Do not be alarmed by my previous post. I’m totally okay and that post was a delayed reaction to an event from some time ago. And not even an event, really, but a moment which led me to think about the nature of my life, and maybe your life, too. Did you ever consider that you enter life naked, helpless, and if you live long enough, you’ll end up naked and helpless again? And I think that while so many of us think that the point of life is to accumulate things (and even people), the real point is to become bare, unveiled, to see that even with empty hands, we are okay.

I believe that my life is in the hands of God, so even when I’m shaken like a snowglobe, I’m still safe.

A few weeks ago, I realized that I’ve had it backwards all this time.  I thought that life would add layers to me, accessorize me, clothe me with new experiences.  I thought that I’d eventually be dressed up, decorated, impressive and elegant.

Instead, I find out that life is more about stripping me one layer at a time.  I thought that I was naked when I was born, but in some ways, I feel more naked now than ever before.  I’m not exactly thrilled with the process of having relationships and ideas and beliefs yanked out of my grip and off my shoulders.  I yelp, “HEY, THAT IS MINE!” but apparently it wasn’t at all.

In the beginning, as a child, my entire world was the loopy neighborhood of Whispering Firs.  The boundaries were so certain, life was so predictable–we always had boiled potatoes, never baked, never mashed.  I knew my parents, I knew my siblings, I knew I would get good grades in school and that I was good at drawing puppies.

To be enrobed in that simple, suburban childhood world was to be safe.

Except–as I see now–to be swathed in simplicity is to be a child.  And it’s not real.  When you grow up, when you become more of yourself, you end up shivering without the cloak you expected.  Nothing you touch is as it seems–it’s not cashmere but rags–and letting it go makes more sense than wrapping yourself up like a mummy.

And so, I find myself with less protection and fewer absolutes.  Some convictions are sharper, some disintegrated; some ideas turned out to be wrong, some expectations impossible.

I am shaken, but not broken.

And I still believe two things:

God is good.

The truth sets us free.

Did you see this article about Barbara Curtis’s family?  She’s a blogger and a writer who has been a good friend to me.  (I even spent some time with her in real life at a writer’s conference.)  She has twelve children, three of them who are adopted (and the subject of the article.)  Very cool article!

I am deeply alarmed.  Did you know that Christmas will be here in three weeks?  That’s what I heard one of my sons say today and again I thought, WHAT?

But, good news!  My new Christmas tree was delivered but still sits in my driveway.  I hope someone will drag it into the house at some point and by “someone,” of course I mean “me.”

I cooked the most labor intensive dinner I have cooked in a long time.  Someone gave us some crabs–the meat nestled in their crabby little legs and cracked open bodies–and I spent maybe an hour (!) pulling the meat from the shell.  I couldn’t help but think of the women I saw working in a fish company room–they were “crab shakers” and their job was to remove the crab from the shell.  I don’t know how they did it–there was shaking involved, I guess–but I would have to just DIE if that were my full-time job.  I tried to impress upon my children the importance of their educations while they watched me painstakingly retrieve the meat from the shells.

Then, after all that, I made crab cakes.

You are wondering if there is a point to this post.  And, um, no, there is not.

Have you noticed that my posts have become very generic?  That’s because everyone I know (and their dog) now reads my blog.  Ou-yay ight-may ow-knay at-whay I ean-may?  (That’s fancy ig-pay atin-lay, you know.)

Hey, but guess what?  The carpet cleaner came today and my family room no longer looks like a traveling circus camped on it.  Or like a family of boys with really muddy shoes lives here.

So, Christmas is coming.  Three weeks, they tell me.  Guess I’d better haul the Christmas tree to the living room and get rid of the pumpkins that are still lurking about.  Ho ho ho.

December 1. Where did August go? That’s what I want to know. Twelve minutes ago, the sun was shining, the pool was open, school hadn’t started. Now, only twenty-something days until Christmas. If there is a theme to this blog it is my recurring incredulity about the swiftness of passing time. In other words, “where did the time go?” and “wait a minute, are the seasons changing again?”

My 6-year old says to me all the time, “You’re forty-three, right?” I don’t know why she constantly asks. She also ys, “So, you’re going to die before me, right?” which is sometimes followed up with “I will miss you when you’re dead.”

My husband remarked yesterday, “So, my life is half over, you know.” Unless he doesn’t reach 94. In that case, he’s more than half-way through.

But that’s the least of my concerns. Because Christmas will be here soon. Very soon. Too soon. But then, hey, it’ll practically be time for daffodils and that is one of my favorite times of the year. I need to plant the other bulbs that are sitting in a plastic bag on my bedroom floor. They will not bloom until I put the in the ground. (I ordered them from my son’s school fundraiser.) I have to plant the bulbs because TIME IS RACING.

No wonder I’m in such a hurry all the time. (I’ll tell you what slows me down: a little cold. All I wanted to do today after my work-shift was sprawl on my bed. Which is exactly what I did. I read, then when I finished my book, I tried to nap before my next shift began. . . . and the attempted nap guaranteed that my daughter would return, right on cue, to make sure I did not sleep.)

[Please insert concluding sentence here.]

The end.