Useless Giving

In 1913, a man founded The Santa Claus Association, the purpose of which was to answer all the letters to Santa Claus the US Postal Service received in the state of New York. Eventually there would be many Santa Claus Associations throughout the US and Canada, people volunteering hours of their time throughout the holidays to not only answer the letters but also provide needy children with gifts. Although it would seem the founder of this association created it to line his own pockets, he certainly wasn’t the only person during that time in history to create a “501(c)3” in order to get rich. Just as there are today.

 

The book I read this past year about this man and his association was quite interesting for various reasons. For one, it gave me an idea of just how many such “associations” came into being around the time of World War I until the Great Depression. At the time, America was booming with wealth and prosperity. People felt generous and wanted to donate to causes that would help the less fortunate. So, both sincere and disingenuous people created “associations”. The first helped other, the latter helped themselves.

 

And then there were the associations who arose in order to monitor the first set of associations. You know: people who didn’t want their neighbors being too sincere…or too disingenuous…whichever. It didn’t really matter as long as said people got to tell other people what they could and could not do. 

 

Honestly, times haven’t changed much at all.

 

A lot of these “monitoring associations” were keeping their eye on “Santa Claus” before all was said and done. And I had to stop and read the name of one of them twice. The Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving. Yes, please read that twice.

 

Now if you google this, you will actually come up with a lot of information on this society, and quite a bit of support that it should be revived. Founded in 1912 by a group of wealthy, philanthropic women (including one of J.P. Morgan’s daughters), it’s purpose was to put a stop the unnecessary Christmas-related materialism as well as employees giving gifts to management in exchange for workplace favors. Intended mostly as another arm of the feminist movement (women employees would need to dish out more expensive gifts than their male counterparts for favors), at one point even Theodore Roosevelt became a member. His reason for joining? To point people in a direction of sincere giving vs. materialism or giving in hopes of getting something in return.

 

 The movement wouldn’t last terribly long thanks to the start of World War I and store’s advertising departments turning the movement on it’s head by suggesting flyers full of “useful” gifts in order to prevent “useless” giving. And while women clerks hoping to rise above selling shirtwaists for twelve hours a day made up the bulk of the society’s membership, the leaders were wealthy and eventually had more important things to do. Now the society is nothing more than something fun to google.

 

Despite its questionable foundation, the ridiculous name made me stop and think. Useless Giving? Is there such a thing? Well, certainly there is. As Solomon so wisely proclaims throughout the entire book of Ecclesiastes, life is vain. We do all sort of things that are quite useless. Why should our giving being any different? And yet, shouldn’t it be different? If my giving comes from a sincere desire to be generous and bless someone else, it shouldn’t be useless. I shouldn’t give with a purpose of getting something in return. Nor should I donate to causes that have no real purpose or any desire to help others. And while I certainly give my children (and others) gifts that offer little more than pure enjoyment, I try not to do so to an extreme. Because what I give, just as how I spend my time, should be useful. It should encourage someone else, or help meet a need, or bring someone a little joy. For, in the end, what I have to give comes from my Heavenly Father who generously gave it to me. And He would never give me anything useless.

 

So, when Christmas rolls around again and you’re thinking about giving someone that watermelon slicer because it gets five-star reviews on Amazon and they did buy a watermelon for the 4^thof July picnic…well, you might want to ask yourself if that’s useless or useful. Because, really, the ice cream maker would get a lot more use. I mean, really, how does one even wrangle a watermelon slicer? I have enough trouble with an apple slicer… 

Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 2

I was born in Newport, Rhode Island. It’s a place that unless you know about it, you just think, “Oh, yeah, that tiny state. Somewhere on the east coast, right?” But if you know about it, it’s usually a place you’d like to see. And if you’ve been there, well, you’ve probably been there more than once. It’s that kind of place.

 

It’s a beautiful place, steeped in history that goes all the way back to the Vikings. It is primarily known for two things: 1) the Navy, and 2) the Gilded Age. Unfortunately, I was there because my dad was a Naval officer stationed there and not because I was a member of the Gilded Age 400 who spent summers in one of the many “cottages” that dot the landscape along Bellevue Avenue and the Cliff Walk. But I have seen many of the “cottages”, almost all of them more than once.  

 

Although born at the Naval hospital in Newport, my parents owned a little house just over the Newport line in Middletown. As you can see from the picture below, it was much more a cottage than the Breakers, or Rosecliff, or the Marble Mansion. But it was about as old as they were, probably built in the 1890s. I have no memory of my first home, having moved from it at only 20 months of age. And despite all my later trips to Newport, I have never seen it again. We heard a rumor that it wasn’t knocked down but moved to another location as West Main Street became more commercialized. But, who knows. 

 

 

When my dad left the Navy, we moved to Texas. As today, Texas was enjoying an influx of people in the early 1980s and we joined the train. We moved to what had once been wide open cattle land, just as most of the towns located in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex once were. This one was The Colony. (Yes, for those of you who are wondering at my lack of grammar: the town is incorporated as The Colony.) When we moved in, it was practically brand new as the first homes had been built only eight years previous. Like most families there, my parents were somewhere around the age of 30 with small kids. And, in truth, I don’t remember this house at all and don’t have a picture of it. I have pictures of myself in it or playing outside, but aside from my red-headed friend Desi and the birth of my sister Katey, my memory of the brief time we spent in the The Colony is a blank slate.

 

My next home, though, is one I will never forget…

Oh, the Places I have Lived! - Part 1

As any woman can testify, we can cry over the silliest things. And I’m not just talking about my mother always crying at the end of Pollyanna. (Oh – wait! I do that now, too!) I mean that things bother us. Those things then compound over a certain amount of time, until the dam breaks and the tears flow. Usually over something that may or may not have anything to do with what is actually bothering us. It’s no wonder men find women to be a bit…well, alien.

 

That happened to me recently. The discussion of purchasing a house of our own has been spoken of, even pursued, and then tabled ever since just before Ethan was born. If 2020 hadn’t been as ridiculous as it was, I think the conversation would have been picked up again over a year ago. As it stands, we waited until 2021 to dust it off yet again. Which, if you know anything about the current housing market, is really bad timing. But this time it hasn’t been so easy to table it. Ed has always wanted our own place. For once, I’m not pushing the subject aside or hearing voices in the back of my head telling me not to go there even while we wander about houses with pink bathrooms or walls of drawers. And there’s Emry. Who brings up having a home of our own at least once every day. Granted, she has some ulterior motives. Mostly she wants a dog and a swing set, but we’ve told her that is not possible until we have a home of our own. But if you ask her, it isn’t just the dog or swing set. And she can’t understand why her prayers are not being answered…a lifelong frustration.

 

With all this building over the past couple of months, there was one day when we had asked a question of a lender we were in contact with that brought back a negative answer. And I hit my breaking point. I went into the only somewhat private place in the house (the bathroom), shut the door tight, sat down on the floor, and cried. And while, yes, I was crying because at that moment in time it seemed like we would never own a house and live in a tiny rental that really needs work for the rest of our living days...that wasn’t what kept playing over and over again in my head. At that moment I was crying because we would never have our own home and I couldn’t even purchase my small kids a swing set. Because it will mess up the grass. Grass that isn’t ours.

 

To be honest, that still makes me cry. My kids aren’t going to be small very long. It won’t be too many years before Emry will be too big for a swing set. And if it takes us that long to find our own home? I need to stop there before I start crying again.

 

Having one’s own home is a very American thing. One I shrugged at growing up. Because we never had one. Well, we did have a few, scattered between the rentals we lived in. Added together, they were nearly as transient as the rentals so it almost didn’t seem like we did own them. In the midst of all that, there were moments when I cursed my pilgrimage wanderings and wondered why my parents couldn’t be “normal” and just find a place to settle down and raise a family. Later, though, I didn’t mind. Think of all the things I got to see! People I got to meet! And, yes, even cultures I experienced. (And if you don’t think America has various cultures, you try living most of your childhood in the South and then moving to New England.) By the time I got married and had a family, I really didn’t know which life I wanted. Did I want my kids to have a home and be able to answer the question, “Where are you from?” without a very awkward hesitation? Or did I want them to experience the variety our nation holds? Honestly, I still don’t know.

 

On the other hand, I am now 41 years old. And Ed is 46. And at least Emry, and even Ethan, are hitting the ages when friends, and activities, and familiarity are very important pieces of their lives. And more now than ever before, I really want a place to call my own. I place where I don’t worry about the grass (or lack thereof) under the swing set. A place where I will scold Ethan about pulling down the towel rack, but I don’t have to groan over the holes in the drywall. A place where I can actually hang up all my pictures, unpack all my books, store all my stuff, and take the photo albums out of boxes so I can enjoy them and share them with the kids.  

 

But, I will be honest, I don’t know how that is ever going to happen. It seems like every time a light might glimmer at the end of that tunnel, a landslide creates darkness like midnight. Until I lose hope. Until I wonder why I bother to look, research, pray, anything. Until I think maybe being honest with Emry and just telling her she never having a home, a dog, or a swing set is the more likely scenario. And secretly feel like saying her God is great, but her parents are failures. 

 

Several weeks ago, Emry’s passionate plea for a home began again one evening after Bible time. More afraid of breaking down into tears, I prayed for something to tell her besides my despair. And God brought something to my mind. And then another thing. And then another. Memories of the houses I have lived in. Stories of how God brought each of them to us. And even a wondering of what my parents must have felt during some of those very low moments of our lives. I was able to tell Emry one little story of God’s faithfulness, probably more of an encouragement to me than her. But for the moment, it gave her peace and me a glimmer of hope.

Since then, the subject of a home still comes up at least once daily. And my despair is still usually greater than my hope. But Isaiah 46:9 tells us, “Remember the former days of old: for I am God, and there is none else; I am God, and there is none like me.” And, so I am going to remember. At least here in my blog for the next many weeks. For I’ve lived in a lot of houses. And each one has it’s own little (or big) story. Stories to cry over, laugh at, and tell to my kids. Because in their own way, each of them played  a role in my growing up. Something my kids will roll their eyes at soon enough, but maybe one day they’ll enjoy the memories.

Riding a Bike

For her first birthday, Emry received a Strider bike. If you aren’t familiar with what that is, it’s one of those balance bikes that have no pedals. It was the forerunner in that industry and Ed thought it ingenious: teach a kid to balance and then how to pedal. For Emry, it ended up being ironic. The tiny thing was barely as tall as the handlebars and she wouldn’t learn to walk until she was 18 months old, let alone ride a bike. When she finally grew enough to use it, her sense of caution didn’t allow her to do anything put walk it around. She wouldn’t glide with it, and she wouldn’t go down a hill on it if you paid her! So when she turned four, we bought her a bike with pedals. Which gave Ethan the Strider...

 

After our experience with Emry, I wasn’t all that convinced that the Strider was the end-all of learning to a ride a bike. Granted, my experience was piecemeal. All I had was my dad’s old bike. At first I had to have blocks attached to reach the pedals. Then we had a gravel driveway. I honestly don’t remember learning to ride a bike. I just know I could at some point by the time I was eight, and I got a bike of my own sometime around the age of nine or ten. I can’t Strider would have made any difference in the midst of all that. Emry learned to ride without training wheels a few months after she turned five. It took several days, some tears, and lots of OCD frustration. But with Ethan…

 

Well, by the time Emry learned to ride without training wheels Ethan was doing two things very well: 1) gliding down our driveway and onto the sidewalks with the Strider as fast as he could, and 2) pedaling his little Spider Man bike with training wheels all over the place. But for some reason, meshing those two skills together terrified him. He wouldn’t glide down the drive on his Spider Man bike if we took the training wheels off. And sometimes he just wanted pedals on the Strider. Winter came and we set it all aside. Maybe next year…

 

And now here we are: next year. But the same fear prevailed and he wouldn’t touch his Spider Man bike if we took the training wheels off. But then Emry got a new (bigger) bike for her birthday and, suddenly, he decided that maybehe would give it a try. Only not the way Emry did it. He refused to coast down the driveway. Instead, he’d walk the Spider Man bike down to the sidewalk, attempt to kick off with his feet and start pedaling. It wasn’t going well, Ed’s arguments that he should just coast down the hill did not prevail, and I finally took hold of the back of the seat, told him to put his feet up and pushed. It worked! He only went a few feet before wobbling over into the grass, but flush with success he hopped back up and started again. Emry, who really is a good big sister, came along side to help. And within ten minutes, we had our little man riding up and down the sidewalk as fast as his little legs could pedal. Soon thereafter, he coasted down our drive and off he went.

So, yes, the balance bike can work. What took Emry days took Ethan mere minutes. But it does depend on the child. And if early indicators are right, I think Ellyson will be more like Ethan and throw caution to the wind. I’ll just need to have the Band-Aids ready...

Easter!

How wonderful it was to spend the celebration of our Hope and Faith with our church family! 

 

It was such a lovely day, too. Perfect weather for sleeveless dresses and the blue polo shirt Ethan insisted must be worn. 

 

Is it humanly possible to get three kids to look at the camera at the same time? 

 

Ethan declares, "We want you!”

 

Emry declares she’s a cheerleader.

 

And Ellyson declares she is done!

Dear Emry,

 

Today you are 6 years old. 

 

Looking back over the past year, I have tried to decide what has been your biggest area of growth. Certainly you have gotten literally taller: tall enough to ride the waterslide at the water park. Your knowledge has grown. Reading is slowly becoming easier and your math skills always amaze me. Your retention of the things you learn is also excellent. Which is why we have an ant farm after learning about ants in science, you want to visit the Statue of Liberty and Washington, D.C. after learning some of the icons of America, and you can tell me all about different kinds of clouds. But I think what I have loved the most about watching you grow this past year is how you have learned about yourself and the way God has made you.

 

A year ago if you got upset it was an uphill battle to settle you down. You didn’t know how to calm yourself and you would upset yourself over and over again about the same thing. I struggled to know how to help you, and I still do at times; but when you discovered drawing…well, that has been a blessing all around. 

 

When I was a little older than you, I discovered books. To this day, curling up to read a book will calm all my fears, anger, and frustrations – if only for a moment. Drawing does that for you. I don’t know if you will ever be a brilliant artist. And I don’t know if you will ever stop leaving papers and markers scattered all over your room. But I do know when you are upset, you have learned to disappear to your room, pick up paper and markers, and draw until whatever it is that is bothering you no longer matters. And I am so grateful God has given you something to enjoy.

 

I am also grateful how much God has taught you about Himself and His Word this past year. I love hearing you recite your Bible verses, and the excitement you have at church, and the questions you ask I sometimes I have to stop to think about before I can answer. How I pray God will save your little heart!

 

This year God also gave you one of your greatest desires: a little sister! I think you have learned that having a sister as little as Ellyson isn’t as quite as much fun as you thought (yet) and she can sometimes be a pest…but you do love her and you are a good sister to her. She loves when you play with her, and she especially loves sharing a room with you. Already she wants to giggle and chatter instead of sleep – something sisters do like no one else!

 

And you are also a good sister to Ethan, who looks up to you and adores you. While you can be a bit bossy (but I guess what big sister isn’t), you play well with him. You encourage him when he doesn’t think he can do something. And you don’t mind when he sits down and works on his “school” while you do yours. When you are not around, Ethan is truly bereft. You’re his best friend.

 

This past year has also been a year of lots of new experiences. Despite “the sickness” (as you call Covid…and hopefully won’t remember much), you have gotten to join the youngest dance team at your dance studio – the b-Boppers. And how excited you were today to have your first competition on your birthday! You played soccer for the first time. You slept over at a friend’s house. And you can ride your bike without training wheels. You’re finishing up first grade. You help me more and more in the kitchen. And you’re on your way to being a very good little swimmer.

 

I love how you are friendly with everyone. You are not shy about going up to any girls on the playground, introducing yourself, asking their names, and then asking if you can with them. I love the instruction manuals you have drawn this past year: Steps to Crawling for Ellyson and How to Build a Light Tower for Ethan’s Magnatiles. You have even re-created a playground out of wooden blocks. Future Landscape Architect? Future Engineer? Whatever you do, as long as love God, it won’t matter.

 

But don’t grow up too soon. Enjoy being six! 

 

Love,

Mama

10 Months!!!

It really is hard to believe that today Ellyson is ten months old. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was pregnant with her. But it does seem that long ago since I got a full night’s sleep…

 

Weighing in around 17 pounds, she remains my largest baby by far. But now that she’s crawling all over the house, pulling books off my shelves, finding things I didn’t know I needed to put up higher, and knocking down everything her siblings build, I’ve noticed that she’s started to slim out a little bit. But if only those adorable chunky thighs were cute when one was 41…

 

She still has teeth coming in. They continue to swell below her gums but refuse to actually pop through. She now eats just about anything, including a small KitKat Aunt Jenny gave her for Easter. Like her siblings she has a sweet tooth, but I am happy to declare she also really likes fruits and vegetables. Especially grapes and carrots. Just tonight she as we were playing on the floor, she grabbed hold of my shirt and pulled herself up to both feet. She is soooo happy it has been warm out so she can spend time outside. Crawling across concrete doesn’t bother her at all, but sitting in the grass is not something she enjoys. And bath time is a race to the finish. I figured out that putting bubble bath in helps to hide the plug for a time, but she soon finds it and pulls it out. Since I use that time to stand near the tub and fold clothes or clean other parts of the bathroom, I try to lengthen the time out by distracting her with toys. Some nights I finish my chores…some nights I don’t.

The sticker is on!

 

And now it’s not…

 

Still off...

 

Sock Monkey – you cannot share my chair.

Thinking Ahead...Remembering Behind, Part 4

Do you remember last Easter? It was awful. No, I shouldn’t say that. I have fond memories of last Easter when Ed, the kids, and I loaded up the car with nearly a dozen loaves of Easter bread and drove about town, delivering it to friends we weren’t “allowed” to see as we all huddled in fear over Covid. We spent Easter itself at my parents with some of my sisters, one nephew, and a huge Easter dinner and Easter egg hunt. In that sense, Easter was the same as it always was. But we watched church on my laptop. Which was more than a little hard to swallow and left behind a very bitter taste. One that isn’t likely to be forgotten for a long time.

 

This past week, one of our pastors sent out a “Wednesday Memo”. I am very grateful that our church has six pastor/elders because if the decisions of the past year were left to this one pastor, we would probably be looking for another church. I appreciate the fact that this man truly has a heart that sympathizes with so many, but sometimes that can lead to bending when standing strong on convictions is the better choice. And what he had to say in the weekly blog truly rubbed me the wrong way. Is started out:

 

“I trust your Holy Week is going well. I know it can be difficult to stay focused with so much going on in the rhythms of life. That is why Christian community is so crucial. Please be sure to join us for our Good Friday worship gathering this Friday at 6:00 pm and Resurrection Sunday worship gathering at 10:30 am.”

 

Crucial? I thought. Obviously not. If you really believed Christian community is crucial, we wouldn’t have been sitting in front of our laptops last Easter as you closed the church doors and waved community to the wind.

 

I know, I know. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Our church leaders were only trying to do what was right with the information at hand. And whether right or wrong, I think they are keenly aware they will have to give an account for those decisions before our God one day. But his choice of words were so bad in light of everything, I just wanted to throw something. 

 

On the very first Easter, being together was crucialfor Christ’s little band of followers. For the past three years they had given up everything to follow Him. And now (they thought), He was dead. What were they going to do? Where were they going to go? Regaining the lives they had before was going to be very difficult it not impossible, and what about everything they thought they knew and believed? Gone. As far as they could discern, it was all gone. All they had was each other, huddled together in a small room afraid of being the next person the Pharisees got their hands on and hung on a cross. It was a fear much more real than some sickness you’d likely recover from. So, they stuck together. No matter what. It was the only thing they knew they had to do.

 

This past year has made it so easy for some to write off “community” as a Zoom meeting or a conversation on Microsoft Teams. I doubt Christ’s followers that first Easter would have found any comfort in being able to Facetime each other while they shivered in their little homes in fear of their lives. Being together brought them strength, comfort, and endurance. They weren’t alone. They had each other. So, yes. Christian community is crucial, and I hope we always regret 2020.

 

These past few weeks, I have laughed at the memories Easter dresses and horrible pictures from the 80s and 90s have brought to my mind. But as fun as reminiscing has been, Easter isn’t about a dress, or coloring eggs, or even amazing grey shoes with rhinestones. Easter is a time for God’s people to come together and worship their Savior who conquered death! Death! Let us never forget that we serve a RISEN SAVIOR!!!! And if Christ has conquered death, then we ought to never forsake gathering together and celebrating. For there is nothing – nothing! – we have to fear. 

Amen.

Today this little nephew of mine is 5 years old…

 

 

Happy Birthday, Benito!