here we go a wassailing

A few days ago, we completed our 7th annual Christmas caroling event. We had a quick runthrough with my mum on the piano at the house, with instructions to "sing the first and last verse of every carol," then out into the neighborhood we tromped. We sang in daylight hours this year to avoid the hazards of "the witching hour" (having young children out past their bedtime). We looked a bit peculiar carring lit candles in broad daylight, but it added to the ambiance. Note to self, skipping verses might lead to strangely construed messages; singing "we wont go until we get some" without the figgy-pudding context is a little embarassing. Anyhow, we returned home for some lentil soup and cider, and to string popcorn by the fire.

As the years have gone by, our caroling has evolved. The first year we did it, there was just three of us; my husband on guitar, my brother on the african drum, and me on the flute. That is the first and only year where traditional carols took on a calypso feel. It was a little weird- sounding, and despite parading up and down our entire street, we had only a few who were willing to open the door to us, and several doors slammed in our faces.
For some reason, the second year we tried again. This time, we caroled with my whole family, my dad leading the way. Little Emmanuel was just a few days old. We bundled him up, and he came too. That year, we were even invited into our neighbors' homes for hot drinks and to use their piano for accompaniment. It was a robust four-part harmony that year. Also that year, we happened to stop by two homes where grief was deep. One home, a mother had died. Another home, a miscarriage had taken place. Both neighbors were visibly moved by our presence, and the words of hope. One neighbor reminds me to this day how much that few minutes of caroling by her door step meant.
Another year, we happened to sing for a family who had recently moved from the self-described "dallas ghetto" (inner-city) to our neighborhood in far north dallas. "We're really in the 'burbs now!" he announced to his wife with wide-eyed surprise.
We've made some progress since those first novice attempts. The year we ended up in DC for Christmas with my parents, we had several homes offer us money (which of course we refused!)
Last year, the pinacle of all years, I compiled carol folders for 30, had the kids make shakers, and added the carol-by-candlelight element. Which was a good addition to make us look less like a mob as we paraded down the street with such a large group. We followed it up with a reading of the Christmas story, and the making of pipe-cleaner ornaments for our barren tree.

When I look back at what "started it all," I distinctly remember as a teenager piling into the back of our car with brass instruments pressed to the roof, driving about the neighborhood to friend's houses, filing hadpazardly out of the car and into someone's house, my dad leading the way with a hearty "Merry Christmas!"
Later, another significant "peg" in my caroling memory was hearing of the Christmas my parents were alone. They single-handedly organized a neighborhood-wide caroling event outside their house, where 300 people were gathered, and carols were projected on the side of their house. The Salvation Army brass band accompanied, and even my mother's Wicken neighbor prepared a Christmas carol on her harp. My mother served up a feast in open-house style to neighbors yet complete strangers. I was truly in awe of my parents and the scope of this grass-roots event. They knew carols weren't just meant for church. People outside the church were hungry for Christ. My parents went to great efforts to leave no one in the neighborhood uninvited to hear songs of this Christ, the newborn King.

At our house, each year has turned out slightly different from the last, but each has a distinct memory of its own. This year, what is most significant to me, is that it is the first year without my dad, the pioneer of our family's tradition. It's the first year where I have a weighty sense of responsibility for passing down a family tradition he began. The beauty of God's timing is that over the years of married life and a blossoming family, I barely noticed that this tradition has truly become ours. It is no longer me trying to recreate something I did as a kid and teen, but rather a tradition that is uniquely our own, with a rich legacy that came before. Perhaps I'll never have a caroling year as grandios as the one my parents arranged, but it is something to aspire to!

full hands, full heart

Not a day goes by without me being the recipient of the "You've got your hands full" comment. I might be quietly window shopping in complete serenity while my perfect children obediently lap at my ankles . . .or they might be running circles around me. Regardless, the unsolicited comments are a guaranteed addition to any public outing we take. Today at the mall, for example, I received no less than three You've got your hands full, all before I met up with my quad-stroller-pushing-mother-of-4-under-4 friend. By the time we met, she'd already received a few of her own. I am still caught off guard by these comments, whether they be cruel or sympathetic in nature; I just don't consider three children a large family, and I just don't consider that statement a compliment. Therefore, I feel genuinely surprised and a little annoyed.
You've got your hands full.
After thinking it over for some time now, it seems to me that the statement insinuates, "Why do you have such an abnormally large family? A person who lives in control over nature, a responsible, pro-choice person, would, afterall, not let that happen."
"Don't you know Europe's dying because they won't make babies? Don't you know I'm busy saving civilization right now?" (I feel like piously responding, but instead smile sheepishly and keep to myself.) Ask my husband, proponent of the right-wing book America Alone. It contains all the evidence and statistics needed to comprehend the big picture of a culture that's at stake, Christianity in decline. And it all starts in the family, with having children.
Do I have my hands full? Yes. But my heart is full also. For all those commentators out there, I would recommend a gentler statement like "You are truly blessed." This is the way God sees it, afterall, and He recommends a quiverful.

the dreaded christmas letter

I'm having a bit of trouble with the annual Christmas letter this year. Normally, I have a short list of "events" with running commentary. This year, a letter like that might just seem a bit dramatic (short list: baby born, dad died, pregnant again) or trite (since how exactly do you "quantify" life-altering events like these in a few simple sentences?)
I think I'm also starting to feel the pressure (self-inflicted, of course) to have my letter mean something, emote something, or be something more than it is (a family update). I have exhausted my anecdotes and cute little Jesus stories of past years. Even my husband tonight suggested I play off of the Rent song "Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes" (How do you measure a year? In love). Great idea, except that I did that last year. So, here I am, at the last minute as usual, procrastinating by posting a blog about my unwritten christmas letter!
Perhaps at the root of it all is that I have yet to spend some personal time of contemplation and prayer, thanking God for the blessings and trials of the past year, and seeking meaning from Him. It's my consolation that if words fail me, at least recipients will get a handsome Christmas photo of the family and be spared the dirty details (of Eden's potty training and the like!).

the annual christmas photo - from merry to mad

It has become a tradition now to take a family picture once a year in November for the Christmas card release in December. As our family expands (or at least I do), it becomes more and more challenging to get us all in one clump for the click. Never mind looking at the camera, and forget smiling.

The first year we became a family of four, and our budget shrank too small to do a "studio portrait," we had my father-in-love meet us at the greenbelt by our house. The only problem was my dear father-in-love just can't bear to take a picture unless all persons within his sight are frozen to perfection. With zesty little critters hippity-hopping every which way, there just wasn't a practical way to "wait" for the perfect shot! In the end, we got some lovely photos that year, it just took quite a long time!

Last year, my best friend's husband took about 200 photos in about 30 minutes. His strategy: just follow us a round in our "natural habitat." Even with his fabulous camera work and editing capabilities, there were just a few that were up for release to the public. (This, of course, really means that mama looked good . . .just kidding). All we needed; just one or two keepers for the family archives. And how those three or four pictures were complimented by the masses!

So this year, I somehow managed to coerce him into doing it again. This time, though, there were five of us to clump and click. Forget posing, forget looking at the camera, just get us altogether in one shot without too much torture. And miraculously, he did!

My sister has this thing about receiving Christmas cards with just the kids. She prefers to have the whole family. So even though I had a clear favorite which included only the kids (which I will post here), I went ahead and picked a lesser-of-evils family favorite to appease my sister and humble myself (mama don't look so good in this one!) . Though this one goes in the family Christmas card (what is a family Christmas card without a family photo?), my favorite, the one that goes in the memory books, is the one of just the kids. So tender, so sweet. A between-brawls moment in time that was captured just so perfectly. And just to give you a bit more perspective on my Dr. Jackle-Mr. Hyde children, I'll post the moment immediately following . . .

Will he do it again next year, when there is six of us?? I think I'll have to start paying him!

Thanks, 'Albert'!