Santa
brought Bella a stuffed blue dragon squeaky toy this Christmas. And me? The flu.
It was
just as well I had no company or plans for the day. No one to disappoint, except for Bella who
wanted to romp down the Greenway, but it was rainy and cold anyway.
My
daughter Erin called, and yes, I cried a little on the phone because of my lot,
but I quickly got over it. She didn’t
need to hear my nose running any more than it already was.
In all
actuality, it was a great day.
Really. Yes, I would have loved
to have been surrounded by family, and busy cooking and bustling for them. But since circumstances didn’t work out that
way, at least I wasn’t healthy AND lonely.
When you’re sick, you take life one tissue at a time.
I made
some real chicken broth with a French bouquet garni from a friend (those French—I
have no idea what they did to those plain ol’ herbs, but they were better than
any I’ve ever encountered on the McCormick aisle). I brewed some peach apricot tea and nibbled
on toast, feeling much like Nancy Drew when she was under the weather. It was cozy, illness or not.
And
then, because I didn’t really feel like DOING anything, I had a great excuse
for watching television shows I never would have watched otherwise. Truthfully, there’s only so much Christmas Story and Miracle on 34th Street one can take, so I opted for a
dose of reality TV. THAT should be
motivation for getting better, eh?
Please
don’t tell anyone, but I watched the final two episodes of You’re Cut Off. That’s
right. If you’ve missed out yourself, it’s
a boot camp for spoiled American princesses.
You know, if I had ever run up $50k on my dad’s credit card, taken limos
(rather than cabs, really?), or didn’t know how to make my bed/wash the
dishes/boil water/wipe a counter top, well, Cut
Off would have been the least of my worries. But I digress.
In order
to graduate from princess boot camp, you have to have completed eight weeks of
regular household chores, and write a letter to your parents pleading to come
home because you have grown so much.
Actually, I would have expected graduation to be writing a letter
thanking your parents for letting you exploit them for so long, begging their forgiveness,
and explaining how you wouldn’t have to be cut off any more because you were a
responsible, independent adult woman now.
Nope. Graduation solely rested on
your parents laying down ground rules they should have set ages ago, and your
acceptance of the new limitations. These
are the same parents who caved under years of manipulation, who, as far as I
could see, should have been at a spoiling parents’ boot camp to learn how to
say NO. I figure for all the princesses,
the status quo will return in no time—no pun intended.
So what
does this have to do with a great Christmas?
Me, who was sniffling, aching, queasy and feverish? I got down on my knees right there in the
living room (I think Bella joined me, but then I’d had a cup of Theraflu and
things were a little fuzzy), and thanked God for decent parents who taught me
values, responsibility and appreciation.
My mind drifted to brave folks like Bonhoeffer, Mandela, King, and the
Apostle Paul who all wrote from prison cells about the truth, and core values. I thought about how shallow those girls’
lives were, even in the proud ‘graduation day’ of the producers—and how very
unprepared they were going to be when life wasn’t handed to them on a silver
platter anymore.
More
than that, I thought about the Christ Child himself, born on a regular,
ordinary night, surrounded in the warmth of a brave mother and father, animals,
a caring guestroom keeper who shared the best he had, even if it was just a
stable. I thought about the faith of
people who kept hope alive for at least 700 years that this Messiah would be
born, even if the news didn’t hit Facebook within seconds of his arrival. It would still be another 33 years before the
first glimpse of the magnitude of how the world changed would peek through
stormy clouds and torn Temple veils. The
story still unfolds today, and I was glad to be held in quiet solitude this
special Christmas, to be reminded of the meaning in simplicity, without the clutter of stuff.
My voice
is coming back a bit—still low and gravelly like a pirate’s, complete with the
Arrrrghs that come from my throat with no effort whatsoever, in spite of the
congestion. But this pirate, marooned on
her couch for a little longer, has a twinkle in her “aye” and a smile for joy
in all circumstances. God is good—has been,
is and will be, now and forever.
Pass me
some more of that peach apricot tea, and perhaps a scone. At least that’s the view from my couch, this
Christmas.
Grace
and joy,
Julie
No comments:
Post a Comment