(This post is dedicated to my daughter Alex. To this day, she has never met a stray dog or cat she hasn’t wanted to adopt. Her love affair with animals started long before a setter named Scarlett entered our lives one January 6th back in the mid-1990s. Scarlett’s story is special, but then, what pet’s story isn’t? She’s been gone from this world a long time now, yet she continues to live in the hearts of our family. RIP, Angel Dog.)
In the past, the twelve days following Christmas used to be among my all-time favorite times of the year. While other families untangled the Christmas lights to return to the attic by the new year, the Rices kept them lit. Only on January 6—the Epiphany, the date that represents when the Magi reached the baby Jesus with their gifts--did we end the observation of our extended holiday season.
That was a lifetime ago, though. I was raising young children and running a home-based business. True, I was busy, busy, busy, and I didn’t exactly have control of my own schedule. But I wasn’t yet tied to a nine-to-five have-to-be-in-the-office-NOW gig. That would come later, and it would provide me with empathy for the people who decorate for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving and put it all away on or before January 1st if at all possible. (Correction: It would turn me into one of those people.)
So for those of you who like to take down the yule lights before stepping out for your New Year’s Eve celebration, I feel ya. I also have three things to say:
Number One: Don’t bid farewell to 2019 too quickly.
You don’t want to wish away the potential wonders of the Betwixt. In this instance, I’m using Betwixt to refer to the specific period between Christmas and New Year. In the generic sense, Betwixt is an old word used back before the 12th century. It actually means between.
To be fair, the Norwegians’ already coined a name for these days on the calendar between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. It’s called Romjul. It’s not just a name, though. It’s more like a purpose, which is for people to slow down and catch their breath, cozy up in the pj’s for a needed reset, and enjoy loved ones without all the planning and frenzy of the previous days. Romjul is an unspoken invitation to stop fretting and to spend more time relaxing and reflecting. So do it.
Number Two: Do set your sites on hopes for 2020.
Yeah, yeah, you might think I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, and what can I say? I’m good at it. Yet in truth, I do believe we can look forward to tomorrow without wishing away today. I’m trying extra hard to practice that as I await the upcoming new year. You see, I retire from the nine-to-five in January 2020. My last day of traditional work is December 30, 2019. You might say I am GIDDY.
In some ways, the days till retirement have crawled. I haven’t loved every moment of my day job, but I’ve mostly been proud of my work. Its biggest drawback? The time it’s taken. Time away from pursuing other to-do’s and being with people and in places by choice. My choice. Yet suddenly here I am. My time will soon be my own. OMGosh, that takes my breath and leaves me with a sense of tremendous freedom.
Yet with freedom comes a sense of onus.
My bucket list is robust. What if I dive into my next chapter with so much gusto that I crash and burn before February 1? Then again, if I ease in too slowly, I could become a sloth within the same time frame. First-world problems, you say? Why, yes, I believe you’re right.
So in first-world fashion (one that allows for much rumination), I’m nixing my more traditional new year’s happiness to-do list with something more abstract. Until I define my AWESOME new normal (which could require extending my current Betwixt), here’s a more-and-less list to get the new year started:
Number Three: Don’t ever—and that means never—lose your sense of wonder.
Like many, I’ve struggled through my share of difficult holidays. I’m grateful for friends and a husband who talked me off the ledge during the years of “some assembly required.” It’s gotten easier as the Rice children have become adults. I don’t miss much about the days when Rice and I hit the Black Friday sales early, Santa wish lists in hand, headed in separate directions to cover more stores without the aid of an iPhone or cyber sales.
What do I miss from those days? The sense of steadfast wonder that came with them. Sure, Christmas is often more fun when children (and then grandchildren) are front and center. Yet sometimes, like during the Betwixt, merely reflecting on past blessings can bring back that sense of wonder. For me, this happens when I recall the Angel Dog. My recollection of her follows.
Alex was in third grade when she asked for a dog. Not just any dog, mind you. An Irish setter. Where she came up with that breed, I don’t know. You don’t see a whole lot of Irish setters here in Georgia. Gently, I told her no, a dog wasn’t in the cards for us just then. I didn’t dare tell her that a house with three kiddos was all that I could handle. I did remind her that her sister was afraid of dogs, but Alex assured me that Quinn would get used to a dog if we just had one. “I’m sorry, Alex,” I said. “I don’t think we can pull it off just now.” “That’s okay, Mom,” Alex replied. “I’ll ask Santa.” Yup, it was that time of year. I was up to my eyeballs in stress, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “We need to have a talk about Santa.” (Note: Moving forward, the story is true to the best of my recollection. There might be another version out there, depending on who’s retelling it. I can’t be 100% certain.) If my memory is correct, I recovered quickly and well. “The thing about Santa is this,” I said. “He likes to check in with parents before he decides on kids’ gifts. Just in case there are situations like ours.” Alex furrowed her brow in suspicion but didn’t argue. A few seconds later, her face relaxed and she had a comeback. “I’ll just pray to God for a dog, Mom,” she said. “You’re always saying that God answers prayers.” Oy! This kid. She kept my brain working overtime. “Yes, God answers prayers.” I sighed. “But sometimes his answer is ‘not now.’” Alex didn’t press it, and I survived the season, hanging on by my fingernails but, thankfully, without the arrival of a dog. Until Epiphany. On January 6th, I kid you not, a bag-of-bones of a dog showed up on the railroad ties separating our yard from our neighbor’s. The dog appeared frail and gray around the eyes. Her head shook some as she bared her teeth, but I swear it was a smile and not a sneer. Did I mention, she was an Irish setter? In a Hallmark movie, I’d have tied a bow around the dog’s neck and brought her into her new home. But Rice was traveling, Quinn was frightened, and I wasn’t truly sure of the dog’s health or temperament. Of course it was raining, and when Alex asked to build a dog shelter on the patio with a box and an umbrella, how could I say no? (I was already worried I was hell-bound, given the Santa and God talks we’d had earlier that season.) As you’ve probably surmised, Scarlett joined our family on the cusp of that Epiphany so many years ago. She lived in the garage for months. (Don’t feel too bad for her, though. She had her own couch out there, and she also got plenty of walks and treats and company.) From time to time, Alex would ask Quinn if Scarlett could move inside. “Maybe when I’m five,” Quinn would tell her. Quinn turned five on the Fourth of July. Freaked out by the cul-de-sac fireworks, she and I snuck inside to rock in the quiet of the living room. Not surprisingly, Scarlett wasn’t happy about the fireworks either. We must’ve left the garage door partly ajar, because the next thing I knew, Scarlett’s nose was nudging at my leg. And Quinn’s. “I think I’m going to be ill,” Quinn said, when she realized what was happening. (Who knows where she heard that phrase, but, yes, she really said it.) “Do you want me to put Scarlett back out?” I asked her. She was quiet for a moment. “No,” she finally said. “She can stay inside.” The Angel Dog moved into our home that day. She made us her family for the next several years until she succumbed to cancer. Today she lives on, if only in our hearts.
Some may consider this story one about God’s love and faithfulness. Others may pooh-pooh it as a sappy tale of chance or coincidence. I say, why not just embrace the magic when it comes our way?
May we never outgrow our sense of wonder. Cheers ~ J
