The Ugly Christmas Tree, God's Eyes, and Tori Spelling

I spent part of last night reading an online article about Tori Spelling. Evidently, she doesn't have enough money to purchase a deluge of Christmas gifts for her four children, creating a holiday bust.

Christmas translates into holiday parties, festive decorating, and finding the perfect gift for those we love, our friends, our co-workers, family, and the list continues. The pressure is on not to disappoint.  Some find themselves uber happy. Others, deeply depressed.

Let's make a detour on this Christmas road for a personal look. I will begin with my story. Okay, two stories. They are short. We might just end up in an unexpected spot.

My first married Christmas, my then husband and I had just arrived from serving overseas as missionaries. We rented a flat in Illinois and counted our money. To my dismay there was nothing left over for a Christmas tree, nor ornaments. We were about to host a family Christmas dinner to boot. 

Then, like the Christmas miracle it was, I found a faux tree, bent over garbage bins in some alley. I pulled it out, straightened it a bit and took it home, treasuring my find. I lovingly handmade each ornament and tied it onto the limbs with red yarn. Upon completion, I stood back to admire the recreation. So lovely, it took my breath away. 

Christmas baking complete, I set the kitchen table and the card tables with my grandmother's starched linens along with my garage sale dishes. The cheery faced guests began to arrive, dusting freshly fallen snow from their coats. Festive music belted from the radio and our warm little place filled with aroma of delicious food. 

When the last guest stepped inside, I heard her shout, "OMG, that is the ugliest tree I have ever seen!" My heart tumbled along with my joy. Surely she was jesting. The sweet tree I had salvaged and decorated and loved was called ugly! I looked long and hard at the tree. There was not a bit of ugliness. There was only beauty. When I remember that moment, I still feel a bit of leftover sadness.

Fast forward thirty years to my single, online dating foray when I made an 'appointment' with a gentleman. We met at a Christian coffee house and greeted one another by shaking hands. I took a seat across from him. At first his clothing puzzled me. His clothes didn't match and looked worn, as if left over from the bottom of a Goodwill box. His hands were soiled. His hair, unkempt. 

My knee jerk reaction was to bolt. Yet, I stayed. We chatted a few minutes before someone offered a half eaten lunch. "Want this?" the college student asked the older man.

I was appalled.

 'Roy'  was excited. "Yes, I sure do. Thanks!"

He dug in with his fingers, shoving almost all of it into his mouth with one scoop. As though as an afterthought, he held out the box to me. A corner of a sandwich remained. I politely declined, doing my best to hide my surprise. It was then I realized he was homeless, and probably contacted me through one of the public computers in the room.

Roy talked about his tough divorce, how he threatened his ex with a shotgun while on drugs. In prison, he allowed Jesus into his life. Since then he slept on the streets and at times in a halfway house, picking up work here and there.

When I felt it was time to leave, he walked me outside and we said goodbye near a dumpster. I could see him eyeing it, so I told him to help himself. The lid shot up and he tore open discarded garbage bags to find food and shoved it into his backpack, stopping to offer me some at times. By now, I had decided he clearly wasn't my type, but my heart went out to him and everyone else who led this hard life. That moment changed me.

I never saw Roy again, but I think of him each time I drive past the Christian coffee house, or see a wanderer on the street. Even if there is just a few dollars in my purse, I press it into their hand and wish them God speed. Its important. On one date, I handed a homeless woman in a wheel chair my restaurant take home food. (Never saw that date again.)

Like the discarded Christmas tree I found eons ago, we all see the discarded people trudging up and down the streets. 

Have you ever wondered what  they are thinking? Feeling? How did they end up here? Are they hungry? Are they cold? Where are their parents? Is anyone trying to find the lost?

Jesus. Jesus finds the lost. He found me in high school. He found Roy in prison. He found my son on a mental ward.

And like the Christmas tree I once decorated and thought so lovely, Jesus straightens up our bent over life and decorates us with His love and mercy and joy. We are clothed in beauty.

We are Christ's hands on earth. Lets get our hands dirty by sharing our blessings with those in need. 

Can you see their beauty? 

Pictures from Denton County Homeless Coalition

Upper Kingdom Living *Musings of a Paperback Writer

To my feeble historical knowledge, there were several Egyptian kingdoms. Although dissimilar in every way, I see my life divided into these kingdoms: Lower Kingdom, Middle Kingdom, and Upper Kingdom. The Lower Kingdom years were my elementary, high school, and college years. Middle Kingdom was marriage, children,  career and un-marriage. Now, I have entered into what I refer to as my Upper Kingdom years (near retirement): wind down my career, find fascinating interests, write a best seller, buy a new dog collar for Sadie, and dust my dresser.

  

Gazing back on my Lower and Middle  Kingdom years, I realize, try as I may, I didn't save the world, or the Rain Forest. Nor did I ever get world peace for Christmas. Furthermore,  I wasn't able to raise much money for the Native Americans on the 24 mile walk I participated in while in college. And the Viet Nam War didn't come to a grinding halt because I marched against it. (note to guy who broke up with me eons ago because you thought I was pro-war, take note.)

Now, during my Upper Kingdom years, my dreams are simple--less complicated.  A good night's sleep is always welcome. A new book is the best gift ever. Being published is an incredible high, and I also have plans. Big plans. I imagine a lovely new chenille couch front and center in my living room. One with a lounger on one side. Raspberry in color would be so nice--or, a dove gray, even better. 

Reality check. I already have a couch. A black one. It pretends to be leather. Stitched in white, its okay. Utilitarian for holding 3 dogs, 1 adult son, and 2 small grandsons that like to sleep there when they visit, and occasionally lose bladder control during the night, due to too much apple juice after 7 pm.

 

Next to the black couch is a lovely antique settee from the days of splendor. Short legs, which makes standing,  after sitting, an event. But the curved lines on the wood and the small original print of the fabric is still so pretty to look at while sitting on the black couch.

My laminate is a pretender too.It wants to be wood. I just found out the flooring comes from China and used formaldehyde as a preservative. The laminate was ruined by a slow dishwasher leak,  and also by a slip and slide contest held by my little grandsons while I was on the phone. Living in the Upper Kingdom, one sometimes finds, mistakes are good. Had it not been for the water, I never would be able to get wood floors.

Water damage. Poisonous gases. dishwasher leak. Broken disposal. Slip and slide. A lump of a black couch smack in the middle of my living room ruining my design. An ill adult son who needs attention and medical care.  I realized I was allowing myself to be eaten away by the small and big stuff in life. 

Calamity and stress stole the moments of  living in the Upper Kingdom.  The act of focusing on imperfection pulled me from inner peace. Had living through turbulent Lower and Middle Kingdom years taught me nothing about overcoming,?

My life is comprised of what I hold in my heart, not in my hand. I have found freedom in letting go of stuff. I enjoy  making do with what I have (cheaper too).

 I don't dream of visiting Paris, nor living on a peninsula away from people. I dream and pray for my son to continue his walk toward wellness, for my daughter to slow her crazy work schedule, and for  my grandsons to visit me soon. 

But, I still want to slay dragons. I want Upper Kingdom living to be smart living. Tackle what matters. Do what I can to make a difference. Help the poor. Feed the hungry. Dry tears. Inspire someone. Encourage. Make someone laugh.

What does living in the Upper Life mean? I remember my mom telling me, she wanted to put what she valued the most in life into her car and drive away from the rest. (Granted she had a much larger car than I have).  

What matters to you? 

Reconstructing Me

       I was in 7th grade for the second time when I thought about boys for the first time. By 9th grade my best friend Monica and I had graduated from Barbie dolls and set our sights on guys. We doubled on my very first date, and when her date disappeared at the party,my date gladly took her place. 

 There wasn't much to forgive. She had lovely olive skin, almond shaped eyes, thick brown hair, and her teeth were very straight as a result from years of braces and retainers. Of course guys were drawn to her. 

I dreamed of finding my version of Gene Kelly spinning around on a lamp post during a rain storm as he sang to me.

After a couple of marriages gone wrong, I am single again, trying to remember who I was long before my life got tangled up. I lost a lot of years in there.

Years ago, my mother's sage advice to me was, "Do not tell men everything about you. Be a woman of mystery!" That was a most difficult thing to carry out since I felt compelled to tell them everything about me (like a job interview to be the girlfriend), even becoming someone else if that's what they wanted. As I got older, after the convincing was done, and they were staying, I became dissatisfied with the relationship and left.  I wasn't my authentic self. 

Life is a journey of finding oneself. We think we are this, or that, and live between the minutes instead of being in the moment. I hear people say all the time that they want to find themselves. I know what that means. 

Monica and I now live far part. She's in Wisconsin/Florida, I am in Texas. We are friends on Facebook. We watch one another live through pictures. Sometimes I leave comments. Sometimes she leaves comments. And she still has that thick hair and straight teeth. She even has her own company which takes her interesting places like France and Lubbock. Monica never traded herself for someone she didn't mesh with--still single, and I am single again. We took separate paths in life and ended up kinda in the same place. 

I'm getting back to my grass roots, the life I had before I allowed some of my dreams to drop by the wayside. I want to find them and breath air back into them. 

Feelings and experiences bloom in my garden alongside planted lavender. The round moon comes out and mesmerizes me. On the porch, my dog's drinking water catches my reflection.  You see, my mind wanders free as a barefooted child running through tall summer grasses eager to experience everything. 

The mirror says I am all grown up now, but my heart says its not true. 

I am reconstructing myself. 

Age is just a number. My number is high.

Talk to me.