When we arrive at the stake center, I find that many of my seminary friends are already there.  I am surprised to see so many. People I don’t even know crowd the edges of the room.  It’s my first Mormon baptism. The missionaries have explained the process, but still, I don’t know what to expect. I don’t really know much at all about the details of Mormon doctrine, but I know this: Jesus is here. This is His church. This is my path.

It was my mother who first introduced me to Jesus. She taught me to pray: Now I lay me down to sleep/I pray the Lord my soul to keep. On Saturday nights, my sister and I went to bed with pink foam curlers in our hair, our patent leather shoes–made shiny clean with fingernail polish remover–ready at the foot of our beds.  Military nomads, we attended whichever local Protestant church my parents picked–Methodist, Presbyterian, Congregational. I loved going to church, a few coins for the offering tied up in the corner of my handkerchief. I loved to hear stories from the Bible–Abraham, Gideon, Esther, Mary, Paul. I loved singing: Jesus loves me, this I know/For the Bible tells me so./Little ones to Him belong/They are weak but He is strong./Yes, Jesus loves me!/Yes, Jesus loves me!/Yes, Jesus loves me!/The Bible tells me so. I didn’t just sing the words; I sang to witness that I knew Jesus loved me. Me! I felt Him stir in my soul with my very earliest memories, as if He’d stowed away in my heart when I came to earth.

At thirteen, I became a bona fide Christian. I had studied the materials Billy Graham sent, I had listened and learned and prayed all those years of my early youth. One night, a friend invited me to ”Father’s House” where a group of local youth met weekly to praise the Lord together. There must have been some sort of evangelical leadership, but I didn’t need converting, so I paid them little heed, other than to notice quiet conversations in corners, witnessing, praying, tears, joy. What moved me most was the big prayer circle we formed, linking arms, sharing our prayer requests, uniting in faith as we lifted our hearts to heaven. I knew Jesus loved me, but did He know I loved Him? I felt the deep pull of sacred commitment, of covenant. That night, linked in prayer with fellow believers, I closed my eyes and quietly and absolutely gave my heart to Jesus. I accepted without reservation that He was my Savior, that I was lost without Him, that I would follow Him for the rest of my life. Anywhere.

From that day on, I have been a committed disciple of Jesus Christ. I longed for Truth, though, and as my faith in Christ grew, I realized that for me, Protestant doctrine had too many holes in it. I couldn’t make sense of it, beyond the deep reality of Jesus as Lord. So when Matt came along a few years later, with his equally fervent love for the Lord and real answers to my real questions, I knew I had found my religious home. Matt and the missionaries taught me solid Christian doctrine, put the pieces of the gospel together into a framework that I knew would support my deepest inquiries, withstand my fiercest doubt.

And tonight, I’m getting baptized. Someone helps me dress in white, leads me to a chair in the front row. I turn around to see my family walk in, dressed in their Sunday best. I look at my dad and my eyes fill, because I know that he is worried about me. It took him all day to sign the permission form allowing me to be baptized as a minor. The missionaries called midday: Maybe we should wait. And Matt: Do you think we should wait?  That pervasive bubble of peace has been with me all day, though: No. Don’t worry. It will be fine. My family is here because despite their concern, they love me. They are willing to trust that I can see my way to the Savior.

When I enter the warm water, Matt holds his hand out, leads me into position. He raises his right hand and speaks my name.  My spirit floats, like a bird on the water, waiting. I dip into the water and it washes me, washes me clear through–skin and bone and sinew–darkness, grime and sin . Gone. I am gone. There is a moment of utter stillness and I hold my breath in wonderment. He is here, here in the underwater, here in me. And there in the light above.  The water floods behind me as I rise up, drink in the sweet air of new life. My face points heavenward, homeward. 

A short time later, I sit in a folding metal chair, facing my family and friends. Matt’s dad places his hands on my damp head and speaks my name. I hear him say: Receive the Holy Ghost. No one had warned me of this, this wild rush of power that suddenly pours through me from head to foot like a flash flood. I gasp. I hear Matt’s dad speaking, but I am intent on survival, on somehow absorbing this electric, possessive Spirit. Slowly, it settles and I tingle everywhere. He is here, here in the very cells and atoms of my body, here in all the freshly flushed spaces of my soul.

That was 39 years ago. Every year on December 23rd, the magnitude of that long-ago night expands my understanding and my awe. And tonight is Christmas Eve.  Jesus is finally here. As we commemorate and celebrate that long-ago night, may He be truly here for you. Here in your heart, here in your life. Hallelujah! Jesus is here!

How does Jesus show up in your life?

Related posts:

1. Stop Murmur. Learn Doctrine. Do Crafts (if you want.)
2. A Smelly Bus Ride and a Prophet’s Voice
3. Wait on the Lord

As I watched the movie with my kids, I noticed the reactions of the carolers to Mr. Krueger. When he enthusiastically beckons to them from his basement window, their bodies stiffen, their eyes widen, and they become flustered. They enter his apartment hesitantly, their lips slightly curled in distaste and fear, and they decline his offer of cocoa quickly and dismissively. Although their singing is enthusiastic, their attitudes betray them as not really caring about or noticing poor, lonely Mr. Krueger. I realized as I watched them that I have been guilty of the same reaction to others that I encounter in my life. How do we react when confronted by those who are unkempt, emotionally needy, or obviously not from our own social status? I know that I have often reacted to those who break social norms with their obvious needs or eccentricities with a curled lip, a stiff shoulder, and a hasty retreat.

I thought back to my mission and my experience with those who were similar to Mr. Krueger. One opportunity that a mission offers those who serve is the chance to truly interact with all of God’s children. Most of us live fairly sheltered lives and we seldom get the chance to really interact with people who are vastly different from us. As a missionary I spent my days talking to everyone I came across: rich, poor, native, immigrant, old, young, and so on. I will admit, however, that I did still sometimes recoil when confronted with difficult people.

As I watched Mr. Krueger I thought of Dolores, who I met in the last area of my mission. She had been baptized at some point in her past but had not attended church for years. She lived alone in a crowded, dirty apartment with her elderly mother, who was senile and spent her days heaping abuse on her daughter (and us when we stopped by). Dolores was emotionally needy and asked my companion and me to visit several times a week. She liked to feed us lunches of half-cooked omelets and rice that was burnt in one corner of the pan and raw in another. We would politely find ways to hide the inedible food in napkins in our bags while listening to her complaints about her horrible life. As much as I would like to say that I was a saintly missionary who learned to serve others, the truth is that my companion and I resented Dolores and cringed every time she called us on the phone. We had no good way to solve her problems and nothing in our young, privileged lives had prepared us for the sort of complex problems that confronted her.

As Christmas approached we looked forward to the increased dinner invitations from ward members. The entire district had been invited to eat Christmas dinner with an American member who had a large home and an abundance of the familiar foods we all knew and loved. Then Dolores called. She wanted my companion and me to come to her house for a special Christmas dinner. She would use her meager funds to buy us special food and we could feast with her. Inwardly we sighed, but we agreed to be there. So we spent Christmas dinner at Dolores’ little table in her freezing cold apartment. We ate prawns and turkey and drank lemon soda. I don’t know if it is just because it was Christmas, but I was able to see that she was lonely and just wanted someone to care about her. My heart was softened and I enjoyed my Christmas feast, along with a side dish of guilt about the way I had been treating her.

Until the other night when I was watching Mr. Krueger, I had forgotten most of the details of my experience with Dolores. In the movie, Mr. Krueger imagines himself approaching the Christ child in the manger and realizing that Christ loves him, even when no one else does. For some reason I thought of Dolores approaching the manger and feeling the love of Christ. I realized that I had failed her in some ways, because I had been called to represent Christ and I had not been accepting and loving as He was when confronted with those who were needy. I had been human. It’s not bad to be human, but we should be trying to be more than that. And so this Christmas season I am resolving to be a little more compassionate, a little more caring. A little more divine.

Related posts:

1. The Ugly Mantle
2. Ask, Receive
3. The Customary Christmas

Christmas is about Receiving

We are thick in the season of giving. Retail merriment may jing-jing-jangle our nerves, but many of us bask in thinking about our giftees and what might bring them joy. This is progress from our less-enlightened “gimme” days. Wonderful! We are learning to be good gift givers.

The flip side of this is that this is also the season of receiving. Just how enlightened are our receiving skills this Christmas time?

I used to think gift cards were bland and impersonal. It was hard for me to give them and somewhat disappointing to receive. Not so these days. Now I find a well-suited gift card (given or received) to be very satisfying. Maybe not gift cards to grocery stores, but I could be wrong.

Getting gifts from very young children is good exercise in receiving. In nursery or pre-school, kids may not even know how to hold a crayon yet. The tots likely aren’t thinking of Mommy when they make a “present” for her with a jot with the red crayon. However, their scribbled bits can be interpreted by an aware adult as evidence of the child’s growing social and motor skills. They stayed in nursery long enough to participate in the activity, after all. That affirmation is a joy to receive! It’s not the “masterpiece” itself we’re receiving and grateful for. Sometimes the meta-message takes some digging.

Speaking of meta-messages, “receiving” is a rich word in our Mormon lexicon. When we are confirmed we are told to “receive the Holy Ghost.” As a convert with a well-developed spiritual life before joining the Church, I can’t say I noticed a particular shift or infusion of new “oomph” with this charge. Sometimes I think of it like a tuner on a radio. The Holy Ghost will always broadcast; how good am I at receiving It? When I “receive” that Gift, I vow to put myself in a frequency to hear It, feel Its humming presence and proceed with the impulses and messages I sense.

In sealing eternal marriages the man and woman promise to “receive” one another. (If something is received, it must have been given in the first place. That’s my take on wording that isn’t exactly identical.) Is there anything more humbling, open and trusting than that kind of exchange? Marriage is a setting requiring equal (and extraordinary) measures of responsibility and vulnerability.

Receiving in most profound ways, I think, is best accomplished without a lot of (jingle) bells and whistles (although expressed heartfelt “thank you”s and/or notes should be somewhere in the mix.) Isn’t the meta-message of the gift of this season found in reflection, awareness, gratitude, and a blessed balance of humility and majesty? Phillips Brooks, author of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” said it well:

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming; but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.

How do you prepare to receive? Any memorable occasions of receiving gone grossly wrong or movingly right? What layers of meaning does “receiving” have for you?

Related posts:

1. What does it feel like?
2. Looking up
3. Milk before meat

In that spirit, this morning I’m making a couple of lists: What I Learned This Christmas, Things I will Do the Same Next Christmas, Things I Will Do Next Christmas That I Didn’t Do This Christmas, and Best and Worst of Christmas 2010. Here goes:

What I Learned This Christmas:

My daughter’s theater program needs a good voice teacher, as no one could sing on key at the annual Christmas show. Not good, especially when “When Mama Meets Jesus Tonight” is being sung.

The world did not fall apart when I didn’t send out Christmas cards this year.

The world did not fall apart when I didn’t reciprocate every single neighbor gift we received (and no matter how many extra gifts I have on hand, I always seem to run out—I learned that, too).

Speaking of which, I will never deliver neighbor gifts on Christmas Eve—really, people, neighbor gift-giving should be over by the 23rd. I’m done then, and I don’t want to have to scramble to find a gift for you on Christmas Eve when I’m trying to get the prime rib in the oven.

Even though I’ve seen it a bazillion times, I cry every time I watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Every. Single. Time.

Things I Will Do the Same Next Christmas:

Not send out Christmas cards or try to reciprocate every neighbor gift.

Serve panna cottas for dessert on Christmas Eve.

Watch It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, curled up on the couch with my family, my children wearing their new Christmas pajamas.

Feel gratitude for my family, my life, as I sit around the breakfast table on Christmas morning eating French toast strata and our traditional Christmas morning casserole.

Things I Will Do Next Christmas that I Didn’t Do This Christmas:

Buy my children less presents (I say this every year).

Try to focus on the birth of the Savior more (also say this every year).

Not get so frenzied and stressed the week before Christmas that I have a meltdown as I’m preparing Christmas Eve dinner (see parentheses, above).

Not start The Sound of Music at 10:00 on Christmas night and thus avoid my youngest daughter crying uncontrollably while going to bed because she was “more tired than she had ever been in her whole entire life.”

Try to contain my excitement while waiting for that precious semiannual phone call from my soon-to-be-a-missionary son.

Best and Worst of Christmas 2010:

(First, the worst): Knowing that my son won’t be here next Christmas.

(And now, the best): Sitting around our candlelit dinner table on Christmas Eve—my favorite night of the whole year (after I recover from the meltdown)—eating prime rib with my husband and children and my sister and her family, our house snug and festive and softly lit, suffused with joy and anticipation.

The whole of Christmas Day, except for when we went to bed after midnight and my youngest daughter was crying because she was more tired than she had ever been in her whole entire life.

Making ebelskivers in the kitchen with my oldest daughter on Christmas night, chatting and laughing together as we beat egg whites and folded them into the batter.

Watching the joy on my younger son’s face as he unwrapped my soon-to-be-a-missionary son’s gift to him: his prized, coveted collection of The Lord of the Rings, Extended Version DVDs and Batman DVDs.

The look on my youngest daughter’s face when she opened my soon-to-be-a-missionary son’s gift to her: his band sweatshirt, his Peruvian-style woolen hat, and a notebook he kept during his Book of Mormon class at BYU, full of his notes and personal reflections on various scriptural passages. “We only covered the first half of the Book of Mormon in my class,” my son said. “Now it’s up to you to finish the notebook by writing your thoughts down about the second half.”

My daughter gazed up at her older brother with love and adoration, then burst into tears; I watched as he caught her up and hugged her tight, my own chest tight to bursting.

That was, hands down, the best Christmas moment of all.

And now I want to hear from you. What were your best/worst moments of this Christmas? What did you learn this year? What will you do the same/differently next year?

Related posts:

1. The Case for Shopping
2. ‘Tis the season to give each other goodies (but I really wish we wouldn’t)
3. Posts of Christmas Past

Christmas arrived, and I still remember sprawling under the tree in my favourite cotton pyjamas opening up my first present – two tiny dog figurines. Every present I opened was something I had mentioned, casually or with desperate longing, in conversation weeks earlier, and I had to lie down (on my new doona!) with an icepack later that day to cool my poor, over-extended grinning muscles, still wriggling in delight at my bounty.

It was only years later that I realised that my family had been terrified I was going to die from a severe recurring allergic reaction, and they had decided I was going to have the perfect gift—whichever one it was on my list.

Christmas seems to be the time where the pressure is on to find That Special Someone (or, usually, several Someone of Varying Specialness) THE GIFT TO END ALL GIFTS. You know, the present that will make their awesome/average/contented/unhappy/whatever life perfect, due solely to YOUR incredible benediction. The pressure to perform is immense, intense and usually doomed to failure. Any shop open at 11pm on Christmas Eve bears witness to the madness that falls on the present procrastinator, to be surpassed only by the desperation felt by the receiver the next day on trying to hide their horror/dismay/fury/hilarity/confusion at the object sitting/rolling/leaning/hopefully-not-breathing-or-whining in their hands.

There’s danger inherent in gift giving. Maybe they won’t like it. Maybe they’ll even say so. Maybe the time, effort and inspiration you put into that present will be tossed away, unappreciated. Maybe the little token you pass to someone is taken to mean something it doesn’t, spiralling you both into future madness and chaos? Maybe the pressure is just too much?

Because after all, if my secret wish for several Christmases was to be locked in a (super-lush) hotel room for 24 hours on my own, unable to speak to, see or touch another person, what was the likelihood of getting that perfect present? Particularly if I didn’t tell anyone? Particularly knowing it simply couldn’t happen? Sometimes the perfect gift just isn’t possible.

Except in our own private, For-Segullah-Eyes-Only wish list! So, ladies. An hour’s go-carting? Learning how to scuba dive? A 48-hour movie marathon? To not have the baby on Christmas day? The ability and opportunity to dance like Beyonce? A particular book and uninterrupted time to read it in? A “Get out of Gaol/Jail Free” card? If you could receive it, what would be your ‘perfect present’ this year? (And in the interest of Miss World/Universe/Perfection 2011, requests for ‘world peace’ will not be accepted).

What is your wish? Do you tell people your wish-list? Do you expect to receive a present this Christmas? Do you know what it is? If not, do you think it will be a good one? Have you ever received a particularly perfect or appalling present, and if so, details please!

Related posts:

1. The Segullah Christmas Gift Guide
2. The Case for Shopping
3. Stuff, Stuff, Stuff

Q: What is the purpose of life?

Typical LDS A: It’s our time to prepare to meet God, to prove ourselves worthy to live again with Heavenly Father.

Who am I to quibble with the Abraham 3: 24-26?

“And we will prove them herewith, to see if they will do all things whatsoever the Lord their God shall command them; 

“And they who keep their first estate [that is to be obedient in the premortal existence] shall be added upon; … and they who keep their second estate [that is, to be obedient during mortal life] shall have glory added upon their heads for ever and ever.” (Clarifications are from Elder Richard G. Scott’s Truth Restored address in October 2005 General Conference.)

While I’m not debating that answer, it has never been motivating or meaningful to me. It makes God sound too remote and the “reward” too delayed. It sounds too much like the carrot dangled before the donkey to keep it going. I am not a donkey.

Or if I were, I’d want both the carrot dangling and the feedbag permanently strapped to my muzzle. Feed me! Feed me, now!

I want to know God now, to live presently with God spiritually. When the time comes, I will be reuniting with my loving Divine Intimates, not finally getting acquainted  or anxiously waiting for the stick to whomp me.

I suspect that this attitude is one many of us are already pursuing and enjoying. But there’s something unnerving to me about the heavy emphasis on obedience for a future reward and the lag time before “living with” God.

I have nothing against obedience, mind you. Because I claim the Atonement, I want to be “good.” It comes with the territory of conversion. I don’t want a punitive god who, like Santa in the song, can “see you when you’re sleeping; He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for Goodness Sake!”

As I look at the last phrase and read it as a watered down version of “for God’s sake,” I DO want to be good for God’s sake, because I love, honor and worship God. I don’t want to behave because I’m anxious that God/Santa will give me coal.

I stage my own mini-rebellions when I feel like obedience lingo overwhelms grace lingo. When we sing hymn 96, Dearest Children God is Near You, I keep mum during the lines:

Dearest children, holy angels
Watch your actions night and day,
And they keep a faithful record
Of the good and bad you say.

I memorized 2 Corinthians 9:8 recently:

God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.

This is an exuberant scripture. It uses the energetic word “abound” twice. It is also “all” inclusive. In this short sentence we find the word “all” 3 times, “always” once and “every” once. I love the message. God energetically gives us every conceivable kind of grace so that everything we try or do or long for is always sufficient. From that pairing of our efforts and God’s grace, we can abound to every good work. This is motivating and inspirational to me. It’s not fraught with anxiety but quells it.

For many folks this may seem just fuss and bother over wording. But words are powerful. Glosses and emphases can set the direction of entire cultures and the outcomes of wars.

At Christmas we focus on the power of the Word. John 1: 1-4, 14:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made…And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us… full of grace and truth.

If I have to be a donkey, I don’t want to be the carrot-lured kind. Maybe I could be the one who carried Mary to Bethlehem.  “Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is GOD WITH US. (Matthew 1:23, emphasis added.)

Related posts:

1. I Believe in Santa Claus. But, I didn’t used to.
2. To Hope For That Which Is Not Seen
3. A Woman of Grace

Memory is a funny—and fascinating—thing. Not just the physical pathways (which I don’t pretend to understand), but the way that memory and narrative intertwine—the way that stories shape our memories, and the ways that memories present themselves in story form (often neater in recollection than they were in the experiencing). Maurice Halbwachs called the narrative aspect of memory “frameworks,” and argued that as cultures, we share certain cultural blueprints that give shape and meaning to our memories by suggesting what aspects of events should be remembered: the food, the family rituals, the decorations. Interestingly, by pointing us toward the routine, these frameworks actually serve to highlight the exceptional.

Like the Christmas when I was fifteen, and we found out that one of my friends’ older brothers had died unexpectedly. Her family had been saving for months to buy a new TV for Christmas; instead, the money went towards funeral costs. So my friends and I—a little high on the novelty of real service—pooled our own meager resources and bought them one. I still remember the shocked look on the family’s faces when they realized that the TV box we brought them did, in fact, hold a TV.

Or the Christmas five years ago, when (in what became for me a profound kind of confluence), I was expecting my first child, a son. When the speaker in the ward Christmas program began reading from Luke 2, the story became real for me in a way it had never been before. I put my hands on my swollen belly, feeling the baby kick and squirm beneath my hands, and wondered: Is this what Mary was feeling, on that long, uncomfortable ride to Bethlehem? This strangely mingled sense of physical discomfort and spiritual awe?

That year we spent Christmas Day in the hospital (my son was born Christmas Eve)—both our families were on the other side of the country, so we had that quiet room to ourselves: my husband, myself, my son. As the last bit of winter sunlight slanted across our room, I nursed my new baby and thought about the miracle of new life—and about the miracle of resurrection, that miracle promised in the birth of the Savior. That year, Christmas was short on presents (as graduate students, we didn’t have much money anyway), but I remember it as one of the most spiritually profound Christmases of my life. Even now, it’s impossible for me to think about Christmas without that dual memory: the birth of my son (my firstborn son) and the birth of my Savior. And when I tell my son about the story of Christmas, I tell him about his own birth, too.

In the scriptures, we find continual injunctions to “remember.” Why? Scholars of memory suggest that one distinction between memory and history is that history is a dry, artificial connection to the past (built through analysis and interpretation of artifacts) and that memory is a lived experience. In our faith, believing as we do in the construction of a vital link between generations (through family history work and temple sealings), perhaps memory helps us make these links more real. But I also think that our memories of the past are significant because *what* we remember so strongly influences *who* we are: what we remember is mostly narrative, a selection of significant events that we tell ourselves to make sense of our lives. If we remember scriptural stories (and their application in our lives), then we are more likely (I believe) to live lives inflected by spiritual meaning.

If Thanksgiving is a holiday for giving thanks, then perhaps Christmas is a season for remembering—not just remembering Christmases past, but remembering that Christ is at the heart of Christmas. Some of my most poignant memories of Christmas are those where I found myself re-membering Christ: not just thinking of him, but physically embodying him in my actions.

What significant memories do you have of Christmas? How do these memories enrich your current experience of Christmas?

What other experiences do you regularly try to create to make Christmas—and your memories of it—more memorable?

Related posts:

1. Memorial
2. Making a Memory
3. Climbs and descents

The Census at Bethlehem by Bruegel

See that woman in the middle?
The one alone
With the white hat and broom
Head down, sweeping
Or digging, maybe.
That has been me.
Focused on the depth of snow in front of me
And my need to dig out.

Oblivious
To the boisterous gathering over there
And to the snow-stuck wagon behind me,
Where my broom could be put to better use.
Unaware of the simple miracle
Of a young woman on a horse,
Almost hidden by winter clothing
And seeking a place,
The holy significance lost in favor of
Bristles and snow.

I’m putting down the broom
And looking up.
Join me?

. . .

It’s easy to get caught up in the “doingness” of the season. What are your traps that prevent you from experiencing what Christmas has to offer? Do you identify with anyone in particular in this busy Bruegel Bethlehem scene? Is there a certain work of art, literature, or music that is especially speaking to you this season? (Last year it was this one for me, remember?)

Related posts:

1. The Gift of Receiving
2. Afternoon FAIL
3. If At First You Don’t Succeed

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Now, wasn’t that easier than sleep deprivation, freezing your tootsies, and coming to blows?  You’re welcome.

Related posts:

1. Saving Levi Strauss & Co.
2. Posts of Christmas Past
3. Playing Big

Every year about this time I feel the pressure build. What am I going to do for The Family Christmas Letter?

There are a lot of styles of family Christmas letters. One of them is Brag Rags. Of course we enjoy the highlights of our friends’ years. It’s the kind where the “typical accomplishments” involve advances in world peace, cures for diseases and callings-and-elections-made-sure that leave me quaking in my humble elfin boots.

There are Grinch Greetings. Some people share their rants about how life has mistreated them this year (again) and detail their disses and disappointments. These don’t make for jolly reading, but they provide interesting psychological profiles.

I appreciate Homespun Holiday Howdies. While I may not retain the names of these writers’ prescriptions meds, their bushel count for garden beans, or the number of times they called a plumber this year, I’m glad they share with me the minutia of their precious lives. A steady diet of it might drive me nuts, but once a year at Christmas is a joy.

On Downer, On Blitzen Christmas letters can be wrenching. Some years are just awful and there simply is no festive way to pass on news of diagnoses or disasters. 2007 was our year for that. When you have a few minutes you can check out the online version of our efforts that year at http://kimballsdeepchristmas.blogspot.com/. My hallelujah-he’s-still-alive-husband figured out the technology. I’m usually a scissors and paper gal.

Whatever form they take, I love getting annual hold-in-my-hand updates from my amazing extended posse. Truth be told, I love making them despite the pressure. It’s a good blend for my artsy and authory sides and a joyful way to share the love.

When creating my own Christmas letters I have five golden rings rules:

1. Be Creative

2. Keep it brief – under one page of text.

3. Entertain/Amuse

4. Don’t make anything too labor intensive

5. Never require extra postage

Over the years I have sent out crosswords, jigsaw puzzles, word searches, board games, song lyrics, Sudoku (one which I discovered too late was impossible to solve; and, as penance, one the following year that I knew would work), cartoons, a mini-advent calendar and more. I think I only broke the “no extra postage” rule once. I have broken the labor intensity rule too many times to count.

What do YOU do for your family Christmas letters? What kinds have you received that stand out in your memory (for good or ill)? How do you feel about e-Christmas cards or blog holiday greetings as a substitute for mailed ones? Have you made any noteworthy connections by sending family Christmas letters? How do you word your spiritual holiday enthusiasm in letters that may be going to people who aren’t “into that sort of thing”?

Related posts:

1. My Pastoral Life
2. Living By the Rules
3. Posts of Christmas Past