O Lord, thank You for four generations of a family who gathered to celebrate You with gifts, yummy food and a wonderfully in-tune carol singalong. OMG, there’s nothing like partying together with You!

Only the Turkey Didn’t Have Fun
O Jesus, thank You for all the blessings You have lavished upon us, especially for the joyful, loving chaos a family brings. Thank You for the ability to record precious moments we can savor long after the feast is history—though evidently, I didn’t take any photos of our waistband-busting, yummy meal. OMG, a confession: maybe Grandma was too busy eating to take pictures?
#thanksgiving #ThankYouLord #gratefulglutton
Jesus, has it really been 60 years since Mom dragged us from backyard fun and sandbox joys to endure spit-on-kleenex baths for this photo? And 25 years since all five siblings gathered in one place. Thank You, Lord for rowdy, precious times together. Some of our descendants forced us to behave for the camera, but OMG, they knew better than to try the spit-bath thing.
#FamilyPhotos #Recreating #OfficialAntiquesNow
O Lord, when my small children ran to me bawling about some crucial disaster, such as an empty Count Chocula box or lost Barbie shoe, I didn’t always sympathize. After all, I had adult things to do and a schedule to keep.
Image by Dimitris Versikas
But OMG, when I run to You, snotty and sniveling, I’m thankful You always welcome me onto Your big lap — and help me grow up a little more.
O Lord, years ago, this little guy declared his blue Play-Doh snake was bigger than God. Upon further reflection, though, he decided that no, the thing he’d made wasn’t nearly as big as the God of the universe.
OMG, thank You that he continues to mold his life with that wisdom!
O Lord, don’t you think youngest children should stay kids? Or, at least, not be permitted to turn 40.
Today, on our son’s birthday, won’t you freeze time? OMG, an extra decade might help me accept that my 6-foot-6-inch baby is no longer a baby …
Does your family celebrate Easter in traditional ways?
My siblings and I hid Easter eggs so well, truants were located weeks later by their potent odor. We awoke to yummy treats … in our polished shoes. Years before, Mom had possessed only pennies to spend on Easter. Having poured out frustrations in prayer — Mom talked to Jesus about everything — she recalled reading about Dutch children receiving Christmas candy in their shoes and nested jelly beans in ours.
My father, a pastor, celebrated Easter wholeheartedly, his bass voice leading “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” “He Arose” and … “Joy to the World.”
I thought everyone sang that hymn at Easter. As a teen, though, I realized other churchgoers sang it only at Christmas. I kept our odd custom a deep, dark secret, hoping no Easter visitors knew me.
Fast-forward 20 years. My children and I dyed eggs, their clothes and mine. One helpful toddler knew egg-zackly what to do with eggs.
Crack them.
Our family could afford Easter baskets. Repeating the story of their grandma’s faith, though, I filled my kids’ shoes with grass, chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.
My grandchildren still receive Easter treats in their shoes and hear of their great-grandmother’s prayer. They will dye Easter eggs — and their clothes. Our congregation will sing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” and “He Arose.”
Joy to the World”? Probably not.
I’ll save that hymn for a visit to our parents’ graves. I didn’t want them to die. They weren’t crazy about the idea, either. But because Jesus came alive again, they will too. Someday, we’ll all be together with Him.
Joy to the world! To all who believe in Jesus’ Resurrection.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you celebrate Easter?
People often say they conceive their best thoughts at night.
I’m missing this microchip. My mother often told me that even as an infant, I wasn’t a positive thinker during the wee hours. When I grew old enough to read, I added hundreds of new items to my nocturnal Scary List. Take, for example, the 1960s obsession with outer space. If I read a story in Look magazine about flying saucers above a wheat field near Boring, Nebraska, I knew the little green guys would like Indiana sweet corn better. I resolved to eliminate bedtime in order to protect my state from alien invasion.
NASA spent millions to supply me with worry material — until monsters took over the task: Frankenstein, Wolf Man and TV vampires. When tired Mom nixed movie and television viewing, the local paper kept me informed. I read about a hairy, Bigfoot-like creature that cried like a baby and haunted Detroit. Nowadays, sports writers would deduce it was a Detroit Lions lineman, lamenting their playoffs loss. But then, I never knew whether the unearthly wails from the next bedroom came from my baby brother or the monster.
Thankfully, I outgrew all that. The Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West no longer scares me.
At least, not much.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do some childhood boogeymen still haunt you at night?