During our Christmas Eve service, I was focused intently on singing Angels We Have Heard on High when suddenly a little boy and his even littler sister started walking up to the front of the church. They were dressed up like Mary and Joseph, and their arms were extended in front of them like forklifts, their baby brother stretched across their arms.The big brother was responsible for the head; the big sister for the butt and legs.

Surprised, I half gasped-half laughed, and my eyes involuntarily welled with tears. And then, without even realizing I was doing it, I glanced behind them, looking for a wise man bearing a ham à la the Herdmans. And then, when I realized what I was doing, I really did laugh.

The mini Joseph and Mary tumbled their fat-cheeked, kicking brother into the wooden manger and stood guard over him, taking turns shoving his pacifier back in his mouth, while angels, shepherds, and a baby sheep (who was munching on a piece from her cotton ball-studded hat) gathered around them to stare into the manger.

That little scene may have been the highlight of my entire Christmas.

It snowed for Christmas!

Actually, it snowed the day before Christmas, but the white stuff lingered. There was enough snow on the ground for one Christmas morning sledding party before it melted away into nothingness. And then the next day we woke up to more snow, glory be!

The kids realize that they won’t be seeing one flake of snow for quite a few months and so they’ve made it their personal responsibility to play in it as much as possible.

The downstairs of our house is littered with boots and coats and gloves in varying degrees of sogginess. The upstairs is littered with huge pieces of luggage.

It’s a lot to wade through.

We’ve had a nice Christmas, but it hasn’t been easy. We are in the final days of packing. Our family is stressed and tired and anxious.

Up until now, I’ve been super excited. And I still am, lots of times. But now the excitement is tempered by a thick, choking sadness: the Goodbyes are coming. (If that sounds ominous, that’s because it feels ominous.)

Of course, I’m really, really, really glad I have people to say goodbye, too. I’m glad I’m sad to leave them because it means they matter, right? RIGHT! And we’ll get through the Goodbyes, and we’ll all be okay.

But still, being sad isn’t very much fun.

***

Things We Did to Celebrate Even Though I Wasn’t Really Into It

We delivered toffee and peppermint bark to the neighbors. It was snowing (yay), so my pretty little labels got spotchy. Oh well.

Santa came.

Nobody left any cookies out for him, so he ate had to raid the kitchen for some clementines. Also, he got so frustrated trying to cram the gifts into the poorly-made stockings (the insides of which are filled with loose yarn that snags on everything) that one of his buttons popped off his suit. 

The kids ate enough sugar to last them for a very long time.

For Christmas dinner, my husband made his much-loved ham.

I made a pot of potatoes in cream. I hadn’t made them for a long time, and the kids went wild. In fact, they were so busy eating the potatoes that the ham got neglected.

Also, I made hot buttered rolls. They may have been my favorite part of the meal.

In fact, these rolls don’t actually belong under the title of “not really into it” since I really was into them. (I was probably into them a little too much, groan.)

Today, we ate (fought over) the leftover rolls for lunch. We stuffed them with cold ham, grainy mustard, and cheese.

Hot Buttered Rolls

Adapted from the Mennonite Community Cookbook

½ cup warm water

1 tablespoon yeast

2 cups milk

6 tablespoons butter, divided

5 tablespoons sugar

2 1/4 teaspoons salt

1 egg, beaten

1 cup whole wheat flour

4-5 cups bread flour

crunchy salt, optional

In a small bowl, stir the yeast into the warm water and set aside.

Scald the milk. Add 4 tablespoons of butter and let sit until melted.

In a large bowl, stir together the sugar, whole wheat flour, yeast, and milk (taking care that it’s not so hot that it will kill the yeast). Let rest for 10 minutes.

Stir in the egg, salt, and remaining flour. Knead the dough till satiny smooth. Sprinkle the bottom of the still-dirty mixing bowl with flour and plop the dough into it. Sprinkle the top with flour, cover with a cloth, and let rise until doubled.

Divide the dough into 24 pieces and shape into rolls. Place the rolls in two buttered 9×13 pans. Cover with a cloth and let rise until nearly doubled. Bake the rolls at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes.

Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and brush over the hot-from-the-oven rolls. Sprinkle with crunchy salt, if desired. Serve warm.

This same time, years previous: flat, marshmallows, the big snow, power paranoia, and turkey in a wash basket, bacon-jalapeno cheese ball

I first started writing this post in my head while I was working in the kitchen with my little boy. He was painstakingly cutting out leftover gingerbread dough. He had flour smudges on his cheek and forehead. His nose was snuffly. His pants were falling down.

My little boy is six, the age of most of the children who were killed last week. When I realized this, several days after the fact (because I’m slow), all the air whooshed out of me like I had been kicked in the gut. Oh, the unspeakable, heart-wrenching agony those families are going through!

Shortly after this realization (and after letting myself have a good
cry), I made a deliberate decision to stop thinking, reading, listening,
or talking about the shooting.

I realized that I could spend hours mulling over the pain of those families. I could superimpose their reality over mine, imagining what it would feel like to go through such suffering. Inevitably, I’d start to hurt as though I actually might understand what they’re going through. I’d feel sad. I’d grow anxious, worried, and depressed. I know myself. This is how I respond.

The truth is, however, that I don’t understand their pain. I couldn’t possibly because it’s not my reality. Letting my mind play over the horrific happenings does me no good. It doesn’t do any good for my family, nor does it do any good for the grieving families.

See, I do not know those families. This does not mean I don’t care about them, because I do. As a human, I am connected to them. We share the same culture. We share the parent-child bond.

But honestly, how much can I really care about someone I’ve never met? For me, caring demands a hands-on response. It means dropping what I’m doing to meet someone where they’re at. When our friends’ son went missing, we dropped and went. When my girlfriend’s husband was dying, I dropped and went. When my children are crying, I drop and go. (Though sometimes I don’t. It depends on the kind of cry.)

There have been so many different responses as a result of this tragedy. Some people are weepy, others angry. Some people act like nothing has happened. Others are debating gun control and mental illness. There are people who feel like they can’t continue on with glorious everyday life in the face of
such pain.

None of these reactions are wrong. We all have our own ways of processing. But in order to take care of myself, I have to draw a line somewhere. There are tragedies all over the world all the time. If I internalized them all, I’d be stuck in bed forever.

Perhaps this sounds selfish. Maybe narrow-minded or naive. But I think not. Some battles I am forced to fight, whether or not I want to. But I have a choice on others. Just as I am careful how we structure our days, what people we relate to, what movies we watch and books we read, I am also careful of what types of emotional/political/theological/etc. struggles I will allow myself to engage in.

The other day on a walk with my sister-in-law, we discussed the shooting. Which then got us talking about other horrors—Rwanda, North Korea, etc.

“Sometimes I wonder if it does any good for me to even know about this stuff,” she said. “We think it’s important to know but maybe it’s not.”

I wonder the same thing. What good does it do us, hearing about every kidnapping, shooting, robbery, and rape that happens the world over? Are we a more compassionate society than we were a hundred years ago? I doubt it. Perhaps we’re more savvy, sophisticated, street smart, educated, and globally aware, but I don’t think those characteristics ensure an increased level of compassion. In fact, they may even hinder it.

A couple days ago, my older son said, “People keep saying that you should always say good-bye when you leave because you never know when it will be your last good-bye.”

“Well, yes,” I said, suddenly exasperated. “You should say good-bye, but do it because it’s good manners and because people need to know you’re leaving, not because you’re afraid you won’t see them again. That’s kinda morbid.”

Because of the shootings, everyone is being advised to hold their babies extra tight. On several different occasions I’ve allowed myself to do this, to soak up their sweetness while thinking of the mothers who can no longer hold their own children.

But then I make myself stop because it somehow feels wrong to use someone
elses grief to intensify my love for my children. I want to hold my babies simply because I love them.

It is not easy, even impossible sometimes, to turn the sadness off. On the other hand, sometimes the sadness gives us pause and helps us to become more thoughtful, more sensitive, more authentic. My genetic make-up is such that the sadness pulls me down into depression, a depression that is neither virtuous or necessary.

*Thanks to this post for providing clarity.

*Here’s some questions and lots of thoughtful comments regarding the shooting and why it feels so close.

Update: Lenore reposted this on Free Range Kids!

This same time, years previous: Christmas pretty, middle-of-the-night solstice party, lemon cheesecake tassies

Okay. So you know those oatmeal muffins that I make? The ones that I’ve written about and that Aimee raves about? The ones I serve to everyone, take to breakfasts, and eat like candy? Well, I decided to write about them for my newspaper column (back when I had a newspaper column), but then my husband dropped a bombshell.

“I don’t like them,” he said. “They’re gummy.”

Which is ridiculous because they are most certainly not gummy, but I couldn’t very well write about something as basic as an oatmeal muffin without my husband’s seal of approval. It would feel deceitful. So, grumbling under my breath, I set the recipe aside.

But this week when I was at the library, I picked up the most recent Cook’s Illustrated. In it I found, lo and behold, a recipe for an oatmeal muffin. And knowing that magazine, any recipe they put out is, they believe, the best one ever. I read through it, became intrigued, and then actually shelled out 25 cents to make a photocopy.

The goal of the article’s author/chef was to make a very oatmeal-y muffin but without any gumminess (because I guess my husband isn’t the only one). The trick? Toast lots of oats in a spot of butter until golden brown and then blitz them in food processor. The resulting caramel-y oat flour makes for a gorgeously speckled muffin.

The topping is perfect, too. A crunchy sweet blend of oats, pecans,
brown sugar, cinnamon.

And guess what? My husband loves them! (The kids don’t, though. Whatevs.)

Toasty Oatmeal Muffins
Adapted from the January-February 2013 issue of Cook’s Illustrated magazine.

For the batter:
8 tablespoons butter, divided
2 cups rolled oats
1 3/4 cups flour
1 ½ teaspoons salt
3/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/3 cups brown sugar, packed
1 3/4 cups milk
2 eggs, beaten

Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a skillet. Add the oats and stir over medium heat for about 6-8 minutes until toasty brown. Blitz into flour in the food processor—30 seconds should do it. Addt the remaining dry ingredients (not the brown sugar) and blitz to combine.

Melt the remaining 6 tablespoons of butter. In a large bowl, whisk the butter with the sugar. Add the eggs and milk. Whisk in the dry ingredients. The batter will be very thin. Allow to rest at room temperature for 20 minutes to thicken up before ladling into paper-lined muffin tins.

For the topping:
½ cup rolled oats
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup pecans, chopped fine
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 1/4 teaspoons cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons butter, melted

Stir together. Sprinkle over the muffins.

Bake the muffins at 375 degrees for 15-20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean.

Yield: 12 large muffins or 18 medium muffins

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (12.19.11)