Present

The other night, I stopped at the mall for some last-minute shopping. Tired and eager to get home, I zoomed from one pit stop to the next as focused and determined as Tom Cruise’s car racing character in Days of Thunder. The race, however, came to a sudden halt when I encountered the Christmas tree section at a big department store. The trees, brightly lit and expertly decorated, stood silent and magnificently erect in the midst of all the hustle and bustle hurried shoppers created.

I stood still, mesmerized by the glitter; caressing the soft ribbon and pretty ornaments – shopping, purpose, time and fatigue all forgotten. Then I remembered a Christmas, years ago, when I had escaped motherhood for a few hours and had slipped away to this very same mall to buy presents for my family.

Free from little feet too swift to chase and slender bodies that loved to hide beneath clothe racks, I strolled about leisurely, gazing at storefront windows and bobbing my head in tune with the merry music of the Season.

Back then, I had met the same majestic scene: Tall and dense Christmas trees, some lush and green, some sparklingly silver; all of them perfectly decorated with elegant ornaments and matching ribbon. I, too, had stood in awe and had thought with a mix of shame and self-pity about the limp fake tree we decorated every year with cheap ornaments bought on clearance or at garage sales.

One day, I had consoled myself with the thought, we’ll have a tree like these.

But this night, years later, the beautiful sight made me sad for a different reason.

It’s been a while since we discarded of the poor rickety tree we had gotten at Wal-Mart when the kids were little. Finances have improved so we are allowed the luxury of a fresh-cut evergreen, which we get every year on the day after Thanksgiving. We decorate our tree with precious handmade ornaments our kids crafted throughout the years and with ornaments collected on family vacations or received as gifts from friends on previous Christmases.

I looked at the fancy ornaments hung from the trees at the store and compared them with the ones hanging from our tree back at home. Few are as delicate and as costly as these, yet each one of ours has meaning and a rich history that makes them priceless to us.

One day, I pondered with sadness, I’ll probably have a tree like these.

I pictured myself as an older woman, in a clean and perfectly organized home, putting the finishing touches on a beautiful tree like the ones at the mall. By then, my children would be grown and no longer living at home, and the memories of a sorry little tree with cheap ornaments that didn’t match would warm my heart on a cold winter night.

Oddly enough, the words of Cindy Crawford came to mind as I reflected on my future. I had read an article about the super model and entrepreneur. When asked what she would like to accomplish in her forties, she had answered: “I’d like to be present.” After experiencing fame and success, she had realized she wanted to be “present” for herself and for her family. “I don’t want to be so rushed,” she continued, “that I miss what is right in front of me.”

Right in front of me.

What was right in front of me, at that mall, were beautiful trees that might represent something in my future. But at home I still have a tree not-so-perfectly decorated, a house in the constant disarray caused by loud, hungry teenagers that rush in and out of my kitchen and family room like Attila the Hun and his rowdy troops, and a life that is worthy to be savored to the fullest extent.

So I decided then and there that on this Christmas, I will give myself a wonderful present (pun intended), which I plan to open every morning of the year: Freedom to be there for those I love and permission to enjoy the gifts each day brings.

And my Christmas wish for you, my friends, is that God’s grace will abound in you so that you may be present and able to recognize and to enjoy each and every blessing He richly bestows upon you.

“The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present." Sun Dials and Roses of Yesterday: Garden Delights, by Alice Morse (1902)

Enjoying the Ride

I pranced down the stairs, rubbing my hands excitedly. My husband had left for work, the kids for school, and I was about to treat myself to my favorite show while I folded laundry and caught up on my ironing. I didn’t have to leave for work until later, so that would give me one whole hour all to myself before it was time to get ready. One whole hour without anyone asking me for food, clean socks, money or a ride.

That was the life.

As I made my way to the family room, the shrill of the phone ring caused me to halt. Who could it be? I cringed. A telemarketer, I’m sure. I tried to ignore the call, but the motherly side of me wouldn’t let go.

Say it’s a recorded message from the school! Say it’s a recorded message from the school! I chanted as I made my way to the phone. Fat chance. Those pre-recorded, automated phone calls the school makes to announce something usually come in the evenings.

The caller ID box read “Peoria School District”. Rats! This couldn’t be good. I picked up the phone and uttered a weak hello.

“Mrs. Stine?” a friendly voice asked.

Oh, oh. This was definitely not good.

A tiny creature clad in a tight red outfit appeared out of nowhere and landed on my left shoulder. He whispered, “Just lie, woman! Nobody will ever know. After all, you don’t sound like a Stine. Just say she’s unavailable or something.”

“Don’t do it, Ana!” cried a winged little creature, dressed in a white robe. She stood near my right ear waving her tiny hands in earnest. “Remember: Lying is wrong!”

“Mrs. Stine?” the voice at the other end of the line asked again. I motioned for both creatures to zip it. I can only pay attention to one person at a time, and that with great difficulty. They vanished with a puff.

“Speaking.”

“This is Ms. Hostetler, head nurse at Ironwood High. Your son is not feeling well and we were wondering if you could come pick him up.”

Rats, rats, rats! The school is 20 minutes away from my house. By the time I came back, it’d be time to jump in the shower and start getting ready for work.

My luck exactly.

I told the nurse I’d be on my way, begrudgingly grabbed my purse and my car keys, and left the house.

I turned on the radio hoping to improve my mood, perhaps even my attitude, which wasn’t exactly exemplary at the time. Christmas music filled the air. I began to relax and soon found myself smiling. Memories of past Holidays when Ron and I were newlyweds and when our children were little eased my frustration. Such wonderful memories. Next thing I knew, I was already at the school.

My teenage son came to the front office looking relieved. “I’d hug you, Mom,” he said, “but I don’t wanna get you sick.” How sweet. I wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything in the world – not even my favorite show. We got in the car and conversed briefly, then Ronnie leaned against the seat and we were placidly quiet for the rest of the ride. An immense sense of peace filled my mind, so rare during this hectic season.

Every year, I begin the Holiday Season with great expectations for the things I’d like to accomplish. I want to decorate my house and send pretty Christmas cards. I want to buy and wrap our presents with plenty of time. I want to bake enough cookies to share with our neighbors. And I really would like to remember watering our evergreen before it looses most of its needles and turns into a fire hazard.

But as Christmas Day draws near, my plans dwindle. Reality gradually sets in and I’m forced to pick and choose what I can actually do. However – in spite of my gross ineptitude and ensuing disappointment – Christmas has always been great fun at our house. No matter how crazy and how messy things get. No matter how little is “accomplished” or how incompetent I feel, nothing has quenched the joy this Season has brought to our family.

I turned to look at my son while he rested in the car. How amazing, I thought realizing the ride to and from school had actually been an enjoyable one. We got home. Ronnie went to bed. I got myself ready and, after making sure he was comfortable, left for work feeling renewed.

Dear friends, it is my prayer for you that even if things don’t go exactly as planned, you may still delight in this Season. That in the midst of the busyness and the ruckus it often brings, you may somehow focus on the Reason we celebrate and that your heart is merry and light. And I pray that this Christmas – just like I did this morning – you are able to enjoy the ride.

Grateful

One day, back when I was a child and still lived in Guatemala City, I went to visit my friend Annie. When I arrived at her house, I found her at the piano, teaching a boy to play a song. Her friend struggled remembering the key progression and soon threw his hands in the air, yelling, “This is stupid!”

Annie put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and ever-so-kindly encouraged him to try again. I was blown away! The kid was being a jerk, yet she showed him unmerited gentleness – something I wasn’t used to. “If that were me,” I fumed, “I would’ve slapped him instead!”

But not Annie.

Three decades later, my friend’s patience and kindness still inspire me – especially since those two are not my most prominent virtues. Throughout the years, when faced with situations that tend to bring out the worst in me – irritating customers, screaming toddlers, hurried drivers cutting me off on the freeway – the memory of Annie’s sweet attitude still causes me to stop and consider taking a higher road.

On that note and on this Thanksgiving week, I’d like to mention those people who’ve shown kindness (and lots of patience!) to this many-a-times irritating, sometimes unlovable, even unlikable human being.

I want to thank my extended family, especially my parents, for putting up with me when I acted real ugly (particularly around 13) and for making me feel like I could reach any goal I set my eyes on. You guys are the best.

I want to thank my husband Ron, for choosing me when I thought I wasn’t worth a second look, for being the best daddy ever, for putting up with my mediocre cooking and marginal housekeeping, and for making me feel pretty. I love you, Dear.

I want to thank my children: Gracie, Ronnie and Nick, for bravely enduring the distinct experience of being reared by a mother with attention deficit and a foreign accent and still manage to come out halfway unscathed. You guys are my heroes and the joy of my life.

I want to thank all my friends, for loving me, for laughing at my bad jokes and awkward sense of humor, and for making me feel like I’m great. Life would be so sad without you.

I want to thank my gym buddies, for always setting up for me before class because I’m never there on time to do it myself, for cheering me up when my arms and legs are shaking so bad I want to quit five minutes into class, and for telling me I look great even though I’ve put on a few pounds. You girls rock.

I want to thank my clients, for trusting me with your own clients, for your patience and flexibility as I continue to learn the trade, for your guidance, and for blessing my family with the fruits of our collaboration and with your generosity.

I want to thank my church family, especially my pastors, for loving and accepting me just as I am, for godly teachings and wise counsel, and for giving me a chance to use and grow my gifts so that I may experience the pleasure of serving others. Each and every one of you is an inspiration.

Above all, I want to thank my Lord Jesus, for saving my soul and giving me an abundant life, filled with peace, joy and hope.

And to Annie who, along with her example, told me about God’s love for impatient and unkind people like me. I will always be grateful to you, no matter where life takes us, you will always have a special place in my heart.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Holiday!

Love,

Ana

Dedicated to my dear childhood friend, Ana Isabel Nisthal Georgakoudes, who married a great guy, has four amazing kids and now lives in the island of Cyprus.

Hunting for Treasure

The other day I went on one of my favorite pastimes: Hunting for hidden treasures in others’ garages. I guess I should appease my fellow Guatemalans and explain: No, I haven’t gone down the deep end and turned into a thief. I said “hidden” not “forbidden” treasure. I don’t tip-toe into people’s properties with a black mask, a large bag and a flashlight, at the wee hours of the night. The economy isn’t that bad.

What I’m referring to is the fine art of garage saling.

To those of you unfamiliar with the joys, allow me to explain that garage saling simply consists of purchasing gently used – and sometimes even new – items people no longer want or need, which are displayed for sale in their garages or front lawns.

The serious garage salers (like my mom) get up at the crack of dawn and, with a hot cup of coffee and lots of change in their pockets, eagerly scan the classified column of their Friday and Saturday local newspapers and skillfully map out their route before setting out on their adventures. Others simply drive around different neighborhoods (the ritzier the better, with lots of impulse buyers eager to rid their overstuffed closets of “junk”) looking for the bright-colored signs with an arrow that marks the way and the two little words that make their hearts gallop with anticipation: “Garage Sale”.

Antique dealers with a trained eye for valuables, conscientious moms with large families to clothe, contractors looking for tools, newly-weds in need of furniture, and shopaholics – all kinds of people cruise around town looking for deals.

Last Saturday, as I set out on my own expedition, I came across a familiar object – an elegant crystal candleholder supported on three curved bronze legs. I had to chuckle, since years ago, I had gone through great lengths to get one exactly like that.

My neighbor had started a new business selling candles and had asked me to host a party for her. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but when she showed me the product catalog, I fell in love with this crystal candleholder. So beautiful, and it would compliment my then bare coffee table perfectly. I had to have it.

Having recently moved to Arizona, I knew few people, but I unashamedly invited them to my party, bribing them with the promise of tasty snacks and free babysitting. For a week, I bit my lower lip often and prayed somebody would show up. I deep-cleaned my house. Thank God, they showed up. They heard my neighbor’s presentation. They shopped. They ate. They left. I cleaned house again. I was exhausted.

But I got my candleholder for half price, “only” 25 bucks. Mission accomplished.

I couldn’t wait for the postman to come knocking on my door, heralding the arrival of my precious package! When the happy day came, I opened the box with a flurry of excitement, but – oh, no! There must have been a mistake! The picture on the catalog showed a much bigger candleholder – one that would beautifully cover the better half of my coffee table. But what I held in my trembling hands would barely cover a fourth of an end table!

Back at the garage sale, as I stood in front of the items scattered around the driveway, I shook my head looking at the very same crystal item I once coveted; the one I had worked so hard to get; the one I paid way more than I usually would’ve; the one that now sits almost forgotten on a bookshelf. And I wondered about the many things – like this candleholder – to which I have devoted so much of my time and energy, only to get meager returns.

Jesus warned his disciples, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21, NIV)

Where my treasure is, there my heart will be… Perhaps this is a good time I take a good look at my heart and take inventory of what treasure-seeking endeavors I’m investing my resources into. Perhaps it’s time I start hunting for the type of treasure that beats the greatest garage sale find ever, the kind that never disappoints, that never looses value and that can never be taken from me.

Dear friend, where is your treasure?

Extraordinarily Ordinary

Not everyone aspires for greatness, but everybody longs for significance.

This search for significance, to make sure my life counts for something that goes beyond my own little self, is perhaps one of my greatest concerns. It seems that every time I am about to hit the next decade, I get in a frenzy and become more and more preoccupied with the idea of not wanting to miss whatever that is I was born to do.

Since I come from a family of highly successful and well-accomplished people, I’ve always wrestled with an added – purely self-inflicted – pressure to do something great. “Ordinary” has never seemed good enough for me – at least when it comes to making a difference.

But a recent painful event in my life has drastically changed that mentality.

A few weeks ago I lost my dear Aunt Chaty. Aside from having the most beautiful eyes and a smile that brightened your day, my auntie was – according to this world’s standards – an ordinary person.

She lived a happy, yet simple life. She married a good man. She never owned a home and drove an ordinary vehicle. She didn’t earn a college degree and held an regular job until she became a homemaker.

As common as her life was, Chaty made my Uncle Mingo very happy; she raised two outstanding girls; she was there – really there – for my cousins, my siblings and me, and she managed to make a difference in dozens and dozens of marriages.

Despite living an ordinary life, my auntie accomplished extraordinary things with a few simple, yet rare qualities:

1) She was an amazing listener.
2) She really cared.
3) She prayed, believing that God would answer her prayers.
4) She was single-minded and dedicated herself, along with my uncle,
to help couples make their marriages the best they could be.

During her last days, dozens of couples filled the hospital hallway near Aunt Chaty’s room, “crying like babies,” as my mom put it, “as if it was their own mother who was about to dye.”

You see, precious Aunt Chaty meant the world to so many, and in her own extraordinarily ordinary ways, she changed the world around her.

How much more accomplished can anyone be?
It makes me think that, perhaps, the ordinary things I do could make a lasting difference too. I pray the do.

Welcome to My Own Little Blog!

After years talking about starting my own blog, I've finally decided it's time to dive in. My desire is to share about lessons learned, my crazy dreams, and a few thoughts on life's every day intricacies, from my own little corner of the world. Welcome!