Good-bye Old Year, Hello New

I had never been a lover of New Year's Eve--

too much pressure to wear high heels and a silly hat, while balancing a glass filled with substances I don't particularly like--

until  "New Year's Eve" became synonymous with "Baxter Time".

Baxter Time in any capacity is time well spent.

(Baxter Time is also well planned, thank you Adam.)

The typical pressures are removed, 

since I can walk around in just my socks

while other people wear silly hats.

(Just kidding Nathan, you know I love that hat.)

There is, however, a little bit of pressure still involved:

The pressure to perform in activities slightly outside of my comfort zone.

Linked to the latest Christmas gifts, 

past years have included Guitar Hero and other various Wii activities designed for me to fail. 

This year's humiliation of choice?

Dance equal to (or much much less than) Michael Jackson.

Hm.

(If we are talking about humiliation, let's conveniently forget to mention the foosball tournament I lose in--less than or equal to--3 minutes).  

Fortunately, I am not the only one ever caught in situations that might come back to haunt,

and for evidence-- 

I give you:

and:

Really, the small pressures involved in embarrassing one another are worth it, in that they lead to much opportunity for hilarity.

You see, with games and movies (and endless quoting of movies, particularly by 3 younger males) and shopping and eating and tea and cookies and talking and teasing making up all of our time together,

we find ourselves just endlessly laughing.

And laughing--I have come to learn--cannot be genuinely performed if genuine pressure is involved.

So, now that the old year has passed gracefully away and the new one has dawned bright and fair in the company of these old and dear friends,

I only feel pressured to tell you:

I am one blessed girl.

(My glass runneth over--

with things I DO particularly enjoy, beyond what I deserve.)

Arise, Shine, the Light has come

At some point over the past few weeks, as I maneuvered through crowds of gift-purchasing people, I thought "What is it about Christmas that we as a people get all worked up about?"

What, after all, is the point?

And then, because I am who I am, I have spent the rest of my time trying to figure it out.

On Christmas Eve, I sat amongst my mother's family as they ogled over the thoughtfulness spread through the many gifts, and I thought "Is it the thoughtfulness?"

Perhaps it is the laughter?

 The abounding joy of being together?

[Because--can't you just taste the joy demonstrated here?]

I came to no conclusion.

The following day, I dwelt in the presence of my lovely siblings & parents as we gifted each other with gifts.

As we indicated that we have been watching each other's needs.

As we desired to make each other happy,

and as happy we were made.

We spent much of the evening looking forward to a new member's presence in the next year,

and laughing together over the things that no one outside of us would understand.

As I dwelt in these good things I thought more about that "point". 

I considered--

Is it found in any of these?

and I concluded--

Yes, in all of them.

And yet...

I was not satisfied.

I considered--

they can only be a shadow...

because here is the reality I have been numbingly aware of as I have watched the Christmas preparations unfold around me:

We are just a people, walking in darkness, looking for a break.

Looking for some light, to make our journey feel just a little easier.

And so I concluded:

Laughter, togetherness, thoughtfulness, and beautiful bows are merely indications that light exists.  They are reflections and reminders that leave me unsatisfied at the end of another Merry Christmas, still feeling the weight of my brokenness.

Still wondering.

Still looking for the Light that invades darkness to give me the strength to go forward, and that is only to be found in this Word:

Arise. Shine! 

The Light has come and is 

Immanuel: 

God-with-us.

Here is satisfaction.

And so I consider and conclude:

The point?

Arise, shine, reflect and remind:

The Light has come,

The Light is with us,

And in this Light we find our Point.

[For nothing is impossible with God.]

Kate Makes A Cake in 15 Easy Steps

Step 1: Glop frosting on top of cake.

Step 2: Wack it around a bit.

Step 3:  Accidentally slap yourself in the head with the spreader.

Step 4: Laugh.

Step 5: Make it worse.

Step 6: Look woeful at the condition you suddenly find yourself in.

Step 7: Ok.  Concentrate.

Step 8:  Add second layer.

Step 9: Add frosting.

Step 10: Attempt to look very professional this time.

Step 11: Find every single variety of sprinkle you possibly can.

Step 12: Try to get some on the cake.

Step 13: Bathe. 

Step 14: Attempt to remove your new chocolate layer of skin, 

not to mention the sprinkles that have inexplicably lodged themselves in your ears.

Step 15:  Have yourself a bed-time snack, projecting an attitude of

"Yes.  I know I'm good. And I know you want some too." 

to everyone else in the room.

(Our Kate--not only does she make it.  She downright takes it.)

What is a Sister?

Here's a glimpse into my life growing up:

 I was surrounded by boys.

Though I was a sister, 

I had no concept of what it meant to have a sister.

And it made me who I am.

But then....those boys went and got themselves some women,

and those women started calling me "sister",

and though at first it was odd,

I soon discovered: I liked it.

As it turns out, it is good to have sisters.

This one was the first.  When she came around--I will admit--I was a bit wary.  I held myself back, and watched to see who she was.  Gradually I discovered she was quality, and a woman worthy of our Keith.  Then she brought me pearl earrings from Portugal, and I was sold.  

The funny thing about family is--

you don't get to pick.

And yet--as I have learned--

you can still make out quite well.

Marisa, for instance, has loved me.  Unconditionally.

She has made me laugh, with warmth.

She has held me while I cried, and spoken truth when it was what I needed to hear.

She has encouraged and supported me at every twisty turn.

And she has asked for nothing in return.

Not to mention,  she's allowed me to engage in some authentic familial girly-ness:

If you've grown up without sisters, you understand the momentousness of this.

So, why this sudden little ode to Marisa?

Because today is the celebration of her birth,

and because she is so precious to us

(and not just because she's carrying 

our first next generation-er...).

She is precious because of who she is.

Because she loves and cares for our Keith.

Because she has embraced us as her own.

And because she has answered for me the looming question:

What is a Sister?

A Sister, Maris, is you.

Happiest of Birthdays, with much love, to you.

To Celebrate

Celebration--in my opinion--should occur all the time.  Every day, no matter your circumstances, in a variety of ways.  If you don't choose to celebrate the mere fact that you have been given life, there is no point to living it.  Life, after all, can be overwhelmingly depressing if you think about it too much.  And, as one who tends to think more than anything else, celebration helps to remind me:

You're alive.  Get out of your head, and be alive. 

So though I'm persistently aware of the celebration inherent in a typical day, sometimes there are occasions that require more specific Celebration.

I'm sure you're thinking: Balloons.

I am here to tell you, however, that for a person who gets overwhelmed by the thoughts in her head, sometimes even specific celebration needs to be done quietly.  With love.  So that no freaking out occurs over the implications of what this large and life-changing event means.

I know this, because recently I had occasion to engage in such a specific celebration, and here's the official announcement:

I passed my comps.  I'm an ABD--all but dissertation.  Meaning, I've jumped through all hoops but one, and can now say I'm closing in on that title that still seems a bit bizarre: Dr. 

Last Friday, I met with my committee for 2 hours, discussing my exam, my research, my life.  At the end they congratulated me, and I was free to go out and celebrate in any way I chose.  So I did:

Quietly, with the variety of people that make up my life, with love swirled all the way through and around.

First, I had a delightful lunch with some of my lovely students,

involving laughter, getting to know each other better, and lasagna.

Then, I went to Heather's and crashed on her couch with a mug of tea while children swirled about and salt ornaments baked.

No agenda, just being. (Quietly, with love, and a few aromatic candles.)

Later, I made my way over to babysit two of my favorite little people--my first State College piano students, who have consistently reminded me through their love toward me that to be a child is to love, with no apparent reason other than that you can.

They had a well thought out plan that suggests they are fully aware of how to turn any old night into a celebration: Operation, eating pizza, playing trombone & piano, having a mini-Christmas party (which involved the making of ornaments for each other) and finally, the watching of a movie.

When the movie was over, we sleepily told stories about our lives until their parents returned.

As I drove home, reflecting on a day that screamed "Celebrate!" unlike most others, I realized how grateful I am for the quietness, and for the gift of just being with those who have come to matter.

I realized that my heart was celebrating, almost on its own.

And now, after a week full of a variety of people and a slow sinking in of being in this new phase of life, I am newly aware of the significance of what I already knew:

To celebrate is to live, no matter how it's done.

Food & Games, Laughter & Love

Another Thanksgiving recently rolled around, 

finding me in NJ

utilizing my waitressing skills.

(If my Committee decides my comps are not up to snuff, it is reassuring to know I have something to fall back on...)

We carved,

we served,

we ate.

Well.

Then, Grandma killed us all at Rummy Royal.

(She is quietly ruthless that little Grandma...)

A few days later found us at it again,

for the inevitable celebration of Dave's birth.

More food to stuff ourselves with, more games to suffer through.

(I mean--thoroughly enjoy!)

We laughed together, about things we will never remember.

We reminded each other that we are loved.

And though that might

--apparently--

seem overwhelming at times,

 we found comfort in the knowledge of it.

With Thanksgiving to the Giver:

These are good gifts.