I Dreamed a Dream

The reviews are in: everyone I know who has seen Les Miserables loves it. We saw the play live many years ago, and I’m looking forward to seeing it on the big screen, hopefully soon!

The most familiar song from the musical is probably “I Dreamed a Dream.” It’s poignant and beautiful, full of an aching sadness. Sometimes when I’m having a pity party I feel the words sum up my life, but I think it probably actually describes my grandmother. Even my earliest memories of my father’s mother were of a frail, older woman, although she was only in her early sixties, hardly old by today’s standards. But like many in her generation, life wasn’t about romance and parties, but of family and hard work. I am under the impression that she and my grandfather struggled financially, putting in long hours in low-paying jobs. They had their passions and their pastimes, of course, and they had one child, my father, who was both a delight and a conundrum. I think he was quite a handful in his youth.

The three of them built a life near the shore of the Netherland’s North Sea, where there was no end of adventure for my free-spirited father. And then one spring day, after a night of non-stop air strikes, the Germans drove their tanks over the border, and the Netherlands became an occupied nation. 

My father was a teen by this time, fearless in the face of air raids and bombs and public shootings. But I can imagine my grandmother watching her only child and her husband slowly starving to death, and wondering each time they parted company if they would see each other again, or if my father would be hauled off to serve in the military or shot for some reason—or for no reason. And I can imagine her thinking, “I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I’m living.”

Just weeks before the end of the war, an Allied bomber took out their home, with all of them in it. (The attack was a massive mistake, intended to take out Nazi weapons that had been moved weeks earlier.) Miraculously, they survived, but they lost virtually everything they owned. My siblings and I each have small blue china cups, among the few items to survive the blast. It reminds me of my grandma: frail and beautiful, but able to survive under some pretty grim circumstances. She was much stronger than I ever knew.

In so many areas of the world, even places close to home, mothers face horrible dangers and choices each day. They dream of things many of us take for granted: clean water, adequate food, safe shelter. They dream of a better life for their children, and for the strength to survive long enough to see that better life realized.

So here’s to the new year: may it be a year of dreams come true. And may we see peace in our time. 

Emmanuel

Preparing the way of the Lord: During the first week of Advent, while digging through boxes of decorations, I came across a small nativity scene that one of the kids received as a gift a year ago. It’s a cute set, appropriate for a child, and complete with all of the main characters and a host of animals. I set up the scene in my daughter Kelsey’s room; from the moment she notices it she takes delight in using the pieces to enact the story.

Away went the manger: A few days later my oldest son, Phillip, provoked by something Kelsey said and trying to get her into trouble, drops a bombshell. “Have you been in Kelsey’s room lately? Did you notice that she lost the baby Jesus?”

We turn to Kelsey. Her silence tells the story.

“What happened?”

“Well, I was playing with it, and I dropped baby Jesus, and I couldn’t find him.”

Despite my annoyance, we assure the kids that we’ll find the baby.

After a half hour of searching everywhere we could imagine in her small room, I am less convinced. We can’t find the baby. “Tomorrow I want all of you to look again,” I order the children.

The cattle are lowing: A week later, still no Jesus, despite repeated searches and interrogations.  As I pass my daughter’s room I observe Mary and Joseph on bended knee, silently worshiping an absent savior. To compensate for the horrible emptiness, Kelsey has moved the animals to center stage. The magi, piously kneeling with hands clasped, look with adoration at livestock. Holy cow.

The loss of the baby has done little to diminish Kelsey’s infatuation with the set, but each day I get more frustrated. How can something drop and then not be there?

What child is this? Somehow, we get through Christmas without the physical presence of the baby Jesus. A few days later, Kelsey and I roam the mall, seeking post-holiday bargains. In a china shop I spot him: an orphaned baby Jesus, asleep on the hay, with no family or shepherds to guard him. Although by comparison he is huge for our baby-less set, I figure it’s better than honoring the friendly beasts. He’s not marked with a price; the clerk shrugs and suggests $2. Kelsey and I take the foundling home. Our little family is again complete, although the baby would be more than an armful for the diminutive mother, rather like the cartoon mice who adopt and raise a kitten as their son.

Joy to the world: On a blizzardy February Saturday long after I had put away the decorations, Kelsey and I are cleaning her room. While rearranging the books on her shelf, I have difficulty getting them to line up. I yank one out and there, wedged between its pages, is the little Lord Jesus, completely unconcerned that he has missed his own birthday. After a proper amount of rejoicing over the lost lamb, he is tucked away with his family and his oversized stepbrother, ready for Christmas 1999.

Lessons and carols: This Christmas, I will try not to sweat the small stuff. I’ll try not to criticize how others celebrate the birthday of Jesus. I will remember that Jesus is always near, whether I can see him or not. And while the isolated and lonely will always be welcome in my home, I won’t waste my time looking for Jesus in the mall. I’ll look instead into the face of a child and the pages of a Book. 

Away in a Manger

Many years ago, I bought a small Polyresin crèche through a school fundraiser. I chose it because all of the characters were dark skinned; most crèches sold in the US have white characters, with perhaps a token black wise man. (I think it would have been interesting if this crèche had included a token white wise man, or maybe an Asian.) When it arrived, one of the figures was broken, and while I’m sure the company would have replaced it if I had asked, I was able to repair it with a little glue.

When I was a kid we used to play with our nativity—a little. My dad thought he was hilarious when he would put the sheep up on the roof of the rustic stable; Mom was less amused. Several of our current crèches are “interactive,” or at least unbreakable, and the kids have played with them—gently— over the years. When the bio kids were younger I allowed each kid to select a nativity to put in their rooms, but as they got older they were no longer interested. This year each of the younger kids got a set; I gave Lewi the set with the black figures, and he promptly broke off the glued head, and then a second figurine’s head, which led to a one-sided conversation on the difference between figurines and action figures.

Over the years I’ve amassed quite a collection of nativities, most of them created in other countries and purchased in stores that support overseas artisans. I also pick them up at “regular” stores at a deep discount in the days following Christmas, and I rescue them at estate sales. One of my favorites, which cost a dollar at a garage sale, is from Poland. It’s unusual in that it only includes Mary and the baby. I kind of like the image of Mary alone with her child, pondering things in her heart.

Each culture and artist offers a unique and beautiful perspective on the holy family and those who visited the stable. There’s a lot of variety, but it’s interesting how similar they can be. Stereotypically, Mary kneels, hands on her chest; Joseph stands, often leaning on a staff; the Magi, full of dignity, carry their wares; and there is always, always a donkey.

Often the most interesting figures are the angels, because they tend to look like they are flying, singing, announcing— doing something besides staring at the baby. They are almost always depicted as feminine and sweet, a contrast to the biblical record. The only two angels mentioned by name in the Bible are male, and since angels tend to begin their announcements with the words “Fear not,” it seems to me that there must be something awe-inspiring and a little bit intimidating about angels.

Angels bring good news, but with that good news there is change, which can be more than a little scary. And they don’t hang around as protectors and guides, helping God’s favored ones to navigate the difficult aspects of the task they’ve been handed. They say their piece and leave, leaving the humans to figure it out and face the future.

But the message of the angels stays with us. Fear not: you can do this, because God is with you. Fear not: in the darkest hours, in the saddest times, God is with you. Fear not, even in the face of the impossible, because with God, nothing will be impossible. Fear not. The road will not be easy, but it will be blessed.   

Driving Miss Rita

Meijer Gardens is a fabulous combination of horticulture, art, and education. Attractive and sophisticated, it also provides kid-specific areas and activities, as well as walking trails for the fitness inclined. In December, Christmas trees representing world cultures enchant visitors young and old, and in the spring the conservatory is filled with live butterflies. During the summer, an outdoor amphitheater hosts a variety of musicians who perform everything from jazz to country to 80s rock. In every season, each nook and cranny of the garden, from the farm to the waterfall, is beautifully decorated with seasonal botany. I love this place; I see something new each time I go. 

The garden’s 1,000-plus volunteers do dozens of jobs: they lead tours, sell tickets, drive the tram, plant annuals…it’s a big place and there are plenty of ways to help out. On Wednesdays I volunteer as a bus buddy. When busses of kids pull up, we instruct the teachers where to pay, tell the bus drivers where to park, and remind the kids how to behave. Then we bring them where they need to go and release them into the garden. 

My partner in this endeavor is Rita who, with her husband, volunteers at the garden virtually every day. Like most of the daytime volunteers, Rita is a retiree. She might be all of 5 feet tall in heels—although I doubt she’s owned a pair of heels in her life. Sensible shoes: that would be Rita’s style. Although her gravelly voice and general appearance give every indication that she wouldn’t care for kids, in fact she loves them. She taught elementary school and then ran a home daycare for many years while raising her own six kids. She gets her “kid fix” as a bus buddy, and while it is her favorite job at the garden, one day a week on her feet is plenty, so other days she works other jobs.

On weeks with few groups coming in, Rita takes the shift alone. But this particular week, although there were only two groups, the first group was huge—160 kids and 40 adults—and Rita figured it would take two of us to manage it. Because they were arriving at 9, she was a little panicked: she didn’t think she could get to the garden in time. Her husband had a morning meeting, and Rita does not drive. Her husband transports her to the garden, which is one reason why they often work together.

So that Wednesday morning, I went to pick up Rita. She lives in a post-WWII neighborhood just off a main artery. The neighborhood is pleasant enough, if a little tired. As I pulled up to her modest cape cod-style house, I couldn’t imagine raising six kids there. I could probably fit two of Rita’s houses inside my house. (And let me confess: I love my house, and I know it is much more than most people have. But it is far from ostentatious.)

Rita had warned me not to pull into the drive because it needs some repair, so I waited in the street while she made her way out to the car. She moves slowly; some of that is age, but as compact as she is, her stride has never been long. She settles in next to me and we make the short trip to the garden, chatting as we always to about our husbands and our kids and the day’s schedule.

We’re ready when the three buses pull up, and the teachers and kids are off the buses and in the garden in short order. Rita can handle the next group alone and she sends me on my way, but not without thanking me—for the twelfth time—for picking her up.

And for the twelfth time I assure her that I’m happy to do it—anytime. Doing things, even small things, for others is its own reward. And helping out a friend like Rita, who gives so much of herself to others, well, that’s just the icing on the cake.