Elf On a Mission: Update 2, Day 5 #epicfail

Day 5: FAIL-La-La-La-La

While the Smith family Christmas tree is waiting to be purchased, Cereal left a shiney little evergreen atop Owinn's dresser this morning. Owinn seemed a little bit more interested in Cereal’s whereabouts this morning. I think because Cereal went to sleep with her but had relocated.

Before I proceed, you must know that I have compiled a spreadsheet of all of Cereal’s antics and their meanings from the day after Thanksgiving through Christmas Day. Today, I was supposed to help Owinn make the connection between Christ and the Christmas tree.

MOM. FAIL.

EPIC mom fail.

 Once upon a time, I was a fourth-grade teacher. Teaching analogies to fourth graders is a challenge. Teaching analogies to a two-year-old … maybe I didn’t think this one through. Even as I searched far and wide to find a solid connection, this tree has become a thorn in my side. My Poppy preached once about “sacred cows”. Maybe not to you, but to me, the Christmas tree has become a sacred cow- I put it up and decorate it because, well, because they’re beautiful! But the truth is, I don’t even know the connection.

After stumbling to tell Owinn, “Cereal left this beautiful tree because … because … because … well, because Jesus’ birthday is coming!” Um no! If I go to be with the Lord soon, please rally around my daughter and make sure she learns to question statements like that. In fact, pray she questions everything anyway. … but only after my first cup of coffee. Thanks.

As day 5 retired, I spent some more time digging.

Fantastic, the tree began as a pagan symbol. Mom of the year right here!

Dig a little deeper. Dig a little deeper.

Dig out Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance. The Greek word Xulon essentially refers to anything made of wood. While it was most often used to refer the cross of crucifixion, we also find the word used to name trees. Christ is often compared to a tree. For example, Hosea 14:8 reads “ … I am like a green fir tree. From me is thy fruit found.” I’ll take it! It’s a stretch for putting up an elaborate tree, but I’ll take it!

Moving forward, I intend to reteach the meaning of the Christmas tree … or, at least the meaning we have created. I still think the message is a little complex for a two-year-old, but I’ll reteach it nonetheless. I’ll also consider removing the “tree day” should Cereal visit us again next year or at least until my pupil is a bit older.

What exactly is the purpose of YOUR tree? I’m eager to learn more about the symbolism of these beautiful trees. Are they, in fact, sacred cows? So many questions. 

Elf on a Mission: Update 1

Well, we’re almost a week deep into Elf on a Mission. I’m prayerful that my pursuit of teaching a toddler the Christmas story is “sticking” and also that I won’t forget another day and have to double up allowing our little elf pal to make an appearance after naptime.

Day 1: And Her Name Shall Be Called … Cereal

Owinn awoke the day after Thanksgiving to a little elf bearing a poem. We read the poem together, tossed the elf around a bit, and after much encouragement, Owinn finally settled on a name for the little elf. She shall be called “Cereal”. Leave it to my child’s limited vocabulary to settle on a carb. I’ll be honest, her interest level doesn’t seem to be worth the time I’ve already invested in this little hat-wearing toy, but I shall continue to keep “watering the harvest”.

Day 2: Kicked Back with Hot Cocoa

Cereal made herself right at home this morning. When Owinn arrived at the breakfast table, Cereal had prepared some steamy hot cocoa topped with fluffy marshmallows. What a lovely surprise that she dropped a couple sugary sweets just in arm’s reach for chubby little fingers to snatch and add to her hot chocolate as well! Then, Cereal read to us Away in a Manger as we enjoyed our frothy treat. Because she’s already quite fascinated by babies, today’s take away was saying “Baby Jesus”. We’ll take what we can get!

Day 3: Messy Little Manger

“No! Mess! No!” Cereal tried to recreate a manger. The pine needles, which double as hay for us city-dwellers, were not welcomed by little miss Owinn. She did not appreciate the mess that our friend, Cereal, left in the living room. After tidying up our shoebox manger, we referred to the pictures of Baby Jesus in yesterday’s book and talked about how He wasn’t born in a place where He had a soft Elsa pillow or a warm, cozy blanket. Instead, he was born in a manger. We felt the “hay” and learned that it was rough, not soft. Today’s take away were the words “manger” and “rough”, and I think she may have understood that conditions of being born in a manger weren’t quite pleasant.

Day 4: Sugar & Spice, Not Very Nice

“Uh oh!” Cereal was at it again today with her messy antics. Owinn instantly grabbed the Windex to clean up the sugar angel created by our little friend. She refrained from destroying my … I mean, Cereal’s creation until after we read Luke 1:26-38. We talked about how the angel came to announce that Mary would have a son named Jesus. Our take away was saying “angel”. She went back to the book we’ve been referencing this week Away in a Manger and pointed out baby Jesus again. I think we’re making connections!

Elf on a ... Mission

By: Payton M. Smith

Ho! Ho! Ho! It is Christmastime!

Such a lovely time of year.

But what’s this season all about?

That, my little Owinn is why I’m here!

Since I’m going to be around for a while

I think we should make friends

Pick out a name for me

And let the fun begin!

Ah yes, _________________

That’s what I shall be called

Now on to our journey

The Christmas mystery shall be solved

Tall green trees

 And bright, shining lights

A man in a red suit

Who comes down the chimney at night

Those are all exciting

It’s quite magical to play

But my darling, little one

There’s something more to Christmas Day

There’s a man named Jesus

His birthday will be here lickety-split

He’s the reason we celebrate

He’s the purpose for all of it!

He was carried by a virgin

He was born in a manger

But somehow, to the world

He has become a stranger

Not for you though, Owinn

We will make sure to remember

That Jesus Christ is the reason

For all the joy of December

From now until His birthday

I’ll visit you each morning

And teach you about the miracle

Of the Christmas story

I only ask one thing, my friend

As you learn and grow

Share the REAL Christmas story

With everyone you know!

Puzzled Pieces

Six pieces, 12 pieces, 50 pieces, or 500… puzzles. Growing up, much like now, I had no patience, none. This lack of longsuffering was accentuated when I was left with the task of tackling a time-old jigsaw puzzle. The concept in itself seemed ignorant; “Hey, let’s paint a pretty picture and cut it up so people are forced to put it all back together.” Oh please! Give me Scrabble, give me a crossword, or give me Jeopardy, but PUH-LEASE do not give me your jumbled pile of mess. Fortunately for my ego, I had a solution for these nuisances much like the fixer-upper’s I retain for most of my problems today; I shoved the pieces together until they fit together to make a not-quite-as-pretty-picture when compared to the intended image. In a world where 101 Dalmations evolved into a polka dot collage, Princess Belle’s dress transformed into mushroom-shaped sunset, and lush mountainside morphed into an array of green camoflauge, I was perfectly content with the pieces not fitting and the new and self-deemed “improved” illustration. Another character flaw I quickly developed was hoarding. My family is serving me a terrible injustice by not admitting me to an asylum or at least giving me a shot at fame and calling that brain numbing show, Hoarders. Nonetheless, here I am, still picking up little pieces and refusing to let them go. I started out with a cute little fanny pack (Thank you, Anna, for making it Louis) and it has evolved over the years into something you might see carried by the likes of Mary Poppins. I started with a few pieces, but as time progress and I got a new puzzle, I kept the old pieces too which elicited the need for a bigger bag. Sit down at your kitchen table, pull out every puzzle you’ve ever owned, throw in a few pieces you’ve acquired here and there, and conduct a little inspection. When you keep every single piece, they just don’t fit. In fact, when you don’t do away with the old before you bring in the new, you end up with a bigger mess than when you first started. One puzzle is challenging enough. You have to twist and turn, compromise, meet in the middle, and albeit stick places that don’t always seem the most coveted in the midst of the construction. It becomes even more a shack of shambles when the repertoire of pieces is a collection of all our ‘puzzles.’ We can’t successfully push things together that aren’t meant to be, regardless how hard we try. We can hope and dream, we can even pray, but we can’t change the pieces, not even one measly little piece. We can’t bend it, break it, cut it, or alter it any way. Instead, we must come to the realization that many times, the pieces quite simply don’t fit and even more mind boggling, it’s even more difficult to find the perfect piece when we’re hoarding all the pieces to every puzzle. Pink and red. Sooners and Longhorns. Beer and liquor. White & Fall. French fries & running. Cowboys & Redskins. Amber & her ex boyfriend. Socks & sandals. Texas Tech girls and negative pregnancy tests. When you start with the wrong pieces, nothing fits.

Stupid Coriander

By: Payton M. Ishmael

It’s unfortunate that some of the articles I feel most compelled to write evolve into confessions exposing the very cries of my heart. A little bit personal, but I suppose things like this must often be shared. Let me preface by informing you that, on occasion, I wake up and choose to be defeated by a negative thought process before I even get to the sink to brush away my morning breath. Today, is one of those mornings…

As I moped and mopped through the kitchen with a silent river of tears streaming down my cheeks, I couldn’t help but envy the happy families I’m surrounded by in east Texas. You often hear the description that Edgewood and surrounding small towns are ‘great place to raise a family.’ I hesitantly agree. I see it every day though. As my new students showed up to my classroom Thursday evening for ‘Meet the Teacher’ night, mom on one side, dad on the other, I longed for that same family bond. With age 27 staring me right square in the face, I sadly wonder if my time will ever come to fall in love with Prince Charming, raise a sassy, over-educated little girl and OU’s next star quarterback. Okay, that might be stretching it, but you get the idea.

With floors mopped and smelling cleanly of Pine-Sol, my OCD caught a glimpse of my dust-coated spice rack. I use it as a decoration more than anything, because it is visually appealing to me. I began scrubbing the shiny, silver and quickly noticed that the glass containers of the actual spice were quite dingy as well. By this time, my pity party is in full force. My vision is most blurred due to the glassy tears that cloud my view. I began wiping down one of the jars and thought to myself, “Wow! So this little spherical piece of nothing is all the faith I need…”
The 17th chapter of Matthew, verse 20 is a promise, “"Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you."

I stood there staring at the jar full of these tiny, little balls and was amazed by the visible representation of this verse. All I need is a single one of these… and then I flipped the jar over to read the lid, “CORIANDER.”

Ahh man! I thought I was having one of those revelations, where God sends you comfort and peace in the most unexpected ways. The tears came on full force. Now I’m single, childless, and ignorant. Stupid coriander. I don’t even know what coriander is, but I do know it’s different than mustard seed. Poor, pitiful me.

I poured a cup of coffee and sulked into my kitchen chair. I stared at all the spices across the room and dreaded completing the task of cleaning them after such a daunting discovery. It was the second to the last jar that I hastily wiped down and placed in its proper spot on the rack, “MUSTARD SEED.”

As it turns out, mustard seed is even smaller than coriander. In fact, I could rewrite the verse, “With faith smaller than a stupid ball of coriander…” Or perhaps, “With faith only a fraction of the size of coriander…”

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of these seeds, but I can’t express to you their microscopic size; Teensy tiny little morsels of almost-nothing. The answer to my heart’s desire is shoved inside a seed smaller than the punctuation at the end of this sentence. That’s all I need. I threw the entire jar in my purse so that every time I’m plagued with thoughts of loneliness or life knocks me down, I’ll remember that I need faith even smaller than coriander, and that I serve God far greater than my circumstances.

It Came Upon Me Wave on Wave

By: Payton M. Ishmael

Oh how salt water burns my eyes. I absolutely adore jumping over and through the sun-kissed waves, but as soon as the salty liquid seeps into my eyes, ouch ouch ouch. The sting is pertinent enough to discourage me from ever opening my eyes again for fear that the pain will worsen. I then float blindly, as wave after wave continues to crash upon me, causing an even greater discomfort to my already-closed eyes.

It’s memories like this week, though, that make the burn seem very well worth it; Spending time with amazing ladies to celebrate the pursuit of happiness of our dear friend, Brandy. Laughing at foreign styles, smiling beneath the sunshine, and giggling with an over-abundance of contentment is a most-desirable place to be.

Well worth the sting of the salty ocean too was the time I spent in Miami a couple years ago with my grandparents. Anna laughed as Poppy and immersed ourselves into every single white cap that rolled its way to the sandy shore.

The same is true of life; sometimes with happiness comes a little bit of sting. Just recently I tried to have the best of both worlds. I tried to enjoy the ‘ocean’ while still keeping my ‘eyes closed.’ Metaphorically speaking, I knew that if I opened my eyes, the burn was sure to come. Although I’d most certainly be able to fully enjoy the salty kisses of the crystal clear waters, I’d have to endure the almost-unbearable burn that accompanied.

Lesson learned, that’s an easy way to drown.

In the future, I realize the importance of walking boldly, with no hesitation, accepting the sting of doing what is right and honest. It may hurt a little bit, but it far outweighs the tragedy of drowning lifelessly in a sea of bad decisions.

The Sands of Time

By: Payton M. Ishmael

My first Mexico morning, I laced up my worn out tennis shoes and took off running into the breath-taking Cancun sunrise. It didn’t take long for my mind to quicken to the sand beneath my feet. Those teensy tiny grains of white powder made my jog at least twice as difficult. I had no complaints, though. I traded my iPod and earphones for the beautiful music of ocean waves crashing. The sand instantly found rest inside my socks. My solution was simply to kick them off and keep running, barefoot. What an incredible workout!

It seems I’ve been spent a lot of time with dirt lately. Just last Sunday, I participated in the Down & Dirty Mud Run; an army-style obstacle course complete with swimming, climbing, and crawling through mud. Although it was a unique experience and I’m glad I participated, I was less than thrilled to douse myself in mud.

Oh how things change! The story is often told of my childhood about a commute home to Canton from Athens on Sunday afternoon. We had just left church and I was safely buckled into my car seat with my young parents. It didn’t take long that I was crying to ride with Anna and Poppy in the car just ahead. Being my parent’s first child, and my grandparent’s first granddaughter, it was very seldom that I didn’t instantly get my way. That being said, my parents pulled the car over and consequently my grandparents did too. After a quick exchange, I was safely nestled between Anna and Poppy so that I could happily enjoy my car ride home. Well, so we thought. Only a few miles down the road, I was crying once again. This time I wanted my mom and dad. I’m uncertain whether they just hadn’t pulled over yet to once again let me switch vehicles, or if they simply weren’t going to let me change again.
I was discouraged, confused, distraught, sad… and an array of other tragic emotions.
“ANNA! Did you see all that dirt?” I exclaimed suddenly.

It took only the big pile of dirt on the side of the road to completely change my way of thinking, dry up my tears, and inspire happiness, smiles, and giggles.
Oddly enough, I was an ultimate tom boy as a kid. Although I enjoyed baby dolls, playing in the dirt was my absolute most favorite. Digging holes, burying silverware, and making mud pies were my idea of a perfect day.

And so maybe the culmination of the recent mud run and my daily beach jogs have taken me back to a place where I have long needed to return. A place where the opinions of people and things around me didn’t matter so much, as the restful peace of enjoying myself and my Creator amidst his creation.

Today, I look fondly at the mud puddles, the sandy beaches, and know that my life-changing pile of dirt must lie just ahead. Maybe it’s time I dig a little deeper.