Ever think about heaven? I mean, enough so to get hung up on the physicality of it all? For instance, could there be actual stairs leading to heaven? Here on earth, we’d have to worry about ACA guidelines. But in heaven, everyone’s healthy and whole, able to tackle that stairway without a hitch. Right? Then again, maybe in heaven, we’re more like spirits, formed into very un-earthlike orbs but with beautiful spirits.
Me? I've thought about heaven a lot lately, no doubt more irreverently than some might like.
My heavenly musings started mid-February, when the winter storms hit much of the country. Here in Georgia, we escaped real snow, but we did experience some vicariously. As Rice and I sat in front of the fire, scanning FaceBook pics posted by friends out in Elsa Land, we had two very different reactions. Me: “It’s so incredibly beautiful.” Him: “I don’t miss that one damned bit.”
Okay, I’ll grant him the snow has its downsides. In the Michigan of our college years, the snow could get old and dirty and ugly when plowed into piles to clear the roads for safety. Then during our young married years, the Colorado commutes could get pretty wretched, what with the black ice and whipping winds. And I think that those are the parts of winter Rice remembers.
But I recall another face of winter, one where there’s sledding and making snow angels and warming up with hot chocolate. One where white pops from the mountaintops after the clouds clear from a storm.
“Wouldn’t it be cool,” I mused, “if there was a place where you could experience the outdoor wonders of winter, but only for as long as you wanted? So after ten minutes of it, you could walk back into your balmy backyard in springtime if you chose. Wouldn’t it be great if that’s how heaven was, a bunch of rooms or oases you could travel to and from at will?”
"Hmmmmmm," Rice replied.
I didn’t press for more conversation. But my mind didn’t stop. I decided right then that if heaven has more than one room, one of those should be devoted to Seasons.
Like seven of ten Americans, I believe heaven exists. Most people’s visions of heaven—or any sort of afterlife—are rooted in their faith. I’m no different. Raised a Christian, specifically a Lutheran, I was taught to take comfort that heaven awaits me. And I do find comfort in that. But who knows?
In addition to the question of if there’s a heaven, there’s a stickier question of exactly who gets in? Most Christians believe the way into heaven is by accepting Christ as the Savior. But there’s a catch. That would mean only Christians get into heaven. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to go to a place like that. (Of course, my conservative Christian roots are screaming: “Heresy, Jan!”)
Heaven. In my mind, it’s an inclusive place. I mean, think about animals. Do they get into heaven? My daughter Alex theorizes that any creature that dreams has a place in paradise. But...is it the same heaven all the rest of us go to? (I suspect a few people in my family would opt for animal heaven over people heaven if it came down to having to choose.)
Oh, heaven. You dazzle us in songs and books, paintings and quotes. Respected evangelist Billy Graham said, “My home is in heaven. I’m just traveling through this world.” English theoretical physicist, cosmologist, and author Stephen Hawking said, "There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.”
When it comes to heaven, I sure hope Reverend Graham is right. But who really knows?
For just a little stretch during February, I allowed myself to over-think it. The more I mused about heaven, the more I got to wondering what it would look like for me, if I could pick my own magical door of entry.
For starters, I kind of like that blueprint I referenced earlier, the layout for a paradise of many different rooms, or oases. Remember the room I mentioned called Seasons? Definitely, that would be part of my heaven. Next, I’d include a room called Cities. People who know me will probably laugh out loud at that. In life, I avoid large cities like, well, the plague. I find metro areas crowded and dirty, loud and rodent-infested. Getting safely to and from the city often involves mass transportation, which brings on claustrophobia and feelings of being out of control. Yet.... Cities contain riches that can’t be found anywhere else. Restaurants where the food is sublime and varied, the diners colorful and culturally diverse. Old cemeteries and architecture that tell tales of years and lives long passed. Galleries and museums and shops that awaken every one of the senses. Yes, getting to and from big cities can be hell. But experiencing the riches inside the city? Heaven. So I suppose one room of my heaven would feature Cities. Of course, I’d also like a room called Countryside. But would that be a stand-alone or all-inclusive place? In other words, would Countryside have sub-rooms of woodlands and lakes and oceanfronts? And what about room-rooms? You know, more traditional rooms like libraries and kitchens? Heaven without a library wouldn’t seem like heaven to me. Much lower on my list would be a big fancy-ass kitchen—even one that gives new meaning to the term self-cleaning. But Rice might love that. So maybe in my heaven, Rice could cook for me in his Kitchen, and we could dine together in my Library, and between those rooms would lie our Wine Cellar. (We’d definitely have to share that room.)
Fun aside, I’m glad I don’t get a hand in designing my own rooms of heaven. For one thing, I’m sure I’d fret about what I might be forgetting. For instance, did I build in a room called Creative Arts? Or one for Love and Rest? And what about a room called Family? You know, a room for loved ones to gather without tension or arguments. A room where there’s no tug-of-war as to which family to visit come holiday time. Or whether to send kids to school in these lingering days of COVID.
In truth, I believe what awaits in heaven is so much grander than any human imaginings. That’s a very traditional Christian way of thinking, and I own it. But I also find solace in the lessons of Chinese philosopher Confucius. Especially this one: “We must not focus on the afterlife, of which we know so little. Instead we must focus on everyday life.”
Come to think of it, that’s where most of these heavenly ruminations of mine came from. Everyday life. Life today, life yesterday. Memories stoked by some random FaceBook pictures of snow.
A specific recollection.
One of my favorite memories of snow involves cross-country skiing with a friend named Kim. She and I would drive into one of the woodland canyons around Boulder, park the car, and hit the trails. The oneness I felt with nature during those treks was sublime. I think those memories may be what started me thinking about heaven.
They got me thinking about Kim, too, all these thirty years later. So I Googled her. When her name popped up, so did the word Obituary. I swallowed back a gasp and searched longer, discovering that Kim hadn’t passed. Her husband Jeff had. Young and vibrant. Crazy healthy. And then gone...too soon. Oh, how I suddenly wished I could visit with Kim and Jeff, just one more time.
So maybe I would like to add one more room to my heaven. Certainly an Old Friends’ Spot in the clouds would be apt.
Then again, Confucius might see things differently. He might point out there’s an Old Friends’ Spot accessible to me here and now. The cost is a ticket. The ticket is a memory.
So excuse me while I take a breather to access my own Old Friends’ Spot. It’s right here. Deep in the love-filled lining of my still beating heart.
P.S. I forgot to mention, in my heaven, carbs and calories don’t count.
Cheers ~ J
(This one’s dedicated to Mr. Rice. We constantly squabble over his word choices, which are appropriate in his mind yet often questionable in mine. Oh, well. Here’s to us. May the squabbling continue!)
When I was a kid, whenever I had my feelings hurt by something another kid said, my mom would remind me: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” While I grasped what she was trying to tell me, I never quite bought it. To me, words mattered.
The next time I gave as much thought to words might have been during a freshman comp session in college. The instructor asked us, “What is the most beautiful word you’ve ever heard?” I can’t remember the exact responses; I suspect they were things like “baby,” “sunshine,” “radiant.”
“No, no,” the teacher said. “I’m talking about beautiful-sounding words. Like enema.”
Not surprisingly, most of us grimaced when he said that. But he told us his class of International students who spoke English as a second language rated enema as a most beautiful word.
The lesson wasn’t yet over. “What are some ugly-sounding words?” he continued. Again, I can’t remember the numerous student responses, just the teacher’s one: “What about f*ck?” I thought I’d die. Then he asked us to share some words and phrases that meant the same thing but sounded less offensive. To this day, the phrase grinding corn still gives me the giggles.
Ah, words. To this day, I remain convinced that how and why we choose them really does matter.
Back in 2019, I started an annual tradition of sorts. I chose a Word of the Year (WOTY), a single word to capture what I needed more of, what I wanted to improve, or what I wanted to focus on in the upcoming year. In 2019, I was twelve months from retirement, burned out, but still wanting to make an impact at work. My mind constantly bungeed from “What do I need to be doing now?” to “What next?” My WOTY choice was easy then: FOCUS.
When 2020 arrived, I chose CULTIVATE. Oh, hellz, yeah, I cultivated in 2020. Who didn’t? What else was there to DO while waiting for this pandemic to end, except to nurture and develop plans for some day?
For better or worse, some day is here, in the form of 2021. Before I tell you what word I’ve chosen this round, I’d like to share some choices a few of my friends have made. Seems I’m not alone in ushering in a WOTY.
Let me start with Karen, whom I met 30 years ago when we both moved from different states into the same suburb north of Atlanta. Karen was almost nine months pregnant at the time, and I asked what she was going to do with her older kids (then three and seven) when it was time to have the baby. She planned to pack ‘em up and take ‘em along to the hospital with her and her husband. I suggested instead she bring them to my house, which she and Gary did. To this day, our families remain good friends. One of Karen and my current bonds is that while our politics are similar, we each have adult children (and their partners) who do NOT necessarily share our views. Can you say, “Oh, wow. What are some safe discussion topics during family Zoom calls?” When Karen chose KINDNESS as her WOTY, I didn’t need to ask her why. (Then again, maybe it’s the ongoing Karen jokes folks dump on her. Regardless, Kare Bear, I wish you an abundance of well-deserved kindness in 2021.)
Next comes Agnes, one of my favorite former co-workers. We met over ten years ago, and a friendship evolved. Back in September 2019, as Agnes approached retirement, I wrote this to/about her: “The lady is classic, mindful, and caring. I have no doubt she seeks—and finds—happiness each and every day. But Agnes is also an achiever, and I sense a frustration in her for not having an answer to a well-meaning question many have recently asked: “What’s next?” So I say this to you, Agnes, with respect and love: “Stop with all the achieving already! Take time to breathe. Regroup. Say ‘NO!’”
Well, now...spring forward to today: Agnes’s 2021 WOTY is OPPORTUNITY! “Oh, oh, Agnes,” I asked when she recently told me this, “what in the world are you planning to achieve now?” She set me straight, though. She is not looking for opportunity. Agnes is tasking herself to see opportunity in whatever comes her way each new day. Sounds like an excellent plan, m’darlin’.
I met Lindsey almost a year ago in a writing class taught by the wonderful Joshilyn Jackson. Halfway through the six-week class, pandemic restrictions caused us to go remote. Disappointing as this was, it taught us we could still work on our writing and revising together via Zoom. Our writing journeys continue, together but also separately and in unique ways. My road is one of an empty nester, not without bumps, but with fewer obstacles than years past. Lindsey’s road is one of jumps and starts as she also juggles the demands of four kids, church, substitute teaching, a husband, extended family, a podcast...I know there’s more, but whew, I’m already tired. Lindsey’s WOTY? VISION. I hear ya, lady...although I suspect you’ll continue to juggle too much, still handling it all with joy and sass and grace. (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.)
And now may I tell you about Kathy? Like Karen, Kathy’s been my friend for going on thirty years. In fact, we all met at the same pool in the same subdivision back when we were the age of the current Millennials. Crazy, I know. Kathy’s the kind of woman you could almost hate...if she wasn’t so gosh-darned nice. She doesn’t cuss, she’s a gracious hostess (of baby showers, happy hours, cookie exchanges, yada), her house and yard are always immaculate, her kids continue to be those kids—you know, the ones with perfect SAT scores, yada again. Now retired, Kathy’s still a worker and a worrier. When I asked for her WOTY, she told me TRUST. Then she burst out laughing and said, “That was my word last year, wasn’t it?” Indeed it was. For 2021, Kathy’s settled on SAVOR. Let’s hope she allows herself to do just that and savor the lovely life she and Mike have made for themselves.
My 2021 WOTY is almost too simple. It’s HOPE. When I first contemplated it, I scoffed. In my mind, hope seemed too damned soft. It reminded me of this phrase: “A goal is a dream with a deadline.” In my mind, hope seemed too much like dream. Fluffy. Not strong enough to anchor a year on.
But then I thought back on 2020. So many hardships touched us. Obviously, the pandemic. But also racial tensions. Economic hardships. Unjust deaths and other travesties. And now here’s 2021. Within a week of its onset, we witnessed an insurrection on our Capitol. We continue to watch our nation move forward but fail to feel it heal and unite.
So here’s the deal. I wish you good things in 2021. May you be sprinkled with an abundance of what you need most, be it kindness or opportunity. Clearer vision. The grace to savor life’s little gifts.
If you don’t get jazzed by words and their meanings, so be it. I still wish you ongoing hope.
My WOTY is HOPE. Can’t help myself. After all, without hope, does anything else really matter?
Cheers ~ Jan
Updated: Nov 24, 2022
(This one’s dedicated to Alison Curtis, who reminded me earlier this month that even adults can experience the magic of Christmas with child-like wonder...if we just try.)
What a year it’s been, no? Who would’ve thought back in February we’d be celebrating this kind of December? So much makes this year different than Christmases past. Yet most of us will still observe some of our annual customs. Like exchanging presents. Most folks find that one of the best parts of the season. But can I be honest? All this gift-giving makes me a little bit crazy. It has for a long time, and I’m just now coming to understand why.
Thinking back to Christmases of my childhood, they were pretty great. In kidspeak, that means there was never a shortage of food or family. Or presents. I remember fun little surprises like charm bracelets and dolls and perfume-mixing (chemistry) sets. And big fat awesome gifts like a pair of snow skis, along with goggles and mittens and long johns, of course. I remember loving them all.
Christmases in my young adulthood might be where my disenchantment with gifting started. For one thing, I was a newlywed living states away from family and friends before the days of Zoom and FaceTime. Everything was unfamiliar, including holiday services at our new church. Gifts seemed secondary to my holiday loneliness. Money was tight, and that was no fun either. If you sprinkle in some starry-eyed idealism, you might see a woman who has struggled for years to balance the season’s mix of faith and over-the-top falala-ing.
I remember the Christmas after Rice and I bought our first house. We over-extended on that purchase. (Doesn’t everyone? At least those of us lucky enough to buy a house?) When I say we lived paycheck to paycheck, that’s a literal statement. We weren’t starving, and we still had heat and hot water. But make no mistake. We were squeaking back then.
We mailed gifts to out-of-state family that year—the postage probably cost more than the presents—but we decided to forego exchanging gifts between the two of us on the 25th. We agreed to treat each other to a little something, but it would be when we shopped the after-Christmas sales together. When I told a co-worker our plan, she was mortified. “Are you that bad off?” she asked. She saw us as destitute. I saw us as practical.
Flash forward to a few years later. Our household now included a baby girl. (Other miracles were yet to come, like cell phones and cybershopping...and two more babies.) That first Christmas as a mom was enlightening. It was the year young women got into bitch-slap fests to claim the last Cabbage Patch doll on the shelf. Talk about the spirit of the season. And I was only just getting a taste of the jolliness.
Like it or not, our society celebrates the season with gifts. Sure, I could’ve made a stand by saying let’s not do things that way. But I didn’t—in no small part because I’m married to a man, God love him, who liked to see his children’s eyes sparkle come Christmas morning.
As the Rice brood grew, we parents started to shop the Black Friday butt-crack-of-dawn sales. We’d split up, visiting different stores to better our odds of scoring the year’s wish-list items. Standing in those lines got pretty boring. Eavesdropping on other parents provided a way to pass the time. One family was buying their kid a TV...for starters. Another confessed they weren’t sure how they’d pay their credit card bills in January. But by God, their kids were going to have plenty of Santa gifts come December 25th.
Did I like hearing all this? No. It didn’t seem practical. Nor did it make me want to run up our credit card bills, just to play a game of one-upping the neighbors. It did, however, cause me to re-visit my struggle with the over-the-top nature of the season. These parents obviously loved their children. They enjoyed showing that love through gift-giving. That didn’t mean they weren’t going to celebrate the Baby Jesus, too. (Whether they did or not wasn’t really my business, of course. The point is, my take on gifting at Christmas started to shift.)
Which leads me to....
Realization #1: Faith and commercialism are separate issues. They can co-exist.
Gaining that insight brought some peace. But gift-giving still caused me heartburn. Why?
Another insight flashed over me, and it’s not one I’m proud to admit. What if I was a scrooge-of-a-gift-giver not because I chafed at the commercialism it represented? What if I was so scrooge-like because I really suck when it comes to gifting?
Oh, my gosh, that’s it, isn't it? I mean, here are some gifts I’ve distributed through the years:
Loaves of homemade orange bread to be reheated Christmas morning, again for friends. Well and good. And yummy. Except I gifted each loaf in a tin that was too tiny for the recipe. One friend admitted the sugary icing dripped out of the pan during baking and caught her oven on fire.
A hand-crafted coupon book for my husband, who isn’t a big fan, but who was—and still is—too kindhearted to remind me I got him that same gift a year earlier.
A Raggedy Ann for our middle child. I’d always wanted one for myself. Wouldn’t she just love it? No. She found it creepy.
A bottle of champagne for an adult sitter. I would’ve liked that. She, I soon learned, probably didn’t. She was a Latter Day Saint.
Cringe-worthy watercolor-illustrated poems...written and painted by moi.
Hand-crafted papier-mache angels for family, friends, and neighbors. I worked on those babies for hours, with love and care. They were filled with the spirit of the season. Looking back now, they resembled ghostly gargoyles. God love my friends, some even displayed those ugly angels for more than one season.
I could go on, but I won’t. The pattern’s clear. I like to give gifts that are simple. Often homemade. Those kinds of gifts have meaning. For me. Here’s a funny thing about gifts, though. They’re meant to be enjoyed by those who receive them. It’s well and good if the gifter gets joy from them, too. But that’s secondary. So.... Realization #2: I suck at gift-giving. I continue to struggle with it, shopping for family and friends, party hosts and neighbors, book-club buddies and office mates. Please note: I LIKE the actual giving. It’s figuring out WHAT to give that’s difficult. The good news for me? This season has bought a bit of respite from over-the-top gifting. But it’s come with a price. My heart feels extra heavy for those suffering from illness, loss, or despair. My thoughts go out to those less directly scathed by 2020 but who still feel its weight, foregoing cherished traditions like travel, decorating, and family gatherings. And I send special hugs to grandparents missing their grands this season. Christmas without little ones nearby can be tough. We count on them to help us see the magic on the mantel, to point out a robust Santa, hohoho-ing, his sleigh overloaded with toys. Children see a sweet Baby Jesus, plump and cozy, lying in a manger filled with golden hay. And Mother Mary, clean and white, gazing down at the Christ child with awe and hope. Without help from eyes of innocence, those same images can look very different. Santa appears pretty damned tired, and his sleigh’s not full enough to do right by every child with a Christmas wish. Baby Jesus still lies nearby, but he’s restless on prickly hay that smells of animal dung. The Madonna gazing down at him is more likely filled with fright and exhaustion than hope. She’s around thirteen years old with brown skin. She’s probably dirty and hungry. Our adult eyes see realities we never could (or should) have imagined as a child. Realities like racism. Poverty. Hunger. Social injustice. Yes, we adults need to see all those things. We can never eradicate them if we don’t recognize them. So yes, we need to focus on them, to talk about them. But not every moment of every day.
Maybe it boils down to this....
Realization #3: Giving and receiving gifts is not a top love language of mine. At least not the tangible kind of gifts.
But lest you fear I’ve forgotten, I do have a Christmas gift for you. Knowing my history of gifting, you may be relieved it is intangible and brief, actually more like a three-pronged wish. It goes like this:
May you be spared of cringe-worthy gifts.
May you feel loved and healthy and safe.
Most of all, may you experience the magic of child-like wonder.
At least for a moment, may you find a way to celebrate the awe that is Christmas. Cheers – Jan
