Ran across this while looking up a movie on a Christian website.  Thought it was extremely insightful.

"The lie is eternal.

We don't think about lies as such, not at first. Rarely do we think about them at all. We don't build them to last or construct them with care. They are ugly, utilitarian things; lingual shields we forge with frenzied fury and cower behind when danger comes close. We think we need them to save what we treasure—reputations, friendships, careers—and then, when the danger passes, we try to discard them as so much scrap.

But we can't. Lies stick to us. We carry them with us—silent reminders of that moment of fear, that threat of disgrace. They stay with us always and sometimes grow, the weight pulling us downward as we become hunched, contorted, exhausted. It's the paradox of prevarications: After we form them, they form us."

Definitely worth thinking about this Monday morning.

 

Mouse Tragedy

We had a tragedy today.  One of our baby mice died.

I noticed this afternoon that he was pretty listless, so I took him out and held him.  He's gotten much smaller than his brothers and I was concerned that he was starving, so I put him in a food bowl and held him for a long time.  I finally took him into Deanna's room and we discussed the problem.  I was afraid he was dying, but decided that I would clean up one of the cages we weren't using and put him in his own house alone, away from greedy, bigger brothers.

Deanna held him for a full hour while I prepared a new cage for him.  I filled it with special treats and lovingly set up a wheel and tunnels for him.  Then I took the cage into Deanna's room where we put the little guy and set it up on top of the nursery, the cage where our female mouse (the mother of this guy) lives in Deanna's room.  He was very inquisitive and spent a good bit of time looking over his new home.

This all happened while I was making dinner.  After dinner, I went to check on him and found him dead in his new cage.  I buried him outside, but it really saddened me.  I don't know what happened.  Perhaps he was ill.  Maybe he caught a cold or the heat from the kitchen up near the ceiling, where his other cage sits, was too much for him.  I don't know; he just died.

Daelyn cried.  Deanna moped.  We're all grieving the loss of another of our babies.  We only have 2 left out of a litter of 9.

This isn't exactly the way we wanted to get rid of them.  We would prefer for people to adopt them, not feed them to the dog or kill them off one by one.

They're ALL confused!!

Daelyn:  "Mom, what's for dinner tonight?"
Me:  "Pork loin."
Daelyn:  "Oh, darn."
Me:  "What's wrong?"
Daelyn:  "I just wish you'd cook something other than chicken sometimes."

Later . . .
Deanna:  "What's for dinner?"
Me:  "Pork loin."
Deanna:  "Isn't that from, like, around the crotch area?"
Me:  "Do you mean 'groin'?"

Later still . . .
Don:  "So, we're having chicken crotch for dinner, I see."

And people think THEIR families are weird!

Jammies

My children's school is, literally, a 2-minute drive from our house.  I pull up in the carpool lane, they jump out, and I drive off again - 6 to 7 minutes max from start to finish.

Mornings at my house consist of waking Dane, waking Daelyn, throwing a load of laundry in the washing machine, waking Dane, checking on Deanna, popping into our bathroom to say hello to Don, waking Dane, making breakfast, waking Dane, preparing lunches, nagging Dane to finish dressing and walk the dog . . . , I've gotten into the habit of running into my bathroom at the last minute, throwing regular clothes on the top of my body, and tearing back out again, leaving pajamas on the bottom half.  I don't have time to bathe until the children are gone, and I don't really like to put clean clothes on a dirty body, so I keep the jammies on until there's time for my bath.

On my way home from dropping the children at school this morning, I realized I had neglected to tell Dane he was riding home with someone else today.  Grandpa has a doctor's appointment and I'm not sure we'll be home in time to get the children, so I made other arrangements.  Everyone is coming home with someone different, but they should all end up here in close proximity to each other, hopefully, because Deanna's the only one with a key to the house.

I thought about calling the school and leaving the message, but there's no guarantee that they will always get those messages.  I thought that if I passed another car on it's way to school, that I'd flag them down and ask any Middle School kids in it to give Dane the message.  But what if I didn't pass any other cars.  Or what if Dane thought it was a joke and didn't believe the person.  I made a quick decision, checked the clock, and decided that it was still early enough that the Middle School boys would be standing around outside the door.  I could get back in the carpool line and holler out the window at Dane.

I turned around and headed back for the school but noticed as I approached that nobody was standing outside the Middle School doors where the boys are required to gather before school.  All their stuff was there, blocking the doorway so you could hardly get in, but no boys.

I parked, jumped out of the car, and ran in the door.  I passed one young man and asked where they were.

"Setting up chairs in the cafeteria," he said.  Oh, boy.  Here we go.  So, in my pajama bottoms, I rounded the corner from the hallway into the cafeteria, hoping Dane would be close to that door.  Nope.  Of course not.  He was the boy the furthest from me.  And, just then, everyone started filing out the door past me.  As each boy passed, he smiled, most spoke, and EACH ONE discreetly averted their eyes downward at my pajama bottoms.  No one commented, no funny expressions crossed their faces, just a quick glance.

It took me several minutes to get Dane's attention and tell him about his ride situation this afternoon.  In the meantime, more boys were milling past me, with the ever-present "sneaky" glance at my pajama bottoms.  As I finished with Dane and walked back out to my car, I couldn't help but laugh.  Polite boys we're raising here.  Not a single one of them mentioned my pajamas, nor laughed, smiled, or commented about my choice of clothing.  But not a single one of them missed noticing, either.

My secret's out now.  I wear pajamas to bed and don't change out of them first thing in the morning.  In fact, some days I stay in pajama bottoms half the day.  They're comfortable.  And, if I get busy cleaning or cooking or doing laundry, I don't always want to take the time to get my bath and fully dress.  I do normally, though, attempt to dress before leaving the house for things other than the drive to school.

Just so you know.

Intelligence by Association

I have a child who has hit puberty with a vengeance.  Gone are the sweet, cuddly moments.  Gone are the snuggles at bedtime.  Gone are the earnest chats about life, problems, etc.  In their place, I have a snarling, disrespectful creature that barely resembles the child I birthed.

I'm a talker - from the word "Go".  My response to problems is:  1.  Talk them out; 2.  If that fails, punch out the perpetrator (I still have Irish blood in me).  Neither of these solutions work with this child.  However, since #2 is definitely out of the question, I have given added attention to my #1 way of dealing with problems.

In an effort recently to help this child understand the emotions he/she is having towards me right now, I explained that puberty causes all children to think their parents are idiots.  They will one day wake up, often in their 20's (we all pray it happens much earlier, though), and realize that their parents suddenly got really, really smart.  They understand things.  When could this possibly have happened?  I wanted this child to understand that thinking his/her father and I are stupid is a normal part of puberty, but it's also not the truth and that feeling will go away one day.

This morning, this child smiled at me (boy, is that ever rare) and told me he/she has decided I'm not the dumbest person in the world.  Surprised, but cautious, I asked,

"Oh?  So is your father the dumbest person in the world?"

"No!" this child said, emphatically.  "Daddy's brilliant.  And I figure, with him being so smart and all, he wouldn't have chosen a dumb person to marry. So, you MUST be reasonably smart."

The Extraordinary Ordinary

To all those stay-at-home Moms who wonder what you're really contributing to the world:

"We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one."

Excerpt from "The Inner History of a Day"
by John O'Donohue

A Small Reminder

During breakfast yesterday, I glanced through the kitchen windows to the bird feeder on the deck.  I LOVE watching the variety of birds that come to visit our feeder.  For several years now, it's been a favorite hobby for our family.

I could see one of the male cardinals who live in a tree behind our house waiting in a pecan tree for his turn.  But what really attracted my attention was the bird on the feeder.  He was brown with reddish markings, but not rust-colored.

"Is that a robin?  Look at that bird, kids.   What is that?  Is it a finch?"

When the kids saw me looking outside, they all turned, as well.  At the same moment I said, "Is it a finch?", Daelyn blurted out,

"A PURPLE FINCH!  Look, Mom, it's a purple finch!"

As soon as he said it, I realized he was right.  My father-in-law has house finches that feed on his feeders quite often, but we don't often get to see purple finches.  He was beautiful, although I'm not sure I would have called his color purple, exactly.

What struck me the most about this incident was not the beauty of the finch, although I loved that, but the fact that my 9-yr. old son knew what kind of bird it was.  AND - was excited to see a purple finch at our feeder.

There are moments in life when you think you've done something right.  They're never often enough, but those little glimmers into the thought that I've made my children's world better carry me through many hard times.

More Technical Knowledge than Me

When Dane has his infrequent check-ups, our doctor always has to dig stuff out of his ear so he can see the eardrum.  He affectionately refers to them as "potatoes".

While driving home from Atlanta on Saturday, I noticed Deanna had her index finger in her ear and was jiggling it up and down.

"Mama," she asked, "do you get pickles in your ears?"

I chortled then, before bursting into laughter full-tilt, I responded,

"Not very often!"

Turns out, she really asked if I got pimples in my ears, not pickles.  But, I assure you, it sounded exactly like pickles.  And then it occurred to me.

"You know, honey, we can stop planting gardens.  You can just grow pickles and Dane potatoes out of your ears and we can save a lot of money on fertilizer and bedding plants."

Deanna didn't appreciate my humor at all.


Then, on Monday, after school, Daelyn was recanting a story from his day.  His teacher's husband (who's also a teacher) had gotten a new Iphone4S (I think that's what they called it) and was asking it questions.  First, he asked,

"Where should I put a dead body?"

The iphone answered, "Some suggestions would be a funeral home, a dumpster, or your house."

I cracked up.  A phone with a sense of humor.  Then Dane asked,

"What's a pilate?"

Daelyn, our little techie, launched into a definition of pilates.  Deanna and I looked at each other and she interrupted Daelyn.

"Dane," she explained in her older sister voice, "Daelyn said 'Where should I put a DEAD BODY.'  The word pilate was never said!"

Dane and Daelyn responded together.

"Oh."

Apparently, Daelyn hadn't picked up on the fact that Dane had potatoes in his ears and couldn't hear well.  He really thought Dane wanted to know what pilates were.

After a short break for laughing, Daelyn continued with the story.  The teacher asked the phone if it would marry him.  It responded,

"I don't think we know each other well enough."

When the teacher pressed the issue and added the word "please" to his request, the phone responded that his contract didn't include marriage.

I was flabbergasted.  How in the world have they been able to program a mini-computer in a phone to have a sense of humor?  It couldn't be accidental.  Every answer was humorous.

I finally voiced my question aloud.

"How could they possibly have programmed humor into a cell phone?"

Daelyn responded with two words:  "Steve Jobs".

See.  Our little techie.

A Comedy of Errors that Wasn't Very Funny

Deanna got out of school early on Friday and I was napping and forgot about her.  In my own defense, I've been battling bronchitis for 2 weeks and am exhausted - - can't sleep at night for all the coughing, so I laid down for a little nap.  I never expected to conk out and sleep for several hours.  Don was home from work.  He finally went to pick her up, but she had already caught a ride home with the LAST person still there.  She was devastated that we had forgotten her.  To make matters worse, she had called the house and no one answered the phone.

I had similar experiences in my childhood that I vividly remember and still hurt about.  I was determined not to make excuses or slough off forgetting to pick her up.  She had an out-of-town basketball game scheduled for Saturday morning, so I decided I'd drive the 3 hours to Atlanta, watch her game, then bring her home afterwards so she didn't have to sit in the stands for 3 more hours watching the other teams play and waste her whole Saturday.  They had to leave on the bus at 7 a.m. and were not expected home until 8 p.m.

So, I took Dane.  We left at 8 a.m., figuring that would get us there a few minutes before the start of Deanna's game at 11:00.  I Googled the school and got MapQuest directions, which were WRONG!!!  But we also had the address, so we found the school with only a couple detours from wrong directions.  The school was on I-85 south of Atlanta in Fairburn.

We made amazingly good time.  Traffic was very reasonable, and I set the cruise control and zoomed.  When we finally arrived, a few minutes after 11:00 because of the bad directions, the game hadn't started.  They told us they didn't have an 11:00 game, that the game didn't start until noon.  I walked into the gym, looked at the boys warming up, and knew something was wrong.  Turns out, we were at the wrong school.  The Creekside High School WE wanted was off of I-75 in McDonough, GA.  A teacher at the wrong school printed out directions from her laptop for us to the correct school but, by the time we arrived, 45 minutes later, the game was over and Deanna was sitting in the stands, not knowing where we were or what had happened to us.

One of those situations where you can't seem to do anything right.  She was very upset.  So was I.  But, as a mother, you have to hold your own frustration in check so as to console your child.  After all, we had driven a total of almost 4 hours, still had a 3-hr. drive home, and all for a game that we totally missed.  AND, I was still sick and fighting to stay awake.  Not exactly how I wanted to spend a Saturday.

We went to Red Lobster and had lunch and Deanna's spirits finally lifted.  The drive home was pleasant and I'm very glad we went, even with all the slip-ups.  She still arrived home hours before her teammates, which was the goal in the first place.

In light of Friday and Saturday, I have decided to attend Deanna's basketball game outside of Atlanta this afternoon.  I'm taking Daelyn out of school early (since he missed the game Saturday because he needed to work on his car for the Scout Pinewood Derby), picking up another mom, and heading to another game.  I'm determined to get this right.

At least I've been to this school before.  So has the other mother.  And we ought to be able to get accurate directions, since the ones I used when going to this school last time got me there.

I keep hoping for redemption . . .

Javelins and teeth

Last Friday night, we went out to dinner at the local Mexican place.  While we were waiting to place our orders, Don wrote out an algebra word problem on a napkin and gave it to Deanna to solve.  She really struggled, even after he explained what the two variables would be.  Ultimately, she couldn't solve his double-variable algebraic word problem about a caterpillar and a grasshopper moving opposite directions around a circle.

Tonight, at the dinner table, we were talking about rocket scientists.

"I could be a rocket scientist," Deanna said.

"Uh, no, I don't think so," her daddy said.  When we all looked at him quizzically, he added, "A caterpillar and a grasshopper moving opposite directions around a circle . . . "

Deanna's mouth dropped open and she looked at me.

"Is Daddy saying I'm too dumb to be a rocket scientist?"

"It sure seems that way, honey," I responded.

Don:  "But don't worry, Sissy.  If all else fails, you can be a seamstress!"

Me:  "Oh, lovely.  That's the most to which you aspire for your daughter - a seamstress?!?"

Deanna:  "I couldn't be a seamstress.  I get too stressed out!!  Oh, my gosh, I can't even be a seamstress!"

Don:  "Well, if they ever add swimming to the Miss America Pageant, you could be a beauty queen."

Me:  "Maybe what they need to do is add different sports to each year's pageant."

Don:  "Yes, like the Olympics."

Me:  "One year, they could do javelin throwing . . . in high heels."

Daelyn:  " 'Sorry - I didn't mean to put out your eye'."

Deanna:  "Or boxing."

Me:  "And the girl with the most teeth left is proclaimed the winner!!"

Sad.  Just sad.  This is what we do at Family Dinners.

New take on an old theme

Somehow or other, we ended up watching the Miss America 2012 Pageant.  I tried to talk the kids into watching an episode of a weekly show on the computer, but they seemed fascinated by the Pageant.

Slowly, but surely, the boys disappeared off to bed.  I finally asked Deanna,

"Can't we change the channels NOW, hon?"

"Well," she said, "I need to go brush my teeth, but I'd really like to see the end of the bathing suit competition."

"That WAS the end," I responded.

"What?  They don't SWIM?  They just parade around in bathing suits looking hot?  Where's the athleticism?"

Great new idea for the Miss America Pageant.  After marching onstage in skimpy bathing suits and heels, they ought to take to the Pool and try to look sexy while swimming laps!!

Now THAT I might enjoy watching.

Look out, Drivers!!

Deanna obtained her Learner's Permit today!  We're all very excited.  I took her out to the local Mexican Restaurant for lunch to celebrate (and, also, because she had missed lunchtime at school).  Before we left, I called over our good friend, Jesus, the manager, to share our good news.  Deanna pulled out her official paper copy and proudly displayed it.

"Ouch-y-wah-wah!" yelled our Mexican friend excitedly.  He called over another server and, together, the two of them read every word.  Deanna watched, fascinated that anyone would care that much.

I found myself wondering if they've never seen one before, if they did it simply because they know we're good customers and wanted to ensure our continued patronage, or if they could possibly have been that interested.

In any case, for the first time ever, my daughter heard someone other than me exclaim, "Ouch-y-wah-wah!"  Maybe now she'll believe I really didn't make that up.

I always suspected . . .

One child, as he/she walks towards the bench at the kitchen table where he/she normally sits to sibling, who is laying down across the entire bench:

"You have to move.  You're laying right where I put my head!"

Better All the Time

I'm actually going to Post twice in the same day!!

Dane is playing basketball on the Middle School "B" Team.  He loves it.  However, my son is easy-going and lopes down the court, in no hurry to beat the ball to the opposing team's basket, nor his own.  He prefers to not guard; he doesn't like being that aggressive with people he doesn't even know.  Taking out his aggressions on his younger brother is far more appropriate.

He has a wonderful coach, Jimmy Dresser, the father of one of his classmates.  Jimmy is gentle and long-suffering.  He's kind and a great teacher and knows his stuff.  We were delighted to hear he'd be coaching Dane's team this year.  Jimmy, in his gentle way, has worked with Dane to get him to actually RUN downcourt and GUARD the opposition.

After every game, Dane wants to talk about it.  We'll get in the van and he'll say,

"Okay, Mom, I want to talk about the game!!" 

He'll ask what I thought about his playing and talk about specific plays.  Game after game, I find myself saying,

"That's the best game you've ever played, Son."

And it's true.  He improves noticeably with every single game.

In their last game, Dane fouled out.  As he walked off the Court, his shoulders were slumped and his head was down, but he had a little smile on his face.  In the car going home, I said,

"I know how you felt, Son, and you didn't need to be embarrassed."

"How could you have possibly known how I felt, Mama.  So, tell me.  How DID I feel?"

"Well, you were embarrassed and a little ashamed, but you thought that if you put that plastered-on smile on your face, your friends would think fouling out didn't matter to you and they'd still think you were cool."

"That's just scary, Mom.  How can you know what I was thinking?!"  He just doesn't get this whole Mom-thing.

Later, Don talked with his coach, Jimmy.  He came home and told Dane,

"Uncle Jimmy was really pleased with how you played.  He said it was great that you fouled out, because that meant you were playing hard and that you're learning to guard.  He said for you not to worry.  Fouling out just means you're in the game, playing."  I think this consoled Dane a little.

Last night, they played a team from a school whose Principal is the younger brother of our Middle School Principal.  He's a graduate of our school.  On this team is a boy who grew up with our boys and played alongside them for years.  Now, he's attending another private school and is "the opponent".  Dane was really nervous going into the game and didn't think his team would play well.

The score was neck-in-neck for most of the game.  We'd get a basket, then they'd get one.  They'd get a basket, then we'd get one.  They'd foul us and we'd get a free shot.  Then they'd get a basket.  And on it went.  In the final quarter, they began to pull away from us a little.  Then they built some momentum and were 6 points ahead with only one minute to go in the game.  Dane had a couple of fouls against him, but was guarding more carefully and didn't foul out.  With only 30 seconds left in the game, Dane throw a ball from a little short of the half-court line and MADE A 3-POINTER!!  We went crazy!!  Unfortunately, we weren't able to make up the last 3 points and we lost 26 - 23 (I think - something like that, anyway).

Coming home in the van, I told Dane,

"That was the best game you've ever played.  You're learning to guard correctly.  You're getting more aggressive.  You're RUNNING down court and trying to steal the ball.  You got a ton of rebounds.  And that 3-pointer, Son.  It was GREAT!!!"

Dane didn't argue this time.  Nor did he mention that I always tell him it was the best game he's ever played. 

In my opinion, this is the whole point of middle school sports.  Teach the boys the basics.  Train them to work as a team - no ball hogs allowed.  Make sure they know how to guard correctly and proper techniques for shooting.  Practice, practice, practice.  Dane's turning into a real decent little basketball player.

Can you tell I'm proud?

Cry-Baby, Cry-Baby

A dear friend and neighbor of ours died early in the morning on New Year's Day.  We attended his Prayer Service and Funeral last week.  Scheduling was a bit of a challenge, though.  The night of his Prayer Service, we were expecting dinner guests - two young, single men from Australia that are here visiting for a couple of weeks.  Our plan was to eat at 5:30 to give us ample time to arrive at the Service by 7:00, but . . . "the best laid plans. . . "

We finally found a parking spot in the packed lot around 7:30 and made our way into the Narthex of the church.  It was obvious from the parking lot that there was a full house, but we didn't realize just how full until we saw people standing along all of the walls inside the church.  After greeting the people in the Narthex and looking around for a few minutes, I decided to take the children into the Cry Room.  At this particular church, the Cry Room is in a small chapel to the side of the main worship area and one whole wall is windows, looking into the larger church.  Knowing that they had a speaker in there, and seeing very few people using it, we headed into the Cry Room.

It didn't take long to realize that the speaker just wasn't turned up high enough to hear most of what was being said.  That was alright with me during the Rosary, since we're not Catholic and you don't have to hear the prayers to know what's being said, but when it was time for the family members to share about the Deceased, I wanted to hear better.

I had noticed several people walking from the Cry Room into another, smaller room through a door at the end.  I asked one of the women who was coming back into the Cry Room if you could hear better from there.  She smiled and nodded.  I hopped up and headed in.

Turns out, this room was a small Confessional, but had a door leading into the church where you could stand and hear perfectly.  I stood in the doorway of the Confessional for a few minutes.  Then, quite unexpectedly, there was a break in the Sharings and a number of people rose to leave.  The Service had gone on for several hours and many people just had to get home.  I took full advantage of the break and called to the kids to join me, then took off for a pew that had just been emptied out.  Daelyn slid in next to me.

A few minutes later, well into the remainder of the family sharings, Daelyn looked down at his wrist.

"Mom," he hissed at me loudly, "my Phiton bracelet is missing!!"

Oh, my goodness.  His Phiton bracelet!!  He and his brother have pestered me for over a year for Phiton necklaces, sports things that the athletes wear.  I finally broke down and bought a nice one for Dane at the Christian bookstore with John 3:16 printed on it and a bracelet for Daelyn and they got them for Christmas.  Now, here it was, only a couple of weeks later and Daelyn had already lost his!!  I was almost as disturbed as he was.

"Son!!!" I hissed back.  "Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"Well, it might have fallen off my wrist in the Cry-Baby Room."

I snickered.  The funny thing is that Daelyn never quite realizes he says things wrong but, often, his terms are very appropriate.

It's All In Your Perspective

Don was enlisted by the Director of the Handbell Choir at our church to play with them for the Christmas Eve Service.  We have 3 services on Christmas Eve; the 4 p.m. is quiet and traditional (a service perfect for older Episcopalians), 5:30 is the Family Service which is absolute bedlam and involves funny hats and a Homily around the Creche with all the children sitting around on the floor; but the 11 p.m. service is beautiful, solemn, and musical.  We usually hire several musicians to play the trumpet, the flute, the bass, etc., to accompany the Choir, which begins the Pre-Mass music at 10:30.  The Handbell Choir also plays a number of pieces before and during the Service.

When Don asked me whether or not he should commit to helping, I encouraged him.  He played handbells for years, beginning when he still lived at home.  He also directed our Handbell Choir for several years.  He's very talented and I thought he would enjoy getting his "hand" back in it.  Besides, I told him, the children are all old enough now to go to the Late Service, and I think it would be a neat experience for all of us.

However, we couldn't possibly miss the Family Service at 5:30 and we were assigned to take the Gifts up to the Altar at that Service, so we knew we would be attending both.  Our family tradition, started just 6 years ago, is to have Fondue on Christmas Eve after Church for dinner.  It's fun, easy, quick, and doesn't require a lot of clean-up.  We always use pretty Christmas paper plates that we throw away and the only dishes are the fondue pot and sticks and the bowl from the bread.  Since Grandpa Doughty was here with us, I invited my parents to join us for Church and stay for Fondue.  They took us up on the offer.

Being Methodist, my parents have Communion infrequently; anywhere from once a month to once a quarter.  Some Methodist churches never have Communion, but my father's has always scheduled it periodically, if not so regularly.  And, being Methodist, grape juice is used rather than wine.  This is a throw-back to the days when Methodists were all tea-tottlers and did not "imbibe".

In the middle of a wild, raucous Church Service, a few minutes of peace and introspection were carved out during Communion.  As I walked back to the pew from the altar, quietly pensive and pondering the birth of our Lord, I sat down next to my mother, then kneeled to pray.  After a few moments with Jesus, I sat back down.  Mom leaned over to me and quietly whispered in my ear,

"That was really good wine they were serving!"