This Is Who We Are Now

The days after Christmas are always strange. The tussle to get here begins with the whirlwind of writing and finals--which truly deserves a blog post all its own; the transition from writing and studying endlessly to a complete halt and switch is somewhat dizzying. My wakefulness has competing subjects: "Oh no--did I add Hecuba's quote when I wrote about her broken mama's heart in Hector's death scene?" And, "Does my dad really need a trunk golf organizer?" And worse: "Did I give him one of those last year?"

In the midst of all this there are the holiday fundraisers, at which I am expected to wear shoes that hurt my feet and threaten my balance--which does little for a woman's confidence--and remember the names of people and what they have given, and perhaps most importantly: remember not to say any bad words or use inappropriate phrases I have picked up working in the very ghetto for which we are raising the money.

Then there is the gathering of gifts and the accompanying lists: all the excitement and brouhaha of the Dakota House Christmas celebration--the ridiculous notion that we, somehow, can make up for all the horrors of these kids' lives by making this one night magical and handing them just the right gift. The stampede through our home of excited and overwhelmed children and later the rush of ripping paper--Emily and I looking at one another and then back to the faces of the kids,wondering, 'Are they happy with this? Do they feel loved?'

And finally the anticipation of family, and returning children, all centered around the constant struggle to remember that this is about Jesus, who came to save us all.

There are moments of peace and joy, even in this vortex of glitter and lists and unholy traffic.

One glorious hour I am in the kitchen with my husband, and we are making arancini--Italian rice balls that I am determined to make into a new Christmas tradition--in honor of my Grams and Grampo, who both left us recently, still funny and cuddly and remarkable in their nineties. We listen to my own special treat: Tinsel Tales on NPR. My hands mix the arborio rice and eggs, and it is wonderfully tactile; my hands are coated in the sticky scent of my heritage. I season the arancini with the coveted spice from my Uncle Joe, also gone now but with a rich aroma left behind him.

Days before, my daughter Emily and I are in the Dakota House living room. Every surface is covered with shoe boxes and toys and wrapping paper. Each box is examined, and considered for the child who will receive it. We exchange, and add, and take away, according to what we know about each of these children we love. And on the night when they open those same boxes, it has, somehow--by God's wondrous presence--actually become magical.

There are other moments. Sitting in my sister's living room, with all of the family who could get there--some are missing because they live far away or their lives won't allow the trip. My parents have been loving and generous, as usual, and we have all brought gifts. We are huddled up next to one another, facing a screen in which just one brief portion of a film is played. It is The Nativity Story, and before our eyes the Christ child is born. A thrill of hope--the weary world rejoices. And so do we.

We gather again on Christmas night, three of my four children make it after all the obligations that are forced upon children of divorce. Aimee comes early and we have treasured time with her; Aimee's excitement for our family time brings an electric energy into our home.

Finally Nate and Emily arrive and we settle. Only my oldest daughter Sarah is missing. She is with her husband in the bay area--they are working hard to build their new life and their jobs demand a toll for their rewards. We are all in our comfy clothes; the room is soft and cushioned and light comes from the fire and the Christmas tree. We hand one another gifts we have chosen with care, with deep knowledge of one another. There is wrestling, and laughing; it is sometimes irreverent. It is us. And I breathe it in. Soon it will be over and we will stand under an awning in streaming rain to wave goodbye to my son Nate as the train pulls away.

This is who we are now. I no longer tuck my kids in and pull their favorite toy from their hands. They are all grown. And when they leave our house, our home is quiet again. My husband and I read by the fire, talk in the kitchen, and walk on our street. In a few weeks I will step into my classrooms and meet my professors who will teach me the wonders of writing; I will take up books by Tolkien and journey to Mordor with Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. My husband will work to provide for us all, and lend his hands to a gardening group. I will love on the kids God brings to Dakota House and watch as He brings adventure to my life. My kids will have their own journeys, and I will love them fiercely and pray for them daily.

It is a good life, and I scarcely deserve the joys it contains.