"Rejoice"

On the morning of December 19th, the Beans were bouncing off the walls. They were even more exuberant than usual because we were expecting a big delivery and the anticipation was KILLING them. "Mommy, when is it going to BE here?!? We've been waiting FOREVER!!!" "Mommy, is it here yet???" "Mommy, why aren't they HERE yet?" "Mommy, what TIME is it? How long until they're HERE?!?" "Mommy?" "Mommy!!!" "MOMMY!?!?" Lots of melodramatic screaming. And the girls were pretty loud, too. Seriously, though, the Beans were coming unglued because, after years of promising it was going to happen, we were finally bringing a piano into our house. And this was thanks to one of my dearest friends of all time. One of her acquaintences had bought a new one for their little prodigy and wanted the old one out before Christmas. We were less than a mile away and happy to oblige. Hubby was even excited about it in spite of his real and understandable concern that we were all going to go deaf even earlier than we'd anticipated. Considering that ParkiPants desperately wants a drum kit AND an electric guitar (Pipsi would like a pretty, shiny flute, please)and they presently sing and shriek at the tops of their lungs day in and day out, Hubby's fear is well-founded but that reality is inevitable. Anyway, I took a moment while the Beans were in a trance in front of the Smurfs movie (it's bad-- so, so bad) to lose my nasty stink before the piano movers arrived. Hubby had been lamentably in Canada for work (the week before Christmas!!!) so my personal hygiene was also on an unfortunate hiatus. Showering with two unsupervised five-year-olds at large in the house is a gamble. Always. Every time. I get that. But I was fiercely ripe. Way overdue. And other people were coming into my house. It had to be done. With the bedroom and bathroom doors open, I stepped into the little shower closet and soaped up before the water was truly hot. Covered in bubbles, I heard the dog go berserk. WHAT?!?!? The movers weren't supposed to be here for at least another hour! And they were supposed to call to give me a twenty-minute heads up!!! I rinsed off frantically, flipping the shower-head option to "firehose" and taking off a layer of skin here and there, trying to figure out how close Parki was to having a stepstool or chair at the front door, unlatching the security bolt and opening the front door to whomever was there. Enough soap rinsed from me, I grabbed a towel and covered my most offensive parts and raced for the front door, puddling up the bathroom, my bedroom and the hallway. I stopped at the end of the hall just as Parki was about to open the front door. Katie was waiting expectantly, ready to bolt outside. "Parki, you're not supposed to open the door without Mommy," Just a gentle reminder. I wasn't totally freaking out or even close to panic. "It's okay. Somebody left something out there," Parki said as she opened the door. As I stood in the hallway, she stepped out and returned with a large manila envelope, slamming the door behind her. "Is this for us?" "I don't know. Bring it here, please." Parki brought it over to me as I dried my hands thoroughly on the towel. I accepted it and glanced at the front and saw a note from my friend. "Something for your new piano." Awww. I was still dripping wet and totally freezing. I started back toward my bedroom to dry off and dress. "Mommy, where's the piano?" "It isn't here yet. It will be here soon." I got dressed, my dad arrived shortly after and we rearranged the furniture to accomodate the incoming piano. The movers FINALLY arrived and it was hard to tell who was more excited to see them, Katie or the girls (Katie might take this one since the girls didn't jump up to lick the movers' faces). Within five seconds of having the piano in place, the girls were tickling (and pounding) the ivories, screaming, hollering, running, yelling some more, and making the place all crazy with noise. My dad and I strategized for a while about the coming days before Hubby arrived home, discussing how we could shuffle kids between houses in order to give me the opportunity to not only do all the Christmas shopping but also hide the kids' loot at our place until Dad could sneak it over to his house to hide it there until I could wrap everything and how was I going to make that happen and was there any way we could work it out so I wouldn't be up all night on Christmas Eve? Because there were also cookies to bake and parties to throw and meals to prepare. You know, the discussion we have every year that makes me realize how much there still is to do and how little time remains to finish everything and howwoefull unprepared I was for everything. The. Stress. Was. Building. Bang Bang Bang went the Beans on the piano. "Woo Woo Woo!" Katie howled. "Okay, I'll see you later," Dad said. Sigh. Christmas. Effing Christmas!!! Then I remembered the envelope on top of my dresser. With the Beans fully occupied by their newfound talent, I snuck into my bedroom and opened the envelope. Inside was a note, and this:

This is no ordinary holiday ornament. My friend saw a stack of hymnals about to be tossed from one of the little churches downtown, in the little town that's so much a part of who we are, and repurposed them, taking their aging pages and fashioning them to hang in homes for years of Christmases yet to come. She wrote about how moved she was in wondering how many hands had held them and sung from them, had reached to them for comfort, and she wished for them a more dignified fate. "Rejoice" It's a powerful command. I read that word spelled out on those much-loved pages and I read the note, written by someone I've known almost all my life, and I felt that finally, everything was coming together. For the first time in years, all my children spend most of their time under my roof. Biscuit and I actually talk about stuff now that the terrible awkward bumpiness of adolescence has passed. My daughters still come to me for love and help and guidance and pretty much everything else they need. The days when I'll be what everyone reaches out to for comfort number fewer and fewer as time passes and the kids grow. And I hope, as I grow old and less relevant in my kids' lives, that I can remind them, not only at Christmas, but every day, to rejoice. To find light and life and love and transcendence in the most mundane activities, like cleaning mustard from the sliding-glass door, or mud from the windows, or cooking yet another dinner that I'm going to have to battle to get little people to eat. Yes, even when things do come together, it's just for a little bit. But the greatest gift we have is to make the happiest possible experiences and memories of those moments. That's what I took away from my sweet friend's incredibly thoughtful gesture, and that will be the those hymnals' legacy in the years to come. No matter how crazy, wet and soapy the holidays are, rejoice in them. They're numbered. Bang on the piano (get the kids lessons, of course), encourage the dog to sing, and rejoice. Rejoice.