Resolutions Resolved

Usually around the first part of October I start to prepare for Christmas. Even then with all the planning, saving, making, and baking, I have done well if I am ready within days of the big event.

I am grateful for Christmas and the emotions it brings. I love the way it seems to bring out the best in others, I feel joy in giving, I feel gratitude in the sacrifices that others make in behalf of my family and myself, and certainly most important, I am grateful for the remembrance of the birth of our Savior and every wonderful blessing that that event entails.

However, each year as Christmas comes and goes, I am often left with a feeling of sadness. I hate to see it all end. Though I always vow I will try to keep “Christmas in my heart all year” it seems the feeling changes as sure as the season.

The New Year brings with it a time for setting goals and for me it’s one of the most depressing times of the year. I always attempt to change the impossible. Every year is the year (like every other year for the last ten or fifteen years) I want to lose 150 lbs. and to do that, I will stay away from everything but carrot sticks. That goal starts at midnight on Dec.31st and lasts clear up until I wake up on New Years Day and see what is still sitting on the kitchen table… all the yummy treats from our friends, family, and neighbors. I then make a vow to start as soon as I have polished off all the temptation before me. After all, I would hate to throw it all away. There are people who went to a lot of work and expense for us and it’d be really rotten of us to not eat it after all they did for us.
Then there is always the thought that haunts me and stops me from throwing anything away unnecessarily; in breaded in me from the days when my mother forced me to eat things on my plate that I thought were icky. “There are starving children in this world…" So, you see? You can’t just throw things away! Before I know it, there goes all my good intentions and rather than needing to lose 150 lbs., I have gained 150 more! I hated the whole “News Years Resolution” thing.

Until recently. I have done some thinking and I have changed my mind. Or rather, after a lot of thinking, I have decided it’s my attitude that needed some adjusting.

If I am going to pick goals that are impossible to achieve, I am destined to fail.
President Gordon B. Hinckley said, “Try a little harder to be a little better.” I can certainly do that. I can set smaller, reachable goals and feel good about what little success I can obtain rather than feel guilty and ashamed of myself for the continual failings with the impossible goals.
Rather than changing every single thing about me and planning to do an extreme makeover from the inside out, I can pick a few things and start there. Once I have accomplished them, I will go on to something else.

I realize that it’s not a new concept I am writing about here, but it’s a new concept for me to try. My problem is I tend to be a perfectionist. I want everything to change and I want it all done now. (I also tend to be a little impatient as well) I see too many imperfections with myself and I want them done away with immediately. Unfortunately, that’s just not realistic. No wonder I have set myself up to be destined for failure when it comes to goal setting.

So, this year I am going to do it different. This year I will try harder than ever to achieve what I set out to accomplish.
With a new attitude, I have set a few goals. With renewed hope, a new beginning of sorts, I look forward to working on each goal I have set. At the end of the year I want to look back-- maybe around Christmas, and think to myself that I did try to do as our Prophet said. I tried a little harder to be a little better and FINALLY I succeeded in my realistic goals.
Wish me luck ;)

Taking a Gamble

by Anna Jones Buttimore

First off, let me say that - forgive me - I am glad I don't live in America. I returned just a couple of hours ago from visiting relatives who live halfway across the country. This involved an exhausting four-hour drive. That's quite as far as I ever want to have to go in one day. My sympathies to those of you in the US of A who have relatives "out of state" and think nothing of a road trip lasting several days.

But what I really wanted to talk about was Gambling. Like any good Latter-day Saint, I don't gamble. Well, not much. I bought a raffle ticket as part of the entry requirement to a school fete earlier this month, and won a bottle of champagne which I then generously donated back to the school. I like to think they will re-raffle it, but suspect there was, in fact, some unnatural merriment in the staff room on the last day of term.

My other foray into the sin of gambling came in the latter part of last year. The jackpot to the Euro Lottery was up to £92 million (that's about $150 million I think) and finding myself in the Post Office with a pound in my pocket, I decided to indulge in the right to dream for a day, and I bought a ticket.

In my 24 hours of planning exactly how to spend such a huge sum, I discovered some interesting truths about myself. For example:

• However rich I was, there is no way I would ever have any plastic surgery.
• Similarly, I would never send my children to private schools (or public schools as we call them over here, just to confuse the Americans)
• I am nicer than I thought - the plans which most excited me were those involving anonymously paying off mortgages or giving large cash gifts to friends and deserving causes.
• However much money I had, I would never buy a brand new car. Probably a car that's one or two years old (as opposed to the twelve-year-old car I currently push around), but never something straight from the production line. I just couldn't face seeing it depreciate by half its value as I drove it off the forecourt.
• There are no houses currently for sale in my area - even with asking prices of over £1 million - which I like well enough to tempt me to leave the home I currently live in.

What I really learned about myself, then, is that I don't actually want or need £92 million. I think discovering that was well worth £1.

The punchline to this is that I won. I got four numbers out of the six, and won £6.10. So despite a considerable return on my investment for my foray into gambling, I shan't be doing that again. Hubby Dearest (who is an accountant, and thus genius) says that the National Lottery is "a tax on people who are bad at maths".

Here's a conundrum, though. I confessed my sin to the Bishop and he said that buying one lottery ticket was not a serious enough sin to keep me out of the Temple, unless I really felt that I was fixated with greed and love of money, and thus not worthy - not the case, I think. So I told him how much fun it would have been to write a cheque for tithing of £9.2 million, and he replied that he would have been unable to accept it since it was the proceeds of gambling. This means that at my next Temple Recommend interview, I would not be a full tithe-payer, and unable to enter the Temple. In other words, according to my warped logic, gambling is not a serious enough sin to keep you out of the Temple - what is really heinous is winning. (Don't all write to correct me at once.)

Anyway, I promise faithfully never to gamble again (unless it's the only way to get into the fete), however much I find myself longing to pay off your mortgage.

If You Chance to Meet a Frown

There are a multitude of natural laws that govern family life. For instance:

*If you mop your kitchen floor, someone will—before the sun sets—spill his juice.

Last year when we took a family snapshot for the Christmas cards (we didn’t take one this year—we haven’t changed that much), we combed our hair, dressed in sort-of-coordinated clothes and herded everyone into the backyard. We were, of course, operating under the regulations imposed by the Law of Family Photos, the first of which reads:

*In any photograph containing four or more people, a minimum of one person must, for any given shot, have a goofy look on his or her face.

We had seven people in our photo, five of whom aren’t old enough to vote, so we were definitely subject to this law. We took a bunch of pictures, downloaded them, and evaluated the results. Take your choice—the manic chipmunk look, the “we are not amused” look, the winking look, the hand-over-face look, the nearly-closed-eyes look and—my personal favorite—the Fish Lips. Apparently someone was getting bored, which brings up the Second Law of Family Photos:

*If you speak the words “Just stand still and smile and we’ll be done with this!” then any child under the age of ten will interpret these words to mean, “Hey, you! Act like a crazed weasel!”

Actually, the kids did quite well, all things considered and several of the photos weren't bad. But given that we didn’t get one really good shot, my husband—who had apparently been snorting Froot Loops—mentioned that we could try again the next day. We quickly nixed that idea. Why go through the photo shoot ordeal when you can . . . Photoshop!

Truth be told, I can’t Photoshop—don’t know a thing about it. But my sister can. I e-mailed her what I thought was the best of the pictures. All of us fell somewhere on the not-bad range in that shot, but my older son had a very solemn look on his face. He was smiling in other shots, so I sent her one of those reject shots along with the good one. In a techno-version of the "smile-that-frown away" song of Primary fame, she replaced the frowny face with a smiley one.

I also asked her if she could change the color of one daughter’s shirt. This shirt had bold white stripes, and I worried that maybe it was too striking compared to the solids everyone else was wearing. My sister fixed the shirt, laboring to darken the white stripes so they didn’t stand out so much. She sent me the finished picture and I decided that I liked the white stripes better after all, and asked her to change it back, after which she sent me a rotten tomato in the mail and placed a curse on me and my descendants.

Just kidding. She said that, luckily for me, she’d saved her layer shots—I’m not sure what that means, but I sense that it’s important—and she promptly sent me the picture with the smiling son and the white stripes. Isn’t she a genius?

If we take a family photo next year, I think I’ll just send my sister random photos of family members taken at different points in the year and she can arrange us in portrait formation. And maybe she can give me toned abs in the process.

The Best Gift

Several years ago our bishop at the time, gave each family in our ward a small, beautiful white stocking. He explained that he would like us to think about a special gift that we could give to the Savior during the coming year. It could be items like having more faith, being more patient or kind with those around us, etc.---gifts that would indicate we're striving to be more Christ-like.

Each year since that time, our family has kept this tradition. On Christmas Eve, we bring out the white stocking and empty its contents on the table, giving each family member the piece of paper that bears their name. Then we spend a few moments in silence, pondering the past year. We take a mental inventory, considering if we succeeded in giving this gift to the Savior.

Fresh slips of paper are then passed around. We spend another few minutes deciding on what our Christmas gift to the Savior will be during the next year. Writing it down, we then fold our pieces of paper, write our names on the outside, and set it inside the white stocking. The white stocking is then placed inside of my china cabinet where it can be seen all year. It is a reminder of what we have offered to our beloved Elder Brother.

I love this tradition. It helps me keep a perspective of what is really important. What we are offering are gifts of the heart, items that can never be purchased, wrapped, and placed under the tree. These are gifts of compassion and faith, presented with love to Someone we can never fully repay for the sacred gifts He has freely given to us all. I don't think any of us can quite comprehend what He has made possible. His gift of love paves the way for us to inherit eternal life if we so choose. His sacrifice atones for our mistakes if we will humbly submit to His will. The price we pay is so small in comparison to what He endured on our behalf. It is my hope that this Christmas season as we bustle around with last minute preparations for the days ahead, we will spend some time thinking about the reason for the season. That we will remember the humble way our Savior entered this mortal realm---a reminder that it is truly the simple things in life that matter most.

Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago that hopefully captures what I'm trying to say in today's blog:

Ode to Christmas ‘95

‘Twas the month of December and all through the house,
I continuously cleaned up after my sons and my spouse--
In preparation for celebrations ahead,
Various activities I was beginning to dread.

First on my list, decorate the tree,
After assembling it from a box filled with debris.
Finally the tree was in its place, limbs attached with loving care,
We pushed it into a corner to hide a hole that looked quite bare.

Then my husband cringed—it was time to string the lights,
This is an adventure that never quite delights.
A tangled mess from last year; we stared with great dismay
Wishing we could throw the jumbled strands away.

Instead we persevered, though it was tempting just to pout
The tangles at last were gone, but half the bulbs were all burned out.
The mystery of the moment then became
Quite an entertaining little game.

Finding the bulb that affected the line
Caused contention and the occasional whine.
Finally the lights were hung and lit,
I found myself wishing that was it.

But no, the bliss of things to come
Kept me on a steady run.
Shopping, wrapping, hiding gifts,
Wishing I could be more swift.

As cards arrived and guilt nudged,
Knowing my own stack hadn’t budged.
Quickly to the computer I flew
Hoping to type a clever thing or two.

Copies were made, and cards were stuffed—
I wondered if my ancestors had had it this tough.
Cards were mailed, allowing the true fun to begin,
Time for candy-making skills to kick in.

I bake and sweat and bake some more,
Another wondrous Christmas chore.
Relatives come to spend the week
As the house is trashed, I stifle a shriek.

All that scrubbing—all for naught,
Everywhere I look the place is shot!
Christmas Eve comes—it’s here at last,
And we quietly reflect on what has passed.

Tired but happy, we realize,
Christmas isn’t about the gifts we buy.
Nor the cooking or cleaning or even the lights,
Nor caroling about the town on frosty cold nights.

Christmas proclaims the birth of the One,
We call our Savior—God’s Chosen Son.
Who gave us a gift we can never repay,
The chance to return to our Father someday.

And so as we hurry with errands galore,
Let’s try to remember Christmas means so much more.
We must reach out to others with love in our hearts,
For that is how the greatest of all gifts starts.

Cheri J. Crane 1995

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!! =)

A Saturday Surprise!

by Lynn Gardner

The first one is from Nigeria, clay figures in a manger with the star on top.

The tall skinny ones are from Kenya and made from reeds and sticks.

This clay one is from Egypt and almost didn't make the collection. Greg's luggage was broken into and it was smashed, but I glued it back together and it works! He brought me the pieces in a plastic bag just to show that he had remembered to buy one - thinking it was beyond repair.

The fourth one is a Bedouin tribe in a colorful striped tent from Jordan. The figures are made from some kind of smooth putty - Shelley visited Petra and found it - which is one of my dreams - to climb all over those ruins! It may be hard to see because of the lights.

The last one is from Swaziland, tall stylized figures carved from wood and painted wild colors - Shelley got that one when they climbed Kilimanjaro.

OH NUTS!

Nuts, or tree nuts if you will, are one of my favorite treats and have been a part of my Christmas celebrations as long as I can remember. Christmas wasn’t the only time I got to feast on nuts as a child. Daddy used to bring home a paper bag with a pound or two of mixed nuts from winter trips to town. Mama would spread papers on the floor and the nuts would be poured onto the paper, then armed with the usual U-shaped metal crackers, my brothers and sisters and I would dive in. Being one of the younger and smaller children, I had difficulty managing the nut cracker, and too often got stuck with peanuts while my older brothers wielded the crackers and gorged on walnuts, Brazil nuts, almonds, and hazelnuts. I’ll admit I resorted to borrowing Daddy’s hammer on occasion to make certain I got my share of the good nuts.

Once when I was very young, my parents took me to visit someone, I have no idea now who the person was other than that he herded sheep, but this person had a marvelous nutcracker. It was made of metal, looked like a battered soldier, and had a lever on the back that when operated opened and closed the soldier’s mouth. When a nut was placed between the soldier’s ragged steel teeth and the lever employed, voila! The nut cracked. I was in love! I dreamed of having a nutcracker like that.

Sometime later I happened on a story about a little girl named Clara who received a soldier nutcracker as a gift, which her brother promptly broke. I could relate to that, having two younger brothers and three older ones. The man who gave Clara the nutcracker repaired it on Christmas Eve while she slept. Also while she slept, she was attacked by mice. The soldier nutcracker came to life and, along with sugarplum-filled adventures, saved her from the mice and became her hero. The story was a great fairytale, but I was more interested in the nutcracker’s practical application, getting those pesky hard shells off of nuts.

I was an adult with children of my own when I finally saw Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Ballet. It was a thrilling performance, but the part of me that was once a little girl who loved eating nuts, still loves the doll-like nutcrackers more than the fairy tale or the ballet. Long ago I began acquiring nutcracker dolls whenever I got a chance. Mine aren’t the expensive collectors’ nutcrackers, but they’re of invaluable worth to me and are an essential part of my Christmas decorations.

My first nutcracker was a reward for spending so much money on other things at a local furniture store. He’s not much good for cracking nuts, but I like him. He's the guy in blue next to the Mountie. The Canadian Mountie is a souvenir from a wonderful trip to Victoria, Canada, with my husband, our daughter, Mary Jo, and her husband, Rich.


My second nutcracker came from ZCMI the year I decided to buy myself a gift. I miss that store. He's the tall soldier in red with the assorted nutcrackers atop a bookcase.

When family and friends discovered my fondness for nutcrackers, I was inundated with the dolls. Suddenly everyone knew what to get me for Christmas. I received tall nutcrackers, short ones, characters from the ballet on a music box, and even nutcrackers for the twelve days of Christmas.

My daughter Lezlie made a special nutcracker for me to commemorate 9-11 and to honor the brave firemen who lost their lives trying to save others that day.

My grandson, Brandon’s favorite nutcracker is the one wearing Army fatigues he calls the “daddy one.”

All of my grandchildren love the big nutcracker and try to entice each other to put their fingers in his mouth. Fortunately none have gotten hurt. Even this nutcracker will only crack soft shell nuts.

I’ve never been too sure what nutcrackers have to do with Christmas except for the fairytale/ballet which is set at Christmastime and that in earlier times, children, like I once was, received nuts in our Christmas stockings. But gradually, I’ve developed my own reasons for decking my home with nutcrackers each Christmas. Just as the Christ Child was a gift of love to God’s children, my nutcrackers represent the love family and friends have given me. They’re bright and colorful and make delightful decorations, but sometimes I think about that old sheepherder and wonder what became of his marvelous nutcracker. Mine are a delight, but there isn't a one that will crack a decent nut.

Cherished Traditions

A few nights ago we went to downtown Ogden to see the lights. The Christmas Village is growing and is a whole lot bigger with more displays than when I was little. It was fun to see the whole thing through my 4-year-old's eyes. As we drove down the hill and all the lights came into view, he said, "I'm so glad we're going to Christmas Town!" He even got to ride the train around the block.

Then we went to my parents' house and had Norwegian pancakes and the annual viewing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Well, by then it was a little late and we just saw the first part where Clark takes his family out to find the perfect Christmas tree. And it's just as well, because we'd have had to skip parts for the kids- you're better off watching the t.v. version if you have young-uns- but it was fun because it's a tradition, and as wacky as some traditions get through the years, they're still comfortable. They're still home.

We have a few holiday movies that are must-sees. A Christmas Story is number one on the list, despite the fact that my daughters aren't really fans. (Boggles the mind. How can you not like that movie?) My parents and husband and I enjoy It's a Wonderful Life, but my siblings and children hate that one, too. My dad has a tradition of stashing himself away in a vacant room on Christmas day and watching it by himself. My youngest sister found out he did that and was all kinds of distraught, thinking it was tragic that my poor dad watches that sad movie all alone on Christmas day. (Like he's in there sobbing into his bowl of popcorn, "Oh, no, George Bailey, no! You have so much to live for!") In reality, my dad is so glad to get away for some much-needed alone time that he's kicking his heels in unabashed glee.

My kids and I love Elf. That's already become a Christmas movie tradition for us, and I also like The Grinch, both animated and Jim Carrey. Then there are the old- time kids shows, like Rudolph, (which used to give me nightmares and make me throw up as a kid, what with the scary Abominable Snowman and all), Frosty the Snowman, and the 70s cartoon, Twas the Night Before Christmas. (There's a certain person of some significance in my stake who resembles Joshua Trundle, but I won't say who).

Such good stuff, and all the more fun because there are a few select weeks during the year when it's acceptable to watch them. Perhaps that's why I love them so much. They herald in the season for me, and they're a treat. Now all I need is a James Bond Christmas Special. Ah, then life would be complete. :-)