A couple of weeks ago, I spent the evening making cookies for Little Drummer Boy’s preschool “tailgate party,” one of the perks of living in a college town. This particular Mississippi State Bulldog affair warranted some sweet combination of maroon and football. I decided round cookies would suffice since we don’t have dog bones or footballs in our cookie cutter collection. (I can’t believe those have escaped us somehow.) So, on Wednesday night, I baked the cookies without much fanfare. Yes, I used a cookie mix for my dry ingredients and the cutter-less prep meant that I could just drop them on the cookie sheet rather than rolling them out. Baking was accomplished in short order, and I saved the icing for the next night.

Faced with relatively round cookies and the need for some Bulldog spirit, I decided the best route was to ice them in maroon and pipe little football shapes on top. Ok. So, Thursday night was icing night. This time Little Drummer Boy was enthused to help every step of the way. He planted himself on his little chair right next to me with a “what are you doing now?” with each new activity. Icing footballs had won out over Miss Piggy, Lightning McQueen and even a few tractors and firetrucks. That’s tough competition for a half-homemade cookie.

He called it brown. It looked like the 80s favorite “dusty rose” to me–most definitely not maroon. They were not even close to the perfectly round, perfectly smooth, Bulldog-topped numbers you see at Kroger around these parts this time of year. The football shapes, piped with one of the only two remaining screw-on tips I could find, prompted a “what’s that” from LDB, and the gray “laces” were a little spider web-like. (To my credit, the gray was spot-on. I didn’t go to art school for nothing.) But, with my little enthusiast contributing, every explanation was met with a “those are cool” as he was pasted to my side during the whole process. The experience warranted more than one “these are for MY party” with all the joy of knowing Mommy was making something just for him. Fueled by a four-year-old’s staunch belief that Mommy can do anything, we pressed on. Two and a half dozen cookies later, Little Drummer Boy’s encouragement through the process was undaunted regarding what could very charitably be described as pink cookies with spider web-covered ovals on top. And then, the lure of helping to take out the garbage pulled him away.  We were done. Perfection in all its flawed glory.

The naysayer in me said “just go pick yourself up a clear plastic container from the nearly-fresh bakery section.” But, you know, my mother never bought decorated cookies. You couldn’t buy decorated cookies in those days — at least not at the Kwik Shop where we grocery shopped. I remember Mama’s cookies as being perfect. I’m sure in reality they were far from it, but the illusion in my mind isn’t tarnished with age–only more wisdom from my own motherhood. You see, even then, the perfection was in the moment, not the cookie. It was in how fun my Mom made it to get down the plastic cookie cutters, to add food coloring to the ready made icing. To toss the sprinkles or red hots or whatever confection she thought would give them that special touch. Even to do something else while I knew Mama was making cookies for my party was fun. The painstaking yellow triangular Jack-o-lantern eyes, the snowmen’s colorful scarves. The process created a perfectly sugared up, worn out, flour dusted, counter cluttered moment–and some pretty good cookies, too.

Perfection of the kind that produces NCAA regulation football shapes is highly over-rated. And more and more these days, I’m finding satisfaction in letting perfection slide. I want to spend my energy building the perfect moment, not the perfect product or the perfect person. The perfect moments of standing with Mommy at the counter, stirring the bowl, licking the spoon, proudly presenting the blue plastic platter filled with cookies to the class–the moments will be remembered far longer than the mauve-colored icing that should have been maroon. Perfection is in the process and the joy of effort, the imperfect outcome of moments spent on what matters. Yum.

November is here, and yesterday I pulled down our Fisher Price Little People “First Thanksgiving” set from the top shelf to much fanfare with Little Drummer Boy and Bug. It’s become a tradition that gets the boys excited–so much so that Bug took the horse and cart along with Boy Pilgrim to bed with him for nap time. This was after Little Drummer Boy sat at the kitchen table and acted out his own version of the First Thanksgiving celebration slash car chase and Transformer storyline–all in an attempt to avoid Baby Girl stealing the show, literally. Her first interaction with the set came later when her greatest joy was to toss the First Thanksgiving basket and all its contents around the living room, which I’m sure gave Girl Indian Native American a whopping headache. It will be the first of many times this year that I fetch the prize pumpkin and turkey platter from under the couch.

In this day of instant and almost constant excess, it is a continual challenge to know how to instill gratitude in the hearts of my sweet gifts. Unfortunately it’s sometimes a continual challenge to know how to instill gratitude in the heart of their Mommy and Daddy as well. Still, carved in between “trunk or treating” with the Montgomery volunteer fire department/scarecrow contingent and the much anticipated Christmas season, I like to give Thanksgiving its due. So, on November 1st, we get down the Little People set and the few Thanksgiving books we have to savor for the next month. Little Drummer Boy and I read The Pilgrim’s First Thanksgiving and Over the River and Through the Woods last night for what may become a nightly occurrence during this month, and we’ve even found a few library books to keep us in the mood. Of course, I’m sure Charlie Brown will make an appearance at some point as well.

This year, we’re starting something new. I saw a blog post a few weeks back about an interesting way to get the whole family involved in giving thanks–a Thanksgiving Tree. [Through much kicking myself as I’ve searched my browser history, I’ve yet to find the link again, or I would gladly post it here. If this is your idea or your blog post, please let me know, and I’ll be glad to offer credit where it’s due!] The Thanksgiving Tree I saw was a lovely collection of tree branches gathered as a display. Each day family members said one thing they were thankful for, no matter how silly or serious,and wrote it on a paper tag to hang on the tree–ornaments of gratitude to inspire more thankful hearts. I loved the idea the moment I saw it, and the rest of the Montgomery clan concurred.

When we spent a weekend on “the farm” a few weeks ago, one of our missions was to find THE Thanksgiving Tree for us. Bug was convinced we should be looking for a Christmas tree, but was easily persuaded once he realized sticks were involved. Boys. Sticks. No-brainer. From that point forward during our long walk / wagon-pull from the farmhouse to the usually cabled road we call the “back back” all eyes were peeled for the best branches for our tabletop–at least when they weren’t peeled to cows, rocks, flowers, bugs and each other. When we were nearing the barn on the return trip, we settled on a tiny little deciduous version, no leaves attached, that we all determined was perfect. It came apart in two pieces when Quiver pulled it from the ground, but we were undaunted. This was our first Thanksgiving Tree.

Yesterday was the day to install it on our table. I had a pumpkin basket (whose top also doubles as a great hat) that was the perfect container. We decided that the giant collection of “flint rocks” my three boys (two little, one big) have collected in hopes of a future fish tank could be pressed into service to hold the branches in place. Please don’t ask me what “flint rocks” are. It’s been explained to me, and folks of the boy variety in my house can easily recognize them. Though, honestly, it still escapes me, but back to the show… After some great help from Little Drummer Boy to get the turkey table runner just right and get the rocks dropped in one handful at a time, the Montgomery Thanksgiving Tree took its rightful place. Memories. We’ve talked with the boys several times about how we will each be able to hang something on the tree at supper time each night until Thanksgiving. I knew this idea had tons of joy-potential when the first thing Bug said upon walking into the dining room this morning was “our Thanksgiving Tree!”

And, so it begins. Our month-long quest for Thanksgiving. In 2008, I wrote my first 12 Days of Thanksgiving series in the days leading up to Thanksgiving Day, which I’ll be writing again this year beginning November 15. And, some other thankful posts will probably pop up along the way as well as reports from the decorating of the Thanksgiving Tree. I’d be delighted for you to peek through the window at our attempt at sowing the seeds of gratitude in all our hearts. We’ll see where they blossom.

I’m convinced that gratitude is an antidote to worry and complaint, and it’s the catalyst for kindness and generosity. In times of joy, in times of hardship, I need it. We need it.

“In everything give thanks…”

It’s hard to muster up a song sometimes. The tiredness of the day, the busyness of the schedule and the frustration of the combination sometimes just sucks the song right out of me. Then, I hear the simple, sweetly spoken request. “Sing!”

Our nightly bedtime ritual includes a beloved lullaby CD that I made for Little Drummer Boy and Bug from iTunes downloads several years ago. The CD is worn and the sound is crackly from use. The songs are so familiar that any time we hear them on the radio, a chorus of “our bedtime song!” follows in unison. Each night as each boy takes his turn reading with Mommy, then climbing in bed, I cover them with blankets, rub their backs and start the music. Invariably on the weariest nights, the nights when supper was late on the table and baths took longer than expected, the ones when I’ve been the most impatient or the most haggard, I hear it. “Sing!”

It’s hard for an impatient heart to sing a song of peace. It’s hard for a hurried heart to sing a song of rest. It’s hard for a heart screaming with a million and one distractions to sing a quiet song. Still, in this heart of indulgence toward my precious gifts, I try. I sing. “Come to Jesus. Come to Jesus. And live.”

Something happens when I ignore the resistance amid yawns. When I lay aside the fatigue and the irritability and offer the frequently off-key and misregistered melody of “yes” to my little ones, I find that my heart actually opens to believing the lyrics anew, to embracing the words I impart. And in my spirit, I say “yes.” I sing.

Sometimes God allows me a special blessing akin to the one He enjoys from His children. Every now and then my gifts sing along–their minds following and anticipating, but only able to release the last words of each line. Often the only word they sing clearly is “Jesus.” Their tender hearts, unstained by cynicism and self-consciousness, sing out to Him. Ever open, all that they are calls out to all that they know of Him. In that moment, unhidden, it’s His name. In song.

And in that moment, opened by their openness, I find that I sing. Broken down and revealed, in desperate restlessness, pronouncing peace, I sing. To these gifts. To this God of all seasons, of all days. And, all that I can know of my heart calls out to all that I recognize of Him–summarized. In His name.

I sing.

Untitled Hymn by Chris Rice (our personal favorite)

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!

Now your burden’s lifted
And carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!

And like a newborn baby
Don’t be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk
Sometimes we fall…so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!

Sometimes the way is lonely
And steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can’t contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!

And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory’s side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!

The tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little joys of boys and 1 little jewel of a girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

Happy Labor Day! Last year on this day, I brought my Baby Girl home from the hospital for the first time. It gives new meaning to the celebration no “labor.”  Beyond culminating the discomfort of an August pregnancy in Mississippi, I remember feeling so incredibly overjoyed to actually hold her on the outside, to see and touch her. I remember that feeling with each of my gifts. Those few days in the hospital are necessary, but restless. Whether it’s the physical relief of being able to sit or rise unassisted from overstuffed chairs again or the contentment of finally bringing a little one into the nest you’ve prepared, there’s just something comforting about the soul sigh that comes with bringing a baby home.

I love coming home. I enjoy the feeling of driving up to the place where you lay your head. It gives a tangible spin to that sense of belonging created by family. For my preschoolers, home is the center of their view of the world, their understanding of how life works. Each person expresses it differently, but the comfort and joy of home makes its way into every heart.

For Squiggle, it’s the announcement of our arrival. We choose our left or right turns out of the preschool parking lot. We “wheee” down a few hills and look for elusive tractors and firetrucks, but the last turn with our driveway in view is unmistakable. “There’s OUR house.”

For Little Drummer Boy, it’s opening the door for everyone. We race to get out of the truck with juice cups and favorite friends in hand. We make our way up the walkway with no skinned knees and our armloads in tact. And then, Little Drummer Boy opens the door. Usually a small crack gives a quick peek inside, and then he bursts in with a bang. Bouncing into the big red chair means we are home.

For Quiver, it comes out in more subtle ways. Finally coming home is turning off the lights in his downstairs office and taking off his work boots. It’s closing the safety gate at the top of the steps with Baby Girl smiles greeting him. Sometimes I think it’s the trappings of having a celebration-junkie wife in the house. For grilling out, “Are you gonna get out that blue cloth? ‘Cause that makes it nice.” After furniture rearranging, “This is nice. It’s good to have a change sometimes.” “That smells nice,” from a freshly cleaned bathroom. Often home is the details men don’t do for themselves.

For Baby Girl, it’s my comfort level. In our house I know she can try out her walking virtually free from a constant eye. With a few doors strategically closed and the familiar placement of our toys, she doesn’t necessarily need me to monitor her progress. And let’s not forget the faithful “Mommy!” from Little Drummer Boy or Squiggle should she wander into forbidden territory. That’s just part of home.

For me, it’s all of the above.

Last Labor Day weekend, Baby Girl came unexpectedly. I knew something was a little different when I woke up on August 30th. When my water broke at the breakfast table, it was an unmistakable clue, and we were off to the races. We were only in the hospital room for an hour and a half before Baby Girl made her debut. She was two weeks early, and she’s been pushing the envelope ever since, eager to catch up with her brothers.

This year for Labor Day, we are nursing Baby Girl back to health from a case of the flu and dosing up everyone else to try and prevent it from spreading. The flu changed our Labor Day plans for a weekend on the farm, but we are still enjoying an extra day away from the normal schedule of work. I’m thinking about home and work, and rest from labor. One of Little Drummer Boy’s morning prayer requests filters to the surface.

“Let Mommy not get lost at work.”

It was followed by the request to “not let Squiggle get lost at home,” but it stuck. It’s an admonition I take to heart. As much as I enjoy my job and freelance writing, I don’t want to get lost there. I don’t even want to get lost in blogging. I always want to come home–physically, mentally, and emotionally. I want to offer the best of myself to these gifts in this home, and pay my closest attention here where so much is riding on it. It’s a good reminder this Labor Day.