What if there is magic in the mess?
This is a question I have been
pondering deep down in my spirit. What if all the details that cause
me distress are just sprinkles on the sweetness of life.
I know it's strange to consider, but
hear me out.
Yesterday I was telling my husband
about this trend in which certain stores will refuse to open on Black
Friday. Paul was not impressed, arguing that most of these stores
probably don't turn a profit on Black Friday, but they'll use 'holiday spirit' to generate some positive attention. He says,
“Tell me when Target closes on Black Friday, then I will be
impressed.” This lead to the topic of grocery stores opening
partially on Thanksgiving and how it's not ideal, but I added, “What
in the heck would your parents have done if grocery stores closed on
Thanksgiving?” Our evening meal would have been severely lacking
considering the ingredients his busy parents seemed to overlook until the morning of Thanksgiving!
My in-laws were two busy ministers.
They loved and served the poor through their little church, and
Thanksgiving was not even a day my father-in-law had off, as he would
drive to the home of a certain home bound man, and bring him over for a holiday dinner.
All of this used to be really
frustrating for me. All the things they would forget. All the time
they would take. All the people they would invite (or not invite).
All the while commotion and laughter
would erupt in the kitchen, “No, Honey! I told you to buy juice,
not cocktail. Oh dear. I can't make this with cocktail. I have to go
get the juice!”
I would catch the clock out of the
corner of my eye, taking note we were already AN HOUR behind
schedule, and this would throw us off another hour.
Paul's mom would run to the convenient
store to pay a 25% mark up for cranberry juice, and Paul's father
would peek around the corner and wave us into his bedroom. He would
tell us, “Come here! Look where I hid the rum!” He was always
hiding alcohol underneath his bed, in the corner of his closet,
masked by a paper bag on top of the fridge. It wasn't because he was
a priest, as he allowed himself an occasional capful over ice cream
or in a glass of milk! No, he would hide it because their son was a
recovering addict and was known for “killing off” any alcohol
left around the house. Paul's father would snicker as he revealed the
hiding place of choice between the holidays. I always felt strange,
like, families shouldn't have to hide alcohol.
Don't forget, the lonely invalids of
the community (one in particular attended every holiday) were sitting
in the living room. I always tried to talk to them, to be courteous
and kind, but nothing seemed to surface in my mind to say past “Happy
Thanksgiving,” or “Merry Christmas,” depending on the holiday.
Small talk....such fun.
I was most annoyed by Paul's brother. I
didn't want my kids to know and understand words like “probation”
or “jail” or “urine sample.” But, they did. One year Uncle
Stephen forgot the charger for his ankle band for probation. Then it
started dying, and he was panicking beyond panic. Paul offered to run
him home to grab it. My kids asked where Daddy was going. Well,
he's going to help Uncle Stephen grab a charger he forgot that he
needs so he can charge his probation band so he doesn't go back to
jail. Uncle Stephen had to hang out by an outlet for an hour and
the kids sat at his feet while he gave them the run down on how
probation bands work. He said the word “stupid” in his
presentation, and little Jake snapped, “Uncle Stephen, if you talk
like that, the police are GOING to put you BACK IN JAIL!” Uncle
Stephen thought that was hilarious. I smiled only with the belief
that sometimes you have to smile, or you cry.
Then, there were the holiday occasions
where Uncle Stephen would detox on the couch, sweating and snoring
away. I was offended. Sometimes I would cry in the bathroom, wishing
I could be with my family, not in the middle of such of a mess.
If you are new to my blog, I regret to
tell you my in-laws were killed in a car accident 3 years ago this
month. Paul's brother Stephen died of an asthma attack at the age of
30.
Last night, Paul and I were cracking
ourselves up with these stories.
“Remember how your parents were
ALWAYS running late?”
“Remember how your dad hid his
alcohol from Stephen?”
“Remember how they always got that
last minute trip to the store in?”
“Remember how Thanksgiving was always
an open invitation to anyone without a friend or family?”
“Remember when Stephen was plugged up
to the wall for an hour to charge his probation band...oh yeah, you
took him to get that charger. That was a nice thing you did for him.
No one wanted to do it. Then, Jake told him if he said “stupid”
the police would take him to jail!”
REMEMBER? We just laughed. Then Paul
said, “Remember how magical my parents always made the Holidays?”
They were magical. Messy and magical.
The magic was in the mess, how they could just laugh at a half-thawed
turkey, or a dry turkey, or a Cranberry Wassail made with cocktail
because someone dropped the ball with the grocery shopping. They
would laugh at the clock as the hours gone by betrayed their pace.
They would put anything on hold to play with the grand-kids. They
always invited their son to a holiday dinner, even if it meant he
would detox on the couch or have to “charge himself” by an
outlet. They loved people. Given the choice between having their
mess, and not having them at all, I would choose their mess in a
heartbeat. I look back on their mess with swelling joy in my heart.
I have wondered now how much more I
would have enjoyed the holidays then if I would have just let myself
laugh. I wonder if I would have enjoyed myself more if I would have
served Stephen in his brokenness instead of allowing myself be
offended by him. Even though I can't go back and do those things, I
realized I have a choice to make. I can allow my current messes to
become magical. I can choose to laugh at my mistakes, and let
interruptions segue into new plans. I can tickle a disobedient
toddler, toss out a dish I oversalted and order pizza. I can choose
to add magic to all the messes I make on a daily basis. I hope my
children can look back at those {many} times that I failed at
something, burned something, got frustrated with a project -whatever-
and hear my laughter echoing in their remembrance, and think to
themselves, Man, Mom was always laughing. Mom was joyful despite
the circumstances.
That's exactly how I remember Paul's
parents. The holidays were magical. Their laughter filled the home. I
am grateful for the legacy they left me, unashamedly enjoying moments, every bit of them. That is how you
truly bring magic to the mess.
I miss you Wolf and Doni, and all the
magical holidays you created for my family. There were not enough of
them.
