This post is another Hallmark sponsored post. I am being paid by Hallmark to write it, but all writing, ideas and opinions are mine. Thankfully, Hallmark and I share the same idea–that little moments are to be celebrated and that good people, good efforts and good intentions deserve a spotlight. See Hallmark Life is a Special Occasion for more details, like them on Facebook, and/or sign up for their e-mail messages HERE.

Call me crazy, but I swear I remember my nursery from when I was a baby. It was yellow–or so I’ve been told. On the wall across from the crib, there was a framed picture of a Precious Moments character who was looking up at a hill with three crosses. Or maybe I made that up. Somehow though, whether created from stories and pictures passed down or drawn from near dormant infant subconsciousness, I’ve built up this memory of standing in my crib and scanning that sunny little nursery with the Precious Moments frame.

The older I get, the more faded my past grows–the depth of time between now and then slowly dissolving details that were once clear. Like classmates’ names, birthday parties, a vivid layout of our tri-level home on Horseshoe Drive.

But there are some memories that stand solid–so precious, they have withstood the test of time, seared with the same magic and awe that accompanied them many years ago.

I remember every Christmas.

I’m so glad I remember Christmas. And knowing just how much work my mom and dad put into those memories, I bet they’re glad I remember Christmas too.

Christmas circa 1984. Dude, my mom and dad were stylin’. I want my dad’s sweater…and my mom’s shoes.

I laugh about flying my holiday freak flag and yes, I enjoy every flap and furl of its flamboyant presence, but there’s a reason for all of this, you know.

I am writing their books. And while they might not remember the pink walls of their nursery or the framed art that hangs across from the crib, I will make sure they’ll remember the magic and wonder of traditions that draw us closer–a time of year that finishes the common stitches of our everyday memories with fine handiwork and colorful thread that won’t be forgotten.

Christmas, 2010

What do I remember about my Christmas past? Well if ordinary memories hold the real past of my childhood, then December opened the wardrobe door to a magical other world. The very essence of childhood–a sense of wonder, imagination, the innocent belief in possibility, creativity–so many of the things that gradually wane with age–it was at its peak this time of year.

I realize now how little money we had–a pastor’s salary plus some piano lesson income–but my childhood mind says we were rich. At Christmas, there were lights, candles, twinkly things, sparkly things, magical things, music–always music. There was a purpose for everything–the extra effort to add cherry poinsettia leaves to cinnamon rolls, the last-minute plans to call kids to the car to go survey light displays, the new pajamas, the gifts my mom stayed up many a nights to sew, craft, create.

Christmas, 2009

Having kids now, I realize just how much work it must have been. Hauling gifts and kids to the car, driving through blizzards to meet up with family, making gifts, hiding gifts, and the deliberate effort of creating what they wanted us to feel–that it was special. That our little minds and memories were worth the work.

Christmas, 2009


Christmas, 2010

We started a new tradition this week–late night wagon walks before bed, through the neighborhood to see the lights. I tucked a blanket around Lainey last night, cleaned up one spilled mug of cocoa and poured another, turned up the volume on my phone as loud as it would go so the Carpenters could come with us, and we walked through the darkness, searching for a good glowing display.

It was special–not just for her, but for me. It’s ink on the pages of her book, and I felt satisfied–a bit like after I write something I feel is good and meaningful.

There’s a reason I remember childhood Christmases so vividly and a value to them as well. Not only do those storybook memories hold the broken ones together–like the year my parents separated or the times things didn’t make so much sense–but they carved deep grooves in my character. They etched the great worth of tradition, imagination and the wonder of childhood.

Christmas, 2010

I have big shoes to fill; my parents set the bar high. But Sister loves a challenge.

Tonight, a new annual tradition begins. A few of Lainey’s friends will be arriving in their pajamas for a night at the North Pole.

Last night, past midnight, as I craned my neck on an eight-foot ladder to staple another strand of lights to the ceiling, I ignored my exhaustion and focused on the prize–my girl’s happiness and her sweet memories in years to come.

You are the author of their storybook, writing memories and elements of their character every day. Make it meaningful. Give them wonder.

What is your most magical, meaningful childhood holiday memory? Hallmark and I would love to know. Please share!

*Friday photo dump coming later this weekend.

This is the last Hallmark sponsored Life is an Occasion post. I have so enjoyed this opportunity and partnering with Hallmark for such an important cause–embracing every opportunity to make life grand. Read all ten Hallmark posts here.

This post is another Hallmark sponsored post. I am being paid by Hallmark to write it, but all writing, ideas and opinions are mine. Thankfully, Hallmark and I share the same idea–that little moments are to be celebrated and that good people, good efforts and good intentions deserve a spotlight. See Hallmark Life is a Special Occasion for more details, like them on Facebook, and/or sign up for their e-mail messages HERE.

I gave myself one year. I’d move to Florida and be away from my family for one year, and things would click. Best case scenario, I’d gain a year of teaching under my belt, spend weekends at the beach, eventually meet some hunk of a man, and he would insist on moving back to the great Midwest where we would raise babies near my family. Years later, in conversation, I’d casually drop mention of that great year I spent in Florida as if it was a badge of honor—like a semester at sea or a hiking expedition in India. That’s how it was supposed to happen.

But it didn’t. It surprises me today just as much as it surprised me then—watching the proverbial dreams for my adult life settle and grow where the long stretch of five states separates me from the heart of who I am—my family. I never thought I’d be that girl—the far away one whose kids don’t understand the concept of cousin sleepovers every other weekend. And yet, while sometimes I feel the throbbing pain of what I am missing—especially this time of year—I am happy.

This is home.

The first year, I jetted home come November. Spending a Thanksgiving away from Michigan and family was an oxymoron. I defined Thanksgiving by my mom’s cranberry jello—the one with the salty pretzel crust—by my sister’s pumpkin rolls and my brother’s laughter and the way the girls clean up in the kitchen when dinner’s over. And it certainly wasn’t Thanksgiving without the Doxology, sung after prayer, its harmony beautifully split into four parts with the very first “whom all blessing flow.” I couldn’t imagine it feeling like a holiday without these things.

But eventually I got married—to a man whose love for Florida runs a close second to his love for me. By the time we welcomed Lainey, it had been decided together that, for the sake of the boys and travel expenses and the importance of beginning our own family traditions, we would watch the parade from our own living room. We’d spend our Thanksgiving at the very bottom of the five-state stretch that separates me from the Novembers of my past.

That first one? I’ll be honest, it was hard. I cried when I hung up the phone with my sister, after hearing in the background all the things I missed. I wanted cousin memories for Lainey. I wanted my mom’s cherry pie. I wanted to be home.

You can mope, though, or you can take charge. And if becoming a mama gives you anything (okay, lots of things), it’s empowerment. Somewhere between my tears and my counterproductive game of imagining just what we’d be doing at that very moment had we been in Michigan, I realized I could create my own reality.

You know a fancy word for mother? Matriach. Throw “Holiday” before it, and you’re practically the Godfather. I was now the Holiday Matriarch (leave the gun, take the cannoli), and I would own it. My family’s Thanksgiving memories were no longer guaranteed by the Doxology and the jello with the pretzel crust but rather, they depended on my own efforts of creating magic.

If you don’t have family near you, find one. (Pick one up at the corner store, would ‘ya? ) While living hundreds of miles from true blood family has its obstacles, it comes with the blessing of recognizing and appreciating friends who become family—not to mention, the challenge of going the extra mile to make meaningful traditions for your kids.

2007

Enter Matt and Dede, separated from us by merely a street width. They started as neighbors, grew into acquaintances, graduated to good friends and now, five Thanksgiving breakfast traditions and countless good times under our belts…they are family. Holiday Matriarch sees to it that we take advantage of that, especially during the holidays.

2009

Next Thursday, we’ll slip out of bed, skipping coffee and showers and heading straight across the street for breakfast. We’ll comment on each others’ pajamas (we go for festive) and confusingly recall just how many years now we’ve been doing this. There will be bacon and blueberry pancakes and a lavish table spread with pretty dishes. And my kids will be hugged and kissed and pampered by Uncle Matt, Aunt Dede and Cousin Alec, who lets Lainey boss him around and never complains.

2009

2010

Later, we’ll head home where dinner preparations will commence and every so often, I’ll look at my kids—taking it all in—and I’ll wonder just how they’ll remember this. I will call home and smile as my brother recounts the Michigan scene, and I will wish for a moment we were there. When I feel sad, I will also feel empowered—to do something about it. Create your own reality. Mom’s cherry pie. The good dishes. Place cards with hand-written names. A beautiful grace before dinner. Toasts with kid wine. Toasts with real wine.

2010

This is home, and I am the Holiday Matriarch.

My friend Elizabeth e-mailed me something tonight—just as I was finishing this post—and it seems profoundly fitting:

“Quality of Life…it’s what we all are working on, right? Every day. It’s all about bucket lists, too, although we call it being intentional.”

2010

And I guess if I had to choose something out of all of this to get cross-stitched on a pillow it would be just that. Whether you have family close by or far away, whether you’re blessed with children or not, whether the coming holidays bring you joy or uneasiness, you can create your own reality by being intentional. Invest time in friends, create new traditions, make efforts to carve memories your children won’t soon forget. And though it might not be a semester at sea or a hiking expedition in India, being intentional will most definitely be a badge of honor, the most notable one for sure.

How will you make your holidays intentional this year? Hallmark and I would love to know how you embrace your title of Holiday Matriarch (or patriarch–ha!). Any meaningful traditions or stories? Please share!