The sweetest little Christmas gift

Christmas is over. Bells have been rung. Carols sung. Gift wrap flung.

December 29. We arrived home last night from visiting extended family. I was just sorting through some of the gifts left strewn around our house, and thinking about the items that were given and received this year. It was a pretty sweet Christmas, with simple and thoughtful gifts. The best kind. 

A few quirky ones too. I totally love this giraffe TP holder:

There was another gift. A little background: Since we moved here and realized that our trash regularly gets rummaged by vagabonds, I started putting our redeemable cans/bottles in a separate bag on top of our trash each week on trash night. Without fail, this bag vanishes. It's a win-win, really. It saves me a trip taking the nickel cans back to the store, and the money certainly means more to the person willing to dig through garbage for it. There's no need to dig. I've seen my trash, and it's disgusting. 

Our trash night last week was on Christmas. I put our trash outside of our garage door, cans and bottles separated on top. and then remembered I had extra Christmas cookies. I'm going to put cookies out for our foraging friend.

 

Dennis wasn't so sure. "Is this what we really want to start, leaving food for the homeless? ... Wait. That sounded bad." Har.

Jesus's words about "whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me," crossed my mind, and I thought, would I hesitate to leave cookies for Jesus? I put a plate of treats in a large ziplock, and set it out on top of the trash can lid. I'm classy like that. Only the best for Jesus. On his birthday. The three wise men got nothin' on me.

That was around 10pm, Christmas night. At 8am or so the next morning, we were packing up to head out of town, and I popped open the garage door to see if the cookies were still there. (Or if there was one bite taken and the rest thrown in the trash. Whatever.) The lid was open and the trash was empty. The trash truck had already been by. Shoot. I'll never know.

As I turned and pulled the can back into the garage, I saw a blue envelope propped against the side of our garage door frame. I picked it up and opened it to find a Hallmark thank-you card inside. Not the kind that might come a dozen to a box, but an individually purchased card. Unsigned. Nothing written in it at all. Just Hallmark's printed sentiment. 

I have some questions about this. Did this person just happen to have a thank-you card on them? Or did they go somewhere to get it -- in the overnight hours of Christmas night -- and come back? Who knows. 

I'll just consider it a sweet Christmas card from the Bethlehem Babe.

2014 in moments

Life is made up of moments--often very ordinary moments--strung together to form days, months, years. I'm thinking about my moments of 2014, and in particular, those that interrupted my breathing in one way or another. Here they are, without the context, without the full story. Sometimes moments are enough in themselves.

February, Baylor Medical Center, Dallas. Dennis had been hooked up already for several hours, donating the stem cells we hoped would save his brother's life. I stepped out for something, and came back to see Tom standing at the foot of Dennis's bed. Big brother had gotten up the strength to come down several floors from his own hospital room and check in on his little brother.

April track meet, watching Nate hand off to Trevor in the 4x800 relay, the only time they've ever run on the same relay team. It was a Schmitty handoff.

May, Paris. On a work trip, I learned that Tom's health had taken a serious turn for the worse, and I was in our hotel workroom packing my things to return back to the other side of the world as quickly as possible. I was crying. My friend Wendy sat there and cried with me. 

May, Trevor's graduation party. "Oh noooo! We're out of cake! WE NEED MORE CAKE!! STAT!!"

July, our house was newly listed on the market when a nest of yellow jackets erupted into our basement. Dennis and I ran upstairs, slammed the basement door, stuffed towels in the gap under the door. And then looked at each other. oh shit.

August, University of Northern Iowa. Leaving Trevor in the rearview mirror and finally allowing the tears to spill. I've relied a lot on waterproof mascara this year.

September, Red Rocks Amphitheater, Colorado. I kept turning to take in the concert lights bouncing off the massive rocks, not even able to grasp the transcendence of the experience. I guess that's the thing about transcendence. 

October, moving into our new place downtown and opening my eyes in the morning to see this out the bedroom window:

October, praying for God to guide me in getting involved downtown, and literally getting a phone call the next morning at 5am. Salvation Army mobile breakfast canteen. Is there any way I could possibly be there within a half hour to cover for a no-show volunteer?? Okay. Got it.

November, Royal Mile pub, the place we started going every Thursday night in hopes of making it our Cheers spot. On week six, the waitress welcomed us, looked at me and said, "Guinness, right??" I am home.

Thanksgiving weekend, Becherer Farm. We pitched in to help my sweet grandparents get the outside of their country home decorated for Christmas. The cold wasn't the only thing stinging my eyes.

December, Von Maur jewelry department, helping Nate shop for a Christmas gift for his sweet girlfriend. My little one, now standing taller than me, asking my opinion on what he should get for the girl who has stolen his heart.

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." -Bob Moorehead

Tattoo Eulogy

Today I pay tribute to a tattoo that apparently wasn't meant to be. I've been pondering a wrist tat for maybe 5 years, and the actual concept started coming to life about a year ago. 

First I forced my offspring to ink their fingers and give me their fingerprints. (Having brought these two into the world to start with, I figure I'm part-owner of their prints anyway.) I scanned the fingerprints, studied the curves and shapes, then played patiently with different combinations, waiting for something to click. Eventually the right prints morphed into the right shape. (I was originally aiming for a tree design, but never got it to look like anything other than the Keebler Elf tree.)

Nate’s print on the left, Trevor’s on the right. I only wanted the tattoo to be about 1.5 or 2 inches wide, so I knew the fine details wouldn’t translate. No problem.

Deep breath. Go time. I submitted the artwork to Skin Kitchen, a local studio I've used before. Problem. Their response: cool design, but fingerprint tattoos don’t really work, because over time the ink spreads under the skin and would close it up. They couldn't recommend proceeding. Props to them for caring about quality over the long term.

But dang. It would have been a good one.