O Lord, You know I suffered when Hubby said, “We have to take down this tree before it goes bald.” Before long — maybe not until Valentine’s Day? — we’ll store the evergreens, the toy village, and the manger scene. I’ll fuss over the whole process like a sulky six-year-old.
But OMG, I thank You that Christmas is never over. Emmanuel, whose name means “God with us,” can’t be shut in a closet or stuck in the garage. Jesus walks my world and yours, seeking whom He can bless.
Maybe you think I, from chilly Indiana, have finally flipped?
Perhaps I can persuade you to see things my way.
First, pleasant weather conditions during winter confuse us Hoosiers worse than a time change. Is it January or June? Has someone sneaked six months past us?
Lovely weather also demands we go outdoors. If I’d been raised in Florida, my mother would never have let me inside: “Sunshine’s good for you!”
If I were a Floridian, I’d have to do (gulp) yard work. I much prefer curling up each winter with my sherpa throw to read or watch basketball.
In Florida, forget about warm fuzzies. Or the waistline-camouflage layers I love.
Besides, we Midwesterners enjoy griping about weather. Could we survive without our favorite pastime?
If Indiana’s environment resembled Florida’s, our state would be flooded with touristy relatives. Hoosier parents do bribe grown children to come home for Christmas. Soon, though, bored offspring return to nests elsewhere. As a result, parents truly own their homes and cars.
Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay.Image by Photo Mix from Pixabay.
Speaking of cars, no one in the Midwest keeps vehicles clean during winter as expected in Florida.
Besides, without wintry mix, we and our cars would miss the joy of doing figure eights on the interstate. That’s the only wild life we experience after New Year’s.
Regarding Florida’s wildlife: boo for bugs the size of Volkswagens! While winter camping might prove more fun there, alligator warning signs made me rethink my antipathy toward raccoons. They might steal a week’s groceries, but raccoons don’t abscond with several limbs as well.
Becoming a snowbird requires the packing and moving I despise. Besides, snowbirds inhabit rows and rows of mobile homes so close dwellers know their neighbors are eating Popeyes’ fried chicken for the third time this week.
Image by 165106 from Pixabay.
Finally, wouldn’t Florida’s continuous green grow monotonous? The never-changing, brilliant blue of sea and sky?
Sure, we Hoosiers endure dreary months. But nothing will excite us like the first baby leaves that invade Old Man Winter’s domain. Sunny daffodils will send us into spring ecstasy.
Poor Floridians know nothing of these extreme Hoosier joys. Pity them.
And move closer to the fire.
Image by s-wlocyzyk 2 from Pixabay.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Where would you like to spend the winter?
Even as a toddler, I yanked my hand from my mother’s and ran into a street in downtown Indianapolis. Terrified by screeches and honks, though, I clung to her at the next crossing.
Maybe I learned I wasn’t ready to take charge of my life? Nope. Instead, I believed Mommy needed help with hers. She needed me to iron while she was busy with my baby sister. That I ironed my left hand (I still bear the scar) should have made me question my choices.
It did. I still avoid ironing whenever possible.
But cautions about so-called independence learned during childhood vanished during my teens. My friends and I knew everything. Parents resembled forerunners of ATMs, except they gave advice along with money.
I should have wondered why The Beatles, the 1960s epitome of youth and success, sang lines about needing help and growing older. John Lennon and Paul McCartney were only 25 and 23 when they penned “Help” and McCartney wrote “Yesterday.”
But I didn’t until I married and had our first baby. Where was the faucet to shut off drool, puke and pee? I finally admitted that perhaps … I needed guidance.
Image by Natalia Lavrinenko from Pixabay.
Did I ask my parents or in-laws? No. Instead, I consulted books.
Though I did learn from several good ones, none provided critical answers I needed.
Most of the books then and today tell us to look within. That we know all the answers.
Instead, shouldn’t we open the Book that tells us to look up? To realize Someone much bigger and smarter stands waiting to help us?
We Americans pretend every day is Independence Day — even in January. However, 2024 stretches before us, its kamikaze traffic already whizzing by. Can we really navigate it alone?
Or, when we cross unknown streets, should we reach for the Helping Hand always ready to guide us?
Image by reenablack from Pixabay.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Where does your help come from?
Some welcomed 2023 with the same enthusiasm as author Jerry Spinelli: “I love beginnings. If I were in charge of calendars, every day would be January 1.”
Contrariwise, author Roald Dahl would “remove January from the calendar altogether and have an extra July instead.”
Thankfully, neither works for a calendar company. But their clash illustrates typical debate.
Image by Alexey Marcov from Pixabay.
My highly scientific poll, based on Walmart eavesdropping, suggests that in January, most shoppers wilt like post-Christmas poinsettias.
Snow-lovers gripe because The Weather Channel sent only flurries. Snow-haters grouse because blizzards lurk behind every cloud. Kids hate January because they return to school. Babies, imprisoned in snowsuits Grandma gave for Christmas, raise loud protests.
Besides, everyone’s broke.
We’re all on diets.
Many people really hate January.
Quiet January was one of Mom’s favorite months.
My mother, a pastor’s wife, loved it. Her Christmas responsibilities ranged from distributing food baskets to ensuring no shepherd in her pageant picked his nose. Plus, we children assumed Mom would make Christmas dreams come true … without money.
Though she loved Jesus supremely, Mom thanked Him when His birthday party was done.
I, too, savor January’s serenity. Time for unhurried worship of the Christ who dared enter our crazy world. A hot-soup-homemade-bread aura helps us settle down and settle in to savor good books. For Hoosier authors, January’s excellent writing weather. (How do unlucky novelists in the Bahamas finish anything?)
Mom and I have passed January preferences to my Michigan grandson. He, however, loves shrieking forays down the highest sledding hills.
Hubby’s the only basketball fanatic in our family … not.
My husband and other sports fans welcome January because they wallow in basketball. Mourn losses. Decimate January peace with insane celebrations.
January also gave the world distinguished citizens: Martin Luther King, Benjamin Franklin and Joan of Arc. Betty White, James Earl Jones, Elvis and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Hopefully, their birthday presents weren’t wrapped in leftover Christmas paper.
If this January sends snow, I’ll welcome snowflake kisses. Swish snow angels. Sled with my grandson, shrieking all the way down, “Jesus … he-e-e-elp!”
Then do it again.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.
Image by Public Domain Pictures from Pixabay.
Sorry, Roald Dahl. I’ll never vote these days off the calendar.
John Steinbeck reminds us: “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?”
Though, Charles Spurgeon offers even better advice: “Let January open with joy in the Lord.”
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Why do you like or dislike January?
My summer dieting resolutions have proved as successful as last January’s, despite my good intentions.
Daylight saving time is more conducive to exercise, I said. I’d shed winter weight like a parka.
Summer gardens produce tons of fresh veggies. Fruit, a nutritious food that actually tastes good, abounds. Easier to eat skinny, right?
I implemented self-scare tactics: Beaches would sound a bloat-float warning upon my arrival.
Other aids would help my effort. Spending hours in endless construction zones would create a slow burn, turning calories to ashes.
Plus, the stars were in weight-loss alignment. Stars or satellites? Not sure. I’m not picky about astronomy.
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay.
I did consume fresh veggies. Also, berries, cherries, peaches and watermelon. And, um, ice cream.
Come on, I live three blocks from Ivanhoe’s, a legendary drive-in touted by The Huffington Post as Indiana’s contribution to “The One Thing You Must Do in Every State.” True Hoosiers don’t live by broccoli alone.
Image by Loulou Nash from Pixabay.
To my credit, I exercised. Dragged along — er, encouraged — by Hubby, I hiked miles across rugged terrain. We paddled lakes, cycled bike paths and, despite bloat-float warnings, frequented beaches. We even swam in the water.
Given those “vacations,” would you choose half a bagel for breakfast?
Also, even the word “s’mores” forbids limiting me to one.
As for swimming — beach alarm aside — possessing a built-in inner tube isn’t a bad thing. When out-of-shape arms don’t keep one afloat, fat to the rescue! Safety first, I always say.
Besides, the holidays are three months away. Cooler weather will encourage exercise. As temperatures fall, so will my ice cream intake. Really.
Also, plenty of road construction remains to burn off excess calories.
Image by Siggy Nowak from Pixabay.
Baggy sweaters will hide my summer-acquired inner tube, lessening motivation to diet. But fear not. I’ve created new scare tactics.
Shopping trips with dressing room mirrors always diminish my appetite.
Even better (worse?): the yearly checkup. I plan to share my innovative medical theory with my doctor. Doesn’t it make sense that we who carry more years should outweigh the young, who carry only a few? I’ll inform her the stars are in weight-loss alignment during autumn. She shouldn’t be picky about astronomy.
I’ll promise that now it’s fall, I’ll drop pounds like trees shed leaves.
Besides, there’s always January.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Is it harder to lose weight during hot or cold months?
This shivery, January day, I contemplate a profound subject: long underwear.
My interest is personal. I prefer that my husband not freeze into a hiker-sicle.
While sane people stay by the fire during inclement weather, he’s addicted to five-mile winter walks. (And you thought Zoom had messed with my brain.) No antiquated long johns for him. He wants “base layers.”
At first, I feared he’d fallen prey to some paint-your-body trend. Then, I realized Hubby was carefully editing facts and figures to promote a new, improved version of long johns. Their wickability — whatever that was. He expected me to rubber-stamp his purchases.
Though even if I accidentally (ahem!) lost my rubber stamp, he would buy them.
I registered a protest. “John Sullivan never blew big bucks on base layers.”
“Who’s John Sullivan?” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about his long underwear?”
“He was a boxer who made long johns popular during the 1800s. Wore leggings into the ring.”
“With that heavy cotton, he probably sweat gallons.” Hubby brightened. “Which is why I want base layers —”
“When I was walking miles at college in freezing rain,” I retorted, “I wore long johns Mom sent. Plain, cheap long johns. Why do you need something expensive?” I pointed at his laptop screen. “Those don’t look like they could keep somebody warm in Florida.”
Patiently, he explained that a modern winter base layer consists of a thin, but warm shirt and leggings of special fabrics that maintain body temperature. Yet, they prevent a hiker’s sweating too much, dangerous during extreme weather.
He made his case sound infinitely reasonable. As reasonable as a hike in single-digit weather can be.
Until he insisted he needed wool T-shirts for summer hikes.
“Wool?” My rubber stamp vanished into a black hole.
“Merino wool’s a main component of Smartwool®.”
Smartwool® in July didn’t sound smart to me. Besides, I distrust the label “smart.” We already purchase smartphones, smart cars and smart watches. Now we have to buy smart underwear?
He insisted, “Smartwool enhances the layering system.”
A system? “Does it require Wi-fi?” I said. “Or maybe it meshes with satellites. They’re tracking people’s long underwear from outer space now?”
Hubby — armed with base layers — hikes a nearby university forest.
Despite my objections, I knew he’d never buy long johns. I couldn’t permit my husband to freeze to death. Because base layers were on sale, I found my rubber stamp and approved his purchases, making him very happy.
Plus — (gasp!) this is hard to say — Hubby (choke!) proved to be r-r-right. The base layers have kept him toasty and safe.
Sorry, John Sullivan.
When it comes to long johns, you and I were way off base.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Has your spouse proved r-r-right lately?f
Oh
my God, I’m not sure why you gave me such big feet. Worse, they now demand
sensible shoes (aka ugly) instead of cute stilettos. Still, OMG, thank You that
they take me where I want to go. And that both they and I love fuzzy socks in
January!
Oh, my God, thank You for the pristine poetry of untouched snow. But OMG, thank You, too, for the secret six-year-old inside that just can’t leave that tidy surface intact!
For a few short days, we are about to experience a brown winter.
Even typing those words makes me quiver with paranoia. Do I dare mention the weather to neighbors, coworkers or friendly convenience store clerks? With a few unguarded words, I may jinx the entire Midwest!
Despite brown winter’s ugliness and dreariness, some consider the warmer weather a gift, especially after enduring several weeks of Snowmageddon. Anyone who mentioned “global warming” then was sentenced to shoveling the town’s driveways with a teaspoon.
No one battling the notorious blizzard of ’78 had ever heard of global warming. If a foolhardy soul had suggested such to brides whose winter weddings were postponed indefinitely, they might have strangled him with tulle bows and buried him in uneaten wedding cake.
Others who survived that months-long whiteout not only stopped driving, they gave up finding their vehicles until spring.
Brown winter, by comparison, seems good.
Midwestern weddings should happen on schedule this weekend.
Cars start. They move!
Even if buckets of rain fall, we don’t have to shovel them.
Lower heating bills and fewer frozen pipes also give us cause to celebrate.
Mothers rejoice their offspring will not need the 25 pounds of clothing required on snowy days. My son rated snowsuits along with vaccinations and boogeymen. Every outing resulted in a mother/son smackdown, the loudest always occurring at either the library or church.
A thaw dramatically reduces the likelihood of mistaken identity. Government statistics state that due to warmer temperatures, 77 percent fewer parents bring home the wrong kid from school.
To be sure, skiers and resort owners long for the white stuff. Ice skating rink owners anxiously await frigid temperatures.
No town wants its snow and ice festival to morph into a Sleet and Slop Spectacular. Nor do cities that have busted budgets, buying snowplows and stockpiling mountains of salt, look kindly on brown winters.
Worst of all, snowbirds cannot bear photos of friends back home visiting mailboxes in their shirtsleeves.
Yes, brown winters remain unpopular with some.
Me? I’m a coat-hater from decades back. (So my son’s snowsuit antipathy is no surprise.)
Still, I can’t help but welcome whispery snowflake kisses on my hood as we walk to church. Thousands of priceless diamonds glitter in my sunny backyard. Wind-carved curves of snow defy human artistry. …
Uh-oh.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
The Weather Channel predicts snow’s return within a week. Do these scientific drama kings and queens truly know their stuff?
Brown or white winter today?
Stay tuned for our latest paranoia.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Which do you prefer, a brown or white winter?
O my God, have you heard a single “Nice weather we’re having” today? Not that I’ve thanked You for the winter advisory, either. Maybe … You might explain why we need more snow? I didn’t think so. OMG, is January Your way of teaching Your kids, “Because I said so”?
