Choosing a happy new year
December 30, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 13 Comments
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Of all the holiday cartoons that have appeared on our television screen over the past month, I have to say the worst was Rudolph’s Shiny New Year. Ben Franklin? A troll? A baby new year with huge ears? Hmm.
I never liked that one, even as a child. The whole thing seemed confusing and random and even a little scary. It’s not just me, either. My kids stopped watching halfway through and decided that playing in the snow sounded much more fun.
Now that I think about it, though, maybe all that scariness was intended. Maybe Arthur Rankin, Jr. and Jules Bass wanted a cartoon about New Year’s to be random and confusing. Because that’s what they often are.
There are many people who will go out tonight to say goodbye to 2010 and hello to 2011 in style. They’ll drink and carouse and laugh and kiss. To many, it’s a starting over and a chance to set things right. I’ll do better this year, they say. This year, things will be different.
For others, all that partying is designed to postpone the inevitable. I have a friend who goes out every New Years Eve and gets absolutely plastered. Saying hello to 2011 is the furthest thing from in his mind. To him, the thought of 365 days clouded in uncertainty scares him to the point where he can only face it in an alcoholic fog.
Sad, yes. But I understand.
Perhaps it’s this day more than any other that reminds us of the steady pace of time. It grinds on, and we can either walk alongside it or be dragged behind.
We can see our days as blessings or punishments. We can see the clean slate before us as a desert that will consume us, or we can see it as fertile ground to plant an abundant crop.
This New Year’s Eve, I wish for you the same that I wish for my friend, and it is this:
Eyes to see the latter rather than the former.
Just a little off
December 28, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
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My coffee wasn’t right this morning, and I don’t know why. It had been brewed just as it usually is, with the usual amount of scoops and water. I used the usual amount of cream and sugar. It was even in my usual cup. But it didn’t taste right. It was still good, but not great. Something was a little…off.
That would seem a small thing to most people, but not me. I need my coffee in the morning, and when it’s a little off, it affects other things. It’s like the first domino that trips and causes the others to fall, and that’s exactly what happened to me today. My coffee was just a little off, which made everything else seem the same way.
Like the weather. Today had that crisp quality that November in Virginia always seems to promise—the air was cool, the skies blue, and I could look eastward to the Blue Ridge and westward to the Alleghenies of West Virginia. But there was a breeze. November brings a wind to this valley that cuts through every layer of clothing you wear and into your bones. That’s the sort of wind that blew today, and hard enough to keep me from enjoying the scenery outside. It was good weather, yes. But just a little off.
Lunch wasn’t that good—filling, but not very palatable. The ride home from work was quiet, but it was marred by the road repairs I had to navigate through and the traffic that surrounded me. The nightly routine was just that—routine. Nothing horrible happened, but neither did anything wonderful. It was good, but just a little off.
Now, as I lay here in bed and recall the events of the day, I can honestly say that I can summon not one thing, not even one moment, that has been truly satisfying about my day. Everything fell just a bit short of the mark. In fact, the past nineteen hours or so have been just the opposite of today’s lunch—on this day, my life has been palatable, but not filling.
It would be easy for me to blame the coffee for all of this. After all, that’s where my existential angst had its beginning. And if I could stretch that notion out a bit, I could almost rationalize a decision to concentrate all of my efforts tomorrow morning to make the best cup of coffee I can. Maybe then my day will be filled with all manner of sublime satisfactions.
I really don’t think that’s true, though.
I think if it wouldn’t have been the coffee, it would have been something else. Our days are full of those minor irritations that tempt us toward dissatisfaction. In a world of incalculable joys, there still doesn’t seem to be enough of them to grant us the peace we all crave.
I think deep down we all know this. But there’s such an air of pessimism in the thought that we’re all doomed in this life to forever seek and never really find. It’s much easier and much more hopeful to convince ourselves otherwise. If we do a little less of this or get a little more of that, the elusive satisfaction we’ve always sought will finally be ours.
We humans have been thinking that for a while, haven’t we? And chances are we’ll be thinking that for a while more. That longing is part of who we are. It’s what makes us a little lower than the angels, and what often gets us into so much trouble.
I’ll try to remember that next time. I won’t expect true fulfillment from something as silly as a cup of coffee or the weather or a meal or even the incalculable joys of this world, because they can’t give that to me. Everything will always seem just a little off for us in this life, and that’s because we were made for the next one.
Hearing the bell
December 27, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 3 Comments
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Well, it’s over.
The presents have been opened, the excitement has waned, and all that is left of this Christmas seems to be a longing for the next one. At least, that’s what my kids are thinking. And honestly, that’s what I’ve caught myself thinking, too.
Life will resume in a few days. School will start. It’ll be back to work. Everything will be boxed up and put back into the attic. It’s easy for people like me to grab hold of Christmas. Hard for me to let it go.
But then I found my last Christmas present, and that all changed.
I’ve written about it over at katdish’s site. Please hop on over there and visit. And don’t let that Christmas magic slip away quite yet.
Merry Christmas
December 23, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
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For a lot of people, Christmas Day is their favorite day of the year. It isn’t mine. I’ve always fancied Christmas Eve a bit more. I’ve often wondered why and never really have figured out an answer, but I think I have one now.
It’s the anticipation.
It’s the knowing that what we’ve all been waiting for is now upon it. It’s almost here, mere hours away. No longer a wish, but a certainty.
In a life that promises doubt, certainties are treasures.
Today I will go about my normal Christmas Eve routine. There will be emails to send and a book to write. I’ve promised to help with cookies. And I’ll likely ready the truck for our annual drive to look at Christmas lights this evening.
And there are church services tonight, too. Can’t forget that. Because like Linus said, that’s what Christmas is all about. The birth of a baby boy who was God as much as man and heaven as much as earth. Who grew like we do and died so we’ll never have to really.
I’ll think of that today, too. Of the gift He gave. Of that great present still waiting for my unwrapping. Of the promise that one day I’ll be with the angels and those who have gone before me. And Him. Oh, the questions I will have for Him. I’ll likely think of those today, too. And I’ll also have in my mind a vision of my laughter when He answers them, and of me saying, “Of course, of course…”
It’s the anticipation, you see.
From my family to yours, I wish you a Merry Christmas. I wish you God’s abundant blessings and His eternal peace. May this Christmas be a seed that is planted in you, that sprouts and yields fruit to see you through the winters of your heart.
God bless us, every one.
Holding on to Santa
December 21, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 24 Comments
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All that reading included Snow Day, in which her father went ahead and wrote that Santa was not real and that flying reindeer and sleighs and Christmas magic was all a lie. The sudden realization that she’d either had or was about to read that chapter bonged into my head late one night, which resulted in me sneaking into her bedroom and mangling a copy of my own book. I wasn’t sure if she’d gotten that far into the novel or not, wasn’t sure if she still believed or didn’t, and wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it.
Now I know. Sort of.
It is Christmas week. My house is abuzz in last minute shopping, frantic wrapping, and the sugar-induced spasms of two small children who can barely contain themselves. They are both awash in the sheer beauty of Christmas. It’s the lights and the singing and the promise of two school-free weeks, the gifts that are on the way and the Happy Birthday Jesus.
Every year I fear the joy of Christmas will abandon me, that the pressures of having to buy and do will get transform me from Linus telling everyone about the real meaning of Christmas to Scrooge telling everyone to just leave him alone. But my kids keep me believing and my insides soft. Children can have that affect on you.
My son is six, that perfect age when the line between magic and fact is nonexistent. To him, Santa is just as real as anyone else. Flying reindeer? Of course! He’s seen a platypus, so why not flying reindeer? Platypuses are weird.
I’ve seen no apparent changes in my daughter’s behavior. She seems as excited as ever, and she’s mentioned Santa often. I think we’re in the clear, for this year anyway.
And it shouldn’t matter. I know this. Sooner or later, the truth will come out. Besides, Christmas isn’t really about Santa at all. It’s a fact my kids know deep down, evidenced by the carols they sang at the Christmas pageant at church and the birthday cake they’ve made for Jesus.
But I also know this—it does matter. For my daughter, it matters much. Her diabetes has forced her to grow up long before she should. She knows life isn’t fair and that this world can be just as cold as it can be warm. She is not the boisterous child her brother is. She ponders and thinks. Just like me.
I’ve seen her thinking a lot over the past weeks.
She’ll say it’s nothing or that she was just looking at the lights on the tree, but there’s more. With her, there’s always more.
Sometimes I think she read that chapter in Snow Day after all and she’s just figuring things out on her own. And that she doesn’t really believe in Santa anymore, but she wants to. She wants to hold on.
I hope she does.
Her letter to Santa sits here on my desk at work (I told her I’d mail it, and I couldn’t very well stash it at the house. I’ve learned my lesson). Included were the usual eight-year-old little girl’s wishes, along with some that drifted much more into God’s territory to grant than jolly old Saint Nick’s.
There is a P.S. at the end, though—
“I’ll have cookies for you on Christmas Eve and also a list of questions. I need you to fill them out please. I love you.”
I don’t know what those questions will be, but I guarantee you this: I’m bringing my A game.
The battle of the Chandlers
December 20, 2010 by Billy Coffey · Leave a Comment
Tommy and Betty Chandler are what you would call a normal couple. They deeply love each other in a comfortable sort of way; their years together have helped each of them to gloss over the rough patches in the other. Usually, that is. But while their tastes in most things are compatible, they diverge on this one very important thing–Christmas decorations.
I wrote about the Chandlers last year and then promptly forgot about their argument once December turned into January and the decorations were taken down. But I drove by their house the other night, and the ugly Santa was back. I laughed in spite of myself and thought about this post.
To read it,I invite you over to Katdish’s site.
No Home for the Weary
December 16, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 25 Comments
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It just wouldn’t be Christmas in our house without someone getting hurt. It’s sort of an unintentional family tradition, one that is inevitable given all of the wires and lights and greenery (yes, greenery is dangerous. I’ve proven that).
This year the ouchy came by way of those cardboard tubes that are at the end of every roll of wrapping paper. The ones that look like they were made specifically for impromptu sword fighting. Which is what my daughter and I were doing in the living room.
It was a mostly benign affair in the beginning, and I will say that she started it. I was walking by, and she tapped me on the leg. And since I’m one of those fathers who won’t allow his kids to one-up him, I grabbed the other empty tube and tapped her back.
She tapped me.
I tapped her.
It started like that. It ended with the two of us whacking away at each other like extras in Pirates of the Caribbean. The laughs and giggles and threats ended when our heads collided and we sprawled onto the floor.
Uh-oh.
My daughter had the benefit of youth and a harder head. She rolled over and got up immediately, ready for more. Then she saw me still on the carpet. The miniature mommy inside her kicked into gear.
She dropped her piece of cardboard, raced over to me, and said, “Don’t move!”
“Why?” I asked her.
“Because you might be hurt. We learned about this in school.”
So I didn’t move. Partly because I wanted to see a bit of what she’d been learning in school, and partly because lying on the carpet really felt good.
“Okay,” she said, “first, what happened?”
“You whacked me with your head,” I told her.
“Can you move?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see stars?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“I think so.”
She nodded. “Okay, then you’re supposed to get up.”
So I did just that. She said I was supposed to ask her the same questions she’d asked me. I obliged. We both arrived at the conclusion that we were fine and so should resume our cardboard-sword fight.
We flailed our arms again, this time careful to keep a bit of empty space between us. Then the thought occurred to me that what my daughter had just asked me would be pertinent to more than the body taking a tumble. It could work when your life takes one, too.
We’ve all been knocked on our backs a time or two. Losing a job. Losing a love. The routine visit to the doctor that turns out to be something serious.
And sometimes things aren’t that dramatic. We don’t always land on our backs with a thud. Sometimes it’s just the constant weariness that goes along with being alive or the apparent ordinariness of our days.
If that’s you, you’re not alone. But it’s time to do something about it. So in the spirit of my daughter, I ask you these questions:
What happened? Identifying the problem is an important first step. Knowing what went wrong can help you make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Once you figure that out, Can you move? Is this something that’s paralyzed you with fear or sadness? If it has, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Counseling can do amazing things. I speak from experience.
Do you see stars? This isn’t a good thing when your body takes a tumble, but it’s a necessity when your life takes one. Looking down on yourself seldom improves anything. Better is to look up to God.
Do you know who you are? Always an important question, and one that will likely take most of your life to figure out. But you’re doing well as long as you’re trying.
Pretty simple, huh? Simple enough for me to try it out the next time my own life takes a tumble. I’ll ask myself those questions and answer them as honestly as I’m able. And after all that, I’ll do what my daughter said and what we’re all supposed to do.
Get up.
Keep going.
Try again.
Because life is not for the faint, and this world is no home for the weary.
Jangle, jangle
December 14, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 19 Comments
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My wife sent me to the store forty-five minutes ago. Since it takes only five minutes or so to get there from the house and another five to pick up a gallon of milk, pay for it, and leave, I figure I should have been home about a half an hour ago. But I’m not.
In fact, I haven’t even made it into the store yet. I’ve been stuck near the entrance watching a Salvation Army volunteer.
The boy is maybe ten, and he’s taking his job seriously. A wool cap sits on his head, ski gloves on his hands. His coat is the puffy kind that looks like its made for sub-Arctic temperatures. He needs them all today. It’s cold out here, and the wind is biting.
This is the time of year when the Salvation Army is out in full force. They’re a gracious lot, volunteering their valuable time to help the helpless. They stand out in the cold and ring their bells and say Merry Christmas when you offer a little something to the nearby kettle. Other than that, though, most won’t say much. They have the bell, and the bell is good enough.
Not so for this boy.
His bell is a clarion, a call to say a message is forthcoming and it is something you’d better heed if you know what’s good for you:
JANGLEJANGLE—“Give to the poor folk. They need Jesus, and so do you.”
The “Jesus” comes out more like “Jayzus.” I can see the boy’s breath in the cold December air. It stops mere inches from his mouth and then fades, but the sound carries. It carries far.
Every shopper who approaches the doors must get through him first. He lets no one off the hook.
JANGLEJANGLE—“Give some money, mister. Think of what all you have and the needy folk who have nothing.”
Standing along the wall about ten feet from the boy is an older man. He, too, wears a wool cap and ski gloves and a heavy coat. He’s sipping coffee and watching. The smile on his face tells me who he is.
I ease my way up to him and say, “That’s your boy, ain’t it?”
He nods while sipping and smiles again. “Sure is,” he says.
JANGLEJANGLE—“God wants you to help the poor people, ma’am.”
The ma’am does. She puts five dollars into the kettle and gets a “Merry Christmas!” in return.
“Seems to be doing a pretty good job,” I tell the father.
“That ain’t no lie, buddy,” he says. He nods toward his son. “He told me last night he wanted to come watch, but that didn’t last long. He said I was doin’ it wrong. I told him he could give it a try if he thought he could do better. That was about an hour ago.”
It’s my turn to smile. “You should be proud.”
Another sip, then, “I sure am. He told me he didn’t understand why there had to be poor people. Said it broke his heart. But then he said that maybe there were poor people because not enough people have done something to help. Lots of people blame God for stuff that’s our own fault.”
JANGLEJANGLE—“Hey mister, don’t you wanna help the poor?”
I suppose some could say the boy’s methods are all wrong. Rather than appeal to whatever inward sense of charity people have, he prods them—and maybe even guilts them—into giving.
But honestly? I’m good with that. Jesus once said that the poor will always be with us, and that’s the sort of thing that can make it easy for us to pass them over. “Let someone else help,” we say. “I have too many problems of my own.” So I don’t mind his prodding and guilting. It forces people to do something about the state of the world. Sometimes it’s good to feel shame.
Me, I’m with the boy. I don’t understand why there has to be poor people, either. It upsets me right along with him. The heart is broken upon the sight of that which contradicts what we know God desires.
But maybe instead of blaming Him, we should all do something about it.
I wish the father a good day and make my way inside. On the way, I drop my own contribution into the kettle. Not enough, I know that. But a start.
“God loves you, mister,” the boy says.
Yes. And God loves him, too.
This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Rejoice hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To read more posts on the topic of Rejoicing, please visit his blog, PeterPollock.com
Make a joyful noise
December 13, 2010 by Billy Coffey · Leave a Comment
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My son likes to sing in the shower. My daughter prefers the kitchen table. Me, I reserve my somewhat questionable tenor for the privacy of the drive home from work, when the bad things are over and the good things can begin. It’s something the vast majority of us do from time to time, whether we actually realize we’re doing it or not. But why? Why do we sing?
I ponder that question today over at katdish’s site. Feel free to stop over there. And as always, you’re two cents would be much appreciated…
Your mama lied to you
December 9, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
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She’d lied to me before, but those were small lies—stuff like Santa and the Easter bunny. Things that seemed pretty darn big at the time but not later on, after the sting of their truth had been replaced by the knowing that I would still be getting presents and candy every year. Those are the sorts of falsehoods most parents tell their children, and I think that’s okay. You don’t get sent to hell for lies like that.
You don’t get sent to hell for lies like the one my mother told me, either. Still, that one stung more than when I found out her and Dad were really Santa and the Easter bunny. Maybe it was my age. People tend to hold on to things tighter as they grow older.
As far as I can remember, the lie started when I got a telescope for my eighth birthday. I’d sit outside for hours every night pointing it at every star and planet I could see. I saw seas on the Moon and rings around Saturn, the spooky redness of Mars and the calming whites of Venus. I was enraptured. To know that there were other worlds aside from my own? That what I saw was only a grain of sand upon the shores of All There Is? Amazing.
I looked at the night sky and saw wonder and mystery and possibility, and I knew my calling in life.
So I told Mom I was going to be an astronaut one day. And she looked at me and smiled and said, “You can be anything you want to be.”
That’s when the lie started.
I believed her. When you’re eight years old, you believe your parents hold the keys to the gates of wisdom. They know everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing, and in many cases everything you’re going to do. So if she said, “You can be anything you want to be,” that meant I was going to be an astronaut. No doubt about it.
I’ve told you where her lie began. Now I’ll tell you where it ended.
It was a year after I’d graduated from high school, and I’d drifted into a job at a local gas station. I was filling up Betsy Blackwell’s car (nice lady, Betsy, though every time I’d wash her windshield she’d turn the wipers on and nearly take off my hand), and up to the pump in front of me pulls a nice SUV. Government tags, with a NASA sticker on the back window.
That’s when I knew.
I was never going to be an astronaut. I’d never have the privilege of riding around in a nice Chevrolet Tahoe with a NASA sticker on the back window, much less seeing the stars up close. I wasn’t smart enough or talented enough. I didn’t catch the breaks. No sir, the only sky Billy Coffey would ever be under was the sky out on Pump 1 at the gas station. And he couldn’t even really enjoy that one because he was too busy trying to make sure Betsy Blackwell didn’t take off his hand with her dang windshield wipers.
I kept all of that to myself until two weeks ago. My family had joined my parents for pizza. One thing led to another and then another, and I mentioned that day at the gas station.
Mom smiled and said, “I figured if I said you could do anything, you’d end up being something.”
Ah. I understood then.
Odds are your mama lied to you, too. She said you could grow up to become a scientist or a baseball player or a musician or President. And in the spirit of transparency, I’ll admit plenty of fathers say the same thing. I know I do.
My daughter wants to be a writer/teacher/archaeologist/scientist/doctor. I tell her she’s aiming a bit too low.
My son’s aspirations are a bit more basic but no less high—he wants to work at Legoland. Yes! I tell him. Why not?
Because they might not be able to do anything, but they can certainly be something.
Author of Snow Day and Paper Angels (November 2011), both by FaithWords. But don't let that fool you. I'm just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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