Christmas

Christmas, to many, is a stressful and even depressing time of the year. It is the season of obligation, spending, and of being reminded of those who aren’t here this year to celebrate with us. It is the season of expectations. Being in the dark, cold, dreary winter doesn’t help either. Every year I have to leave people off of the gift list, and I am sure it hurts me much more than it does them. So why am I still such a Christmas cheeseball? Why do I still have that child-like excitement every year at Christmas? I’d have to say that my good Christmas memories far exceed the bad ones. And I promise it has nothing to do with “things”. Here, I share with you some Christmas memories.



It was tradition for Amy and me to sleep in her bed together on Christmas Eve night (which we did most of the time anyway). We would giggle and whisper about what we thought Santa would bring us. Every few minutes, Mama or Daddy would tell us to quiet down and go to sleep so Santa could come. One year in particular Amy and I both woke up before four in the morning. We tiptoed through the kitchen and peeped around the corner into the living room where the Christmas tree sat right in front of the window. It was completely dark except for the amber glow of the Christmas tree tossing light upon the room. Santa had already been to our house and his bag had yielded for us both an impressive mound of gifts under the tree. We knew it was too early to wake up Mama and Daddy, so we sat right in front of the tree and tried our best to be quiet. It wasn’t long though before our parents were entering the living room. They were not mad that we woke them up so early; in fact, I remember groggy smiles on their faces. They let us tear into our gifts right then, even though it was still dark outside. By the time we were finished opening our gifts, the grey light of morning had began to seep in. One of my gifts was a cube-shaped clock radio on which Daddy promptly set the time and told us to go back to bed. “Don’t get up until that clock says ‘eight-oh-oh’,” he said. Time has likely grown the amount of gifts under that tree in my memory bank. It doesn’t matter anyway, the only thing I remember getting that year was the clock.


If you know my Daddy, you know how he likes to play games and trick people—not in a mean way, of course. One year he came up with a game that I thought was really fun. Instead of putting names on the gifts, he put numbers. Not Amy, Mallory, Wesley, nor I knew which gift belonged to whom. He had a list that had which gift number belonged to which of us. We started with the youngest—Wesley. He had to pick a gift he thought would be his. He read Dad the number on the gift. If it was his he got to open it; if it wasn’t his, he had to give to the person it belonged to and she got to open it. I remember Wesley getting upset because he never picked his own gift. And I remember they thought I cheated and looked at the list beforehand, because I picked mine every time. It was so much fun, lots of laughs. I don’t remember what any of those gifts were. I still try to get Daddy to do this game again. One day I will get him to. And I swear that I never saw that list.


Every Christmas since Asia has been born has brought its own memories. She has changed Christmas for me forever. I hope when she is my age that she looks back and has warm memories of Christmas. Even though I am not able to get her every material thing that she asks for I hope that I can still give her wonderful memories, even if it means letting her wrap the presents no matter what they look like when she is finished, or getting icing up to our elbows making a gingerbread house, or taking her to look at Christmas lights when I really don’t need to use the gas, or letting her use that glass mug to drink hot chocolate from.


I think the fact that Christmas is celebrated in dark, cold winter is symbolic. It is a holiday that brings warmth in the cold, light in the darkness, and life to a frozen land just the way God sent Jesus to bring hope to the world in a time when things seemed hopeless. That is what Christmas is about after all. I hope you all have a very merry Christmas and may your light shine into someone else’s life this season.

This Facebook Page Belongs To Lauren Barnett

I would like to apologize to my Facebook friends for putting statuses about things that upset me, or about when I am physically hurting. I am also sorry about being vague when I talk about being in pain. I just didn’t want to fill up people’s news feed with gross details about my ovaries and uterus. I also want to let you know that my Facebook page is not a virtual version of me on uppers. It is a virtual “Lauren” and Lauren is not always happy. There are things that upset me, or make me mad or sad. There are times that I am in physical pain.  Believe it or not, there are people who actually care about me on my friend’s list. They like to know when I am in pain so they can pray for me. They like to know why I am upset so they can give me a pep talk and cheer me up. They like to get on to me when I say something stupid or harsh so they can set me straight. I guess I was stupid enough to think that instead of making assumptions about things I say, people would ask me about it. Nothing I put on my Facebook page is a secret and I think I have avoided any taboos. My intentions are never bad. I don’t try to offend or upset anyone, and in fact, feel bad when I accidentally do. Again, I would like to apologize for ever crushing your soul with my statuses.

Friday Evening

Thursday morning, I will be preparing food for a Thanksgiving dinner, just like many people will be. I will be with my family enjoying a feast and conversation, just like many people will be. That evening may be for relaxing, decorating for Christmas, or anything, just like many people's will be. I will go to bed thankful for the family still here to celebrate; I will be thankful that we are not hungry; I will be thankful for many things, just like many people will be. Friday morning, however, I will not be in line at 3:00 in the morning; I will not be fighting people for the latest piece of technology or "it" toy; I will not spend a bank load of hard earned money materializing Christmas, just like many people will. Friday afternoon, I will not be beaten up, frazzled, nor will I have exhausted the family resources or maxed-out any credit cards, just like many people will. Friday evening, I will be thankful I can see through the glitz and glitter to the real meaning of Christmas; I will be thankful for a family that understands why I have not bought them truckloads of expensive gifts, unlike many people.

Ghost Story

There is an hour and fifteen minute gap between my Advanced Grammar and Research Strategies class. Usually I go to the library, but lately I have began going to my car sometimes instead, taking a shortcut to the parking lot through Martin Hall. On the way back TO class I usually stop in Martin Hall to use the restroom since it is less crowded (I am always in there by myself actually) than the ones in Johnston.

One time I was using the bathroom alone and I thought I heard someone in the bathroom. Confused, because I thought I was alone, I peeped under the stall to look for feet. No feet. Then I heard the sound of my rolling backpack move across the tile floor very slowly. The toilets are automatic flush and when my toilet flushed another one did too. I washed my hands, grabbed my backpack, and left. I didn't really thing that much of it.

The next time I was in there, alone again, I heard the same noise like there was someone in there. I figured there must be a mouse or something. Then, I heard the sound of my backpack slowly rolling across the tile again. When I came out of the stall, my backpack had actually moved away from the wall. I was a little creeped out you could say.

Then, I went back in there, but this time I saw that there was someone in there. I didn't stare at the stall or anything; I could just see the shadow of someone in the stall. I go into my stall, the person is moving around, like the sounds I heard before. Then suddenly everything was quiet. The toilet did not flush. The stall door did not open or close. I heard no footsteps. When I come out of the stall, there was no one in the bathroom at all.

Today, I was talking to someone in one of my classes. I was joking about how I thought the bathroom in Martin Hall was haunted. She said, "All of Martin Hall is haunted." And she was serious! She started telling me about other people's stories. So I thought that was super cool. I can't wait to go back.

6

It is hard to believe that tomorrow my little Asia will be SIX! This past weekend we painted her room and redecorated it. In the process of making her room a "big girl" room, I had to get rid of some things. Her little table that I got her when she was six months old, the shelf that I painted for her when I was pregnant with her, her birth information plaque that I filled out as soon as we brought her home from the hospital, and other little sentiments were removed from within the four walls that belong to a big girl now, and not a little baby girl. I am not getting rid of these items, I am storing them, but the symbolic removal of them from her room was quite a milestone. It made me kind of sad. I just want her to be little longer.

A Mother’s Work

The house is a wreck
I'm not lookin' pretty
Homework's not done
Floors feelin' gritty

 
Clothes need to be washed
And groceries need bought
Stain on the carpet's
Not even a thought

 
Yard needs to be raked
Have pains of hunger
So much to do and
I'm not getting younger

 
What did I do with
My day, do you ask?
I fulfilled the most
Important of tasks

 
I visited Mom
I visited Dad
I hugged them so tight
It made us all glad

 
I played with my kids
And walked in the park
Then we caught fireflies
When the sky fell dark

 
I tucked them in bed
And kissed them goodnight
Laid with my husband
And cuddled up tight

 
Forgot my housework
In the joy and natter
There's always tomorrow
If not, does it matter?

 

 

The Grass is Always Greener

Today, most everything around me was brown and dry. When I said how much I love autumn colors and listening to the crisp ground beneath my feet, this is not what I had in mind. The grass looked like it was in the dead of winter. The deciduous trees seemed to be skipping a vital part of the perennial cycle (the color changing and shedding of leaves) and the leaves hung withered, dried, and lifeless on the sagging branches. It was as if they got tired of waiting for autumn weather and just… gave up. Atop the hills, all around were trees, many of them still green, many of them dried to an aesthetically unpleasant brown, not an autumn brown. Perhaps some believe they might as well be dead. I am quite sure, however, that come spring there will be new life. Green, and the many colors of blossoms, will once again dominate the hillsides. The trees will keep their arms stretched high, reaching for the sky, and be singing to it: Let's try this again.

The Liquor Store

A liquor store is a liquor store

No matter what you go there for

The things they sell may've different names

But basically it's all the same

If alcohol is sin—then it is sin

Doesn't matter which store you're in

So to all of you "holy" religious folk

Who have to have your rum and coke

When you enter the liquor store,

(No matter what you go there for)

Don't worry a bit about who might find ya

The people in the next pew are right behind ya

There's no need to drive far out of town

Jesus is the only one who will frown

(NOTE: I am not saying alcohol in and of itself is "bad." I am simply pointing out that so many religious people put that stigma on it; yet, so many of them do it in private. The hypothetical "if" is in there because IF drinking alcohol is a sin, then it is a sin, even if no other human sees them do it. It seems that no one is concerned about what God thinks of them; they are concerned with what the fellow church people think of them. It is as if they have forgotten that God sees everything and that the people next to them in church are not the ones giving them passage to heaven. This applies in so many other aspects of life, not just a measly glass of wine. As you have probably guessed, this was indeed inspired. Oh, and I know it is not a "good" poem, technically speaking, but when I sat down to blog it just kind of come out.)

Corn Disaster and Good Will

It is Saturday evening and staring at my psychology textbook has caused a sudden increase of melatonin in my pineal gland. I must engage in something I find entertaining (like blogging) before someone finds me snoring at the table. A few weeks ago, I noticed really fast-growing "weeds" growing sporadically in the front of our place. As I pulled up one of them, I noticed that it was growing from a piece of corn. There was corn growing everywhere. I tried to keep a lot of it. I knew (because I was told) that it wasn't likely to grow corn since there was not enough of it for proper cross-pollination. But the scientist in me wanted to see if would anyway. I pulled up all but two sections, and fell in hope with my corn. It was like manna from heaven. The corn in front of the bush had gotten to be over 6 feet tall. I was really excited… until I awoke Friday morning to discover that someone had maliciously mowed over the stalks in front of the bush. There were pieces of the mangled corn all over the yard. I picked up a couple of them that actually had ears of corn growing on them. Disheartened as I am, I still have hope that the ones in front of the window will produce something.

This is as minor as it gets, but I felt like I just had to do it. I ordered a book from Amazon, from an independent seller. The book itself was $1.50; shipping was $3.99; that's a total of $5.49. I got in the mail today, and only ordered it Wednesday. It was from someone in Shelbyville and she paid $5.00 for postage. After Amazon takes their commission, it actually would end up costing her to mail me the book, instead of her making money. I felt the overwhelming and unexplainable urge to contact this lady and let her know about media mail; it would have saved her more than half on postage. So I typed her up a letter telling her about media mail and I enclosed $4 with it just because I felt bad. I hope she gets it.

Within

My purse usually gets a lot of attention regarding its size. I will sometimes hand it over to the people gaping at it and let them feel the weight. That really impresses them. I don't know many women that carry a purse that weighs as much as 3 gallons of water, but I do. My purse is actually a generously sized carry-on that I stuff like it was a Build-A-Bear. Within you will find many things: a year's supply of hand sanitizer, my glasses, 3 wallets (no, I do NOT have a lot of money, I just have things organized in my own obsessive-compulsive way), calendar, reading material, junk, all kinds of things that I probably don't even remember are in there. Most importantly, I have my writing materials in there: A pad holder, a note pad, two or three journals, and an array of writing utensils for every mood. Since I am an introvert, I use writing as my emotional outlet. And I am extremely emotional. My mind is full thoughts, ideas, and nonsense and should it decide it needs a release I have got to have those handy. So, I guess one could say that my purse contains my innermost feelings, my most personal thoughts, my hopes and worries. And those, folks, are very, very heavy.

I WILL Grow

If you know me well enough, you know that I am in perpetual emotional struggle. Sometimes it is only one thing, sometimes there are many at once. I currently have several things with which I am dealing. One of which is the fact that I am pushed aside, disregarded. No one thinks I will ever amount to anything. But what if I do? What if one day I succeed at…something? What will people think then? How will they treat the same Lauren differently? I ask myself these questions frequently. Because, let's say one day I do find the success I am looking for, I am not going to change. I am still going to be the goofy and melancholy Lauren that I have always been.

Today, as if it were a sign from God, I found something. Shannon and I took a minute to stop by Maury Regional to visit friends of ours who had just had a baby girl. We stopped by the gift shop to get them a little gift. This emotional issue of mine was heavy on my heart at the time and I was fighting back tears. Then I found a display of 40% off bookmarks. I love bookmarks, especially when they have a profound statement or quote that really speaks to me printed on it. On said display, there was only one bookmark left dangling there on the end of its hook practically calling out my name. I read the short poem on the front and it is as if that little bookmark knew I was coming and knew I needed to read what it said. I bought it, of course. Today, I have been given hope just when I needed it. Sometimes little things can be quite big; quiet things can be very loud; and things that cannot talk can sometimes speak volumes. The bookmark:

I Will Grow

I will become something

new and grand,

but no grander

than I now am.

Just as the sky

will be different

in a few hours,

its present perfection

and completeness

is not deficient.

So am I presently perfect

and not deficient

simply because I will be

different tomorrow.

I will grow

and I am not deficient.

-- by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

JLB

wondering about wandering

We all wonder. Few of us get to wander. I always thought I would get to be the latter. Traveling from place to place, earning a meager living doing godknowswhat for a while, and then moving on has a certain romance. But it turned out to be quite the opposite for me. I not only got stuck between a rock and a hard place, it seems I have been concreted in as well. I have a soul that needs to roam. This is why I am often caught daydreaming in unsuitable situations, why I have such grandeur ideas, and why I do not like to be told "no!" This is my soul's way of wandering and it doesn't like to be told to stop or that it can't go certain places. If my feet must be here, my mind should be able to go wherever it pleases. This is why I am such a ridiculous visionary of a human being. And I really can't help it and, in fact, kind of like it. It allows me to escape the mundanity of day-to-day business. I can't decide, though, if this is what keeps me from going insane or if this is what will cause it. (?)

Wrinkles

Just the other day I noticed wrinkles on my forehead. Fine lines reminding me that there is no turning back, signifying that my fate is sealed. Now, I don't know at what age most ladies begin to see forehead wrinkles, but I am only 26 and I know at this time last year they were not there. I can only see that they are there to stay when I relax the muscles in my face, but they are there nonetheless. So where did they come from? After pondering which facial expression is most responsible for leaving its permanent mark on my countenance, I have concluded it is the tense, raised eyebrows of angst. I am always mentally bracing for whichever derogatory comment or look of disgust or disappointment is headed my direction next. I have never been fond of myself. Throughout my adolescence it took antidepressants to break me of my self-effacing, self-loathing ways. Those were the days, also, when I could not have cared less what people thought of me. Now, though, I feel as if I am being judged in every aspect of my life… AND I care. I am always trying to figure out what I can do so that people will see me differently, so they will respect me, be proud of me, and most of all love me. What do I have to do? Who do I have to be?

Enter Epiphany: I have to be the best me I can be, because happiness will not come to me until I am. One cannot exude happiness, until, internally, truly happy. If people are going to respect me, I need to respect myself. If people are to be proud, then I need to make myself proud. And if people are ever going to love me, I have to learn to love myself… for who I am. I have vowed to travel down the road of happiness until I reach that destination. The people who are there waiting for me will be the ones who matter anyway. As far as the wrinkles go, I think I'd rather deal with them than the reason they're there in the first place.

--JLB

My Feelings on Valentine’s Day

My Feelings on Valentine's Day:

First, if it takes a special holiday for someone to show me how much they love me, then I've obviously spent the rest of the year with the wrong person.

Second, I do like flowers once in a while, but hopefully my guy would not pay the exponentially inflated prices for them on Valentine's Day because he can't think of anything more lasting to do with 70 bucks.

Third, if the point of Valentine's Day is to be more intimate, then why drag me to a crowded restaurant where we have to huddle for an hour by the doors with a bunch of strangers while we wait on a table where we are jam packed together again? That's not exactly my idea of "intimate."

Next, are you giving me a Teddy Bear so YOU don't have to snuggle with me?

Lastly, why are there special chocolates for Valentine's Day? The key to my heart is not a heart-shaped box o' chocolates on February 14th, but dark chocolates frequently for no other occasion except that I want them.

Just a thought: If love is blind, why is Victoria's Secret so popular?