year. However, in these days of instant and depersonalized everything, a real Christmas card that you can hold in your hands means something. It means we like you and care enough about you to write, print, fold, stuff and stamp an envelope, and handwrite an address. It means you are worth (way more) than $0.44 to mail the card. While it would be easy and free to click send on a mass, multi-media email, there would have been no time and little thought invested. We hold this letter in our hands, knowing that you will hold it in yours. And hopefully, it will bring a little joy to find an envelope that is not a bill or advertisement in the mailbox. So, even though you are getting this card late, you are still getting it because you matter to us.

I won’t recap all of Max’s letter, but he said as he was dealing with a recent family death he was trying to figure out why some things, like a rolling pin of his grandmother’s and a leather bookmark of his grandfather’s meant so much. He said that it was a realization that they had held it in their hands and now he could hold it in his and that my silly little newsletter had made him connect with that. What’s cool about that is that in response, Max took the time to handwrite me a long letter. He has my email address and could have just pressed SEND. He could have even typed it. However, the simple act of him pulling out some notebook paper and writing each word is so much more time consuming, personal, and thoughtful. He enclosed two pocket crosses that he made inside—one for me and one for Robert. Again, the handmade aspect. What a wonderful simple joy to find in the mail today.

People are wonderful!
And life is beautiful.

Therefore, this year, instead of a list of resolutions, I am following One Word 365′s advice to pick a word to focus on and implement into my daily life. After mulling this over all day, I have decided to choose the word NOW. The reasons for this are varied. For one thing, I am a procrastinator by nature, so doing things now helps to prevent that. I did a 31 day experiment with anti-procrastination and it was pretty successful, so I want to make it a lifestyle. If I act now, then I will exercise more, having a more consistent quiet time with God, have a tidier house, stay caught up on grading…and the list goes one. I resolve to act NOW.

By choosing the word NOW, I will also be living in the moment. I want to appreciate the beauty, the humor, the wonder, the sacredness that occurs all throughout the day…only sometimes I’m so “other-focused” that I forget to notice. Here, now, I will experience, feel, taste, touch, listen, see, explore, ponder, question, and be. Now. Less going away in my head and thinking about my mental to do list and more being present.

Now also gives me permission to dream and to act a bit impulsively. Not “hey I bought a new car” impulsive, but more of a “Why yes! I will go outside and see if I can catch snowflakes on my tongue” kind of whimsy.

So, here’s to 2012. Here’s to NOW!

My 9th grade English teacher introduced me to Edna St. Vincent Millay in high school. This poem haunted me as a freshman in high school and still shakes me to the core.

To Jesus on His Birthday

By Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

For this your mother sweated in the cold,
For this you bled upon the bitter tree:
A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold;
A paper wreath; a day at home for me.
The merry bells ring out, the people kneel;
Up goes the man of God before the crowd;
With voice of honey and with eyes of steel
He drones your humble gospel to the proud.
Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows
Are all your words to us you died to save.
O Prince of Peace! O Sharon’s dewy Rose!
How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.
The stone the angel rolled away with tears
Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.

Isaiah 9:2, 6-7

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the greatness of his government and peace
there will be no end.
He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom,
establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness
from that time on and forever.
The zeal of the LORD Almighty will accomplish this.

Women can tell this part of the story this Christmas, the glimpse behind the veil, the life lived in the in-between of the stuff of God. There is a story on your lips, isn’t there, mama? of how you saw the face of God in the midst of fear or pain or joy and understood, really understood, Mary, not kneeling chastely beside a clean manger refraining from touching her babe, just moments after birth but instead, sore and exhilarated, weary and pressing a sleepy, wrinkled newborn to her breasts, treasuring every moment in her heart, marvelling not only at his very presence but at her own strength, how surrender and letting go is true work, tucking every sight and smell and smack of his lips into her own marrow.

God, Incarnate, Word made flesh, born of a woman. We can tell the true, messy stories of the Incarnation. Emmanuel, God with us. May we recognise the miracle of the Incarnation, not in spite of the mess, but because of the very humanness of it.

In reality, the birth of Jesus was much less of this:

And much more of this:

And so with that prompt, I will tell my story as well. (Warning: Real story about birth–involves messiness. You have been warned.)

I gave birth to my firstborn, Adam, when I was 26 years old. I had planned to deliver naturally and Robert and I had diligently practiced Lamaze. We knew how to breathe, I had made elaborate charts and brain teasers to focus on to keep my mind busy so it couldn’t process pain as easily. We were ready. And then Adam was 5 days late. And then the doctor said, “I can induce you tomorrow or we will wait until next week.” Being impatient to meet my little one, I opted for “tomorrow.” Since my cervix was ripe and I was already dilated about 1-2 cm, my doctor induced me in the office with prostaglandin, sent me home, and told me that I would be back later that night in labor. We drove the 45 miles home, grabbed my suitcase, and came back. I was having regular contractions and hurting. Once we got checked into the hospital, we had been there about an hour and I was begging for the epidural. Lamaze? Who cares? Give me drugs! Honestly, as much as they hurt, it wasn’t the contractions that were so bad. It was the contractions on top of feeling like I had the flu. I wasn’t expecting this systemic “ick” of feeling achy all over, my uterus contracting violently, being nauseated, having the chills, etc. It was miserable and I didn’t want to feel it. The rest of labor was fairly uneventful. Robert and I watched Diane Sawyer interview Charles Manson on TV and dozed off and on. Adam’s heart rate kept dropping if I didn’t lie on my left side “just so,” yet I felt a peace and wasn’t worried. About 12 hours later it came time to push and I couldn’t feel anything below my waist. How could I push with no sensation? I tried several times and we ended up with Adam being vacuumed out of me with a suction cup on his head. This wasn’t my picturesque birth I had imagined, but it ended with a healthy baby…and a mama who spent many hours in sitz baths and sitting on donut cushions.

Two years and nine months later I was in the same situation. Pregnant with a late baby who didn’t want to come out. Noah was due December 9. I had an ultrasound on December 12 to check on him and my OB discovered that my amniotic fluid was very low. This time I wasn’t going to be induced. I was going to wait the little sucker out. However, the low amniotic fluid complicated things and my doctor wanted to induce me the next morning. By the way, I had been dilated at 5 cm for 3 weeks. I was already halfway there, but stalled out. My doctor used pitocin, the hardcore inducing drug, this round. Now that I had given birth once, I knew what to expect and I was ready. We came with a TENS unit to use for pain control and I was NOT going to have an epidural since it had caused Adam’s heart rate to drop and I wasn’t able to push. It was also very much in my mind that with this December birth, I was going to identify with Mary. I was going to join in her baby-birthing sisterhood and be alert and aware of each and every physical sensation of bringing a baby into the world.

The pitocin started working the minute the IV was put in. My uterus was contracting violently every five minutes. Robert and my nurse were watching the monitors and telling me, “You are about to start another contraction” until I begged them to stop. I was already in the middle of one and I certainly didn’t need anyone to tell me. (Yes, I was grumpy—this was hard work!). I rocked and rocked, putting hundreds of miles on that rocking chair in the labor room. Robert diligently worked the controls of the TENS unit, cranking it all the way up for the peak of the contractions. He got me drinks, stroked my hair, and encouraged me. I didn’t talk. I was in the zone of rocking and focusing on mentally rising above the pain. If I spoke or diverted my attention, the pain would bubble up and I would panic until I was able to regroup again. Once after my doctor came in to check my progress, she told the nurse, “I left a script for stadol, if she needs it.” Hah! Pain meds? Not gonna need them. Actually, it made me mad and that more determined to have this baby without any numbing of the physical or emotional sensations.

About 3.5 hours into labor, my doctor came to check me again. I remember in our birthing classes, being told and watching it on those documentary birthing videos, that there comes a time when a woman is frantic to push and just can’t hold back anymore. Even though I didn’t feel that way yet, I was hurting, I was tired, and I was ready to have this baby. I remember making the conscious decision to ACT like I felt that way. Seriously. I became an actress, a fake, in the delivery room. I started panting and saying I had to push, had to push. It wasn’t true, but I wanted to get all of this business of birthing over with. It didn’t work. They checked me and I wasn’t ready yet. My nurse, while trying to be encouraging, told me to hang in there and said, “You may go from 8 to 10 cm in once good contraction.” (I had kind of stalled out at 8). That was the wrong thing. After every contraction I would say, “Please check me. I think I’m ready.” Finally, it was time. I was dilated and ready to push.

During those last couple of centimeters of dilation and the pushing process, things were getting visceral. During Adam’s birth I laid on the bed, demurely saying “ow, ow, ow” while giving G-rated birth. Noah’s birth was at least PG-13 and all sense of ladylike behavior was gone. I was screaming, about 3 octaves below my normal pitch, “GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!!!!” I was panting, growling, and making weird animals sounds that I didn’t know I was capable of producing. (Seriously, we have video). I was in immense pain, coupled with overwhelming euphoria. I could feel to push. I was empowered. I was able to reach down and touch the crowning of that little head and muster up the strength to push that whole body out with a gush of amniotic fluid and blood. I felt that warm, slippery, slimy body enter the world. I heard the first faint whimper and then the robust, angry cries. I remember the weight and heft of this baby boy, covered in vernix and blood, being placed on my belly. I remember scooping him up and drawing him near. I didn’t count fingers or toes. I just looked at the squinty little face of my cone-headed baby and reveled in the miracle of the moment. I did it! WE did it! Robert held my hand, cheered me on, and didn’t flinch while I screamed and writhed. I had felt, endured, and cherished (in retrospect) each crushing contraction, the two steps forward-one step back process of pushing, and then the rush of life. In those few moments, I really do remember thinking of Mary and identifying with her. There is a power and euphoria and wonder in birth that comes forth through a veil of pain and confusion and inadequacy. And while I was rejoicing with Mary, I was cursing Eve for this predicament she got us all into. It made me identify with sin and its consequences…then redemption and sacrifice.

But the Christmas story doesn’t stop with the birth. God’s too good, too thoughtful for that. I have many friends who don’t have birth stories to share because they have been unable to get pregnant or carry a child to term. Therefore, through that one birth of His SON, God offered adoption for all of us as sons and heirs.

Romans 8: 14 For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. 15 The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.” 16 The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. 17 Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.

Therefore, adoptive moms have stories to tell as well. They know Advent in a very different way. They understand the longing that Israel must have felt in yearning for a Saviour. They understand the waiting…and waiting…and waiting of the Advent season. They understand the disappointment of the stable and the manger. Yet, their arms and hearts have been filled as well, just in a different way.

God chose to bring His Son into the world through the miracle of birth. God chose to make us His heirs and brothers and sisters of His son through the wonder of adoption. And we women…we matter in the story of redemption and the way God chose to use regular people of no consequence to complete His good and perfect will. God with us. Emmanuel.

So here, in no particular order, are my personal top five “Everyone Likes These Movies and I Don’t Know Why” list.

‘Tis the season, so I’ll start with “A Christmas Story.” Most people have this one on their list of favorite Christmas movies. I HATE IT! I’ve seen it several times. Ha Ha–the leg lamp, the bunny suit, the dog getting the turkey, tongue stuck to a pole, etc. It’s not funny. Or amusing. Or endearing. I would rather have dental work. I honestly don’t get the appeal of this movie. I didn’t like Napolean Dynamite the first time, but Napolean kind of grew on me and the movie became funnier when watching it with a group of people. I just dislike A Christmas Story more and more each time it’s on.

Dirty Dancing came out when I was a freshman in college. It was pretty darn popular and everyone swooned over Patrick Swayze. I don’t hate this movie, but I just think “meh.” Don’t get the big appeal. The love story isn’t that compelling. The dancing in Grease, Footloose, Flashdance, or Fame is more impressive, as is the music. It just didn’t do anything for me…mostly because I didn’t like Baby. Stupid name and a character that wasn’t so charming.

I was a senior in college when Pretty Woman was released. Julia Roberts’ career was just starting to take off. Again, everyone thought this was such a wonderful romantic movie…or at least females did. It was on TV a couple of weeks ago so I watched it again, wondering if maturity would make me like it more. Nope! She’s a prostitute. That’s not pretty or glamorous. It’s really not such a Cinderella story. I have met and talked with real prostitutes through mission work at Beautiful Feet in Ft. Worth, TX. I know that this story is totally unrealistic. (Yes, I know it is a movie and I am supposed to suspend belief, but I just can’t in this case). A guy like Edward Lewis would never fall for a girl like Vivian Ward. And…if it did happen, the transition from prostitute to girlfriend, from the streets to the penthouse, wouldn’t be so smooth and easy.

After watching it recently, I did wonder if Richard Gere was actually playing the piano himself, so I googled it. (He was.) I also found this snippet on IMDB: The movie was initially intended to be a dark drama about prostitution in Los Angeles in the late 1980s/early 1990s. The relationship between Vivian and Edward also harbored controversial themes, including the concept of having Vivian addicted to cocaine; part of the deal was that she had to stay off it for a week. She needed the money to go to Disneyland. Edward eventually throws her out of his car and drives off. The movie was scripted to end with Vivian and her prostitute friend on the bus to Disneyland. These traits, considered by producer Laura Ziskin to be detrimental to the otherwise sympathetic portrayal of her, were removed or incorporated into the character of Vivian’s friend, Kit. These “cut scenes” have been found in public view, and some were included on the DVD released on the movie’s 15th anniversary. One such scene has Vivian offering Edward, “I could just pop ya good and be on my way”, indicating a lack of interest in “pillow talk”. In another, she is confronted by drug dealers outside of The Blue Banana, and rescued by Edward and Darryl. One example of a changed plotline was when Edward breaks into the bathroom to find Vivian flossing her teeth instead of doing drugs as he had feared. In the original script she was doing drugs.

Now that would have been a much better movie in my opinion.

The Princess Bride is the one I get the most flack about. It seems that the whole world loves this movie. Although it has one of my favorite actors, Billy Crystal, in it, I just find it silly and insipid—even Billy’s character. It’s not funny nor romantic nor adventurous. I honestly do not understand the mass appeal of this movie.

And finally, any of the Lord of the Rings movies. I don’t like the genre of fantasy in the least, in books or movies, except for a few, very rare exceptions. Creatures, invented language, fake worlds don’t appeal to me in the slightest. Therefore I don’t like things like Avatar, The Hobbit, Alien, Star Wars, etc. The Chronicles of Narnia and Harry Potter (the books only, not the movies) would be the only fantasy-type of media that I can tolerate.

There’s my list of top five movies that ostracize me from the masses. What movies do you dislike the most everyone else seems to love?

Our Christmas tree is an autobiography of sorts. It begins when I was Pam Adkinson and had not yet crossed paths with a boy named Robert Terrell. We each came into our marriage with Christmas ornaments of our own that we had made as kids or that had been given to us over the years. Then we got a couple of ornaments like this:

Our first Christmas together--1990

Then over the years our family grew. Adam arrived in March of 1994.

...And then there were three

Followed by Noah, our Christmas baby, born on December–Friday the 13th–in 1996.

...And then there were four

We have wonderful ornaments that the boys have made:

These ornaments were made with pudgy little glue and glitter encrusted fingers and have pictures of the dudes growing up. They go on the tree each and every year.

Then, we have a tradition of getting the guys an ornament every year that they get to open on Christmas Eve. It has something to do with a hobby, event, or obsession from that year. This is why we have Homer Simpson, guitars, drums, Spiderman, Jack Sparrow, Star Wars space crafts, and Franklin the Turtle all dangling from our tree.

Some of Adam’s ornaments…

He loves Tim Burton

A bit of foreshadowing. This is an ornament from the year he was born. We had no idea that Adam would actually turn out to be a very gifted artist.

In first grade, Adam had to sing about Mexico in a "Christmas Around the World" school musical, so we thought this was the perfect ornament. He hated it and burst into tears when he opened it. Now we laugh about it every year when it goes on the tree.

And some of Noah’s ornaments:

Always a sports nut

He roots for teams that don't make sense to us. This year he was a big Troy Palamalu fan

A prophetic ornament. Robert has always been a Packers fan, so he indoctrinated the boys early. This ornament is from 1999 when we lived in MO. Who would have ever thought we would end up in Packerland?

Our tree also tells of some of our travels

And we have ornaments from former youth and therapy clients

Martha Stewart, I’m sure your tree is more aesthetically pleasing than mine, but my family tree is special because it is the story of us. And I love the story it tells.

I like it so much that it makes me kind of sad when the tree comes down after Christmas. The days are still short, the nights are still long, and the quiet lights of Christmas are gone. That’s why last year I bought an artificial tree on clearance at Menard’s. I have dubbed it “The Snowmas Tree.” It goes up when the Christmas tree goes up and stays until the BIG THAW in March or April. It is covered with snowflake and snowmen ornaments and I turn on the lights every evening throughout the winter. Our Christmas tree resides in the living room, but the Snowmas tree is in the family room. This way I get my lighted tree fix throughout the bleak midwinter.

On Thursday morning the boys had left for school, Robert was still asleep, and I was eating my bowl of cereal. I usually eat in the breakfast nook (natch). However, I decided that since the house was quiet and it was just at sunrise that I would turn on the tree lights in the living room and sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the tree to eat. I was looking out of our large windows in the back yard watching this one fat squirrel run up and down a tree in our yard. I noticed something large and white fluttering to the right at the edge of my peripheral vision. It was a huge, beautiful barred owl and it decided to rest right on the front branch of the tree I had been watching. It stared at me, while I stared at it. It turned its head all the way around, then turned back to look at me again. I was thrilled and delighted. I love owls! The cherry on top is that I was in a sorority in college, Chi Omega, and our mascot was an owl. Plus, they are just cool, beautiful, and mysterious creatures. I had seen owls at zoos and in raptor demonstrations before. I even got to hold and pet one this summer, along with one of my sorority sisters at an expo thing this summer during our high school reunion. However, I had never seen one spontaneously in the wild.

Kelly and me this summer with, ironically, a barred owl named Pumpkin. His feathers were so soft , they were like fur.

I watched the owl in silence for about 5 minutes and then I called Robert to come downstairs and get his camera since he is one of our two resident photographers. He snapped several pictures and then the owl flew off into the distance. Robert ended up seeing him two more times during the day. I hope he lives in the woods behind us and that this is just the first of many sightings. It absolutely made me day!! And just think…if I hadn’t taken time to pause and sit quietly by the Christmas tree, I would have missed this very special Christmas visitor. Advent is a time of hope and a time of waiting. I hope that you’ll take some time this season to sit quietly by your lit tree, alone in the dark, and ponder this season of hope and wonder.

P.S., Melanie, one of my friends from college, just started a blog and wrote a similar post about her love of Christmas lights. Be sure to check her blog, Insight of Grace, out.