Christmas-ish

With the end of Christmas Day usually comes this feeling of eugh, no!, and eh. It's a feeling of general un-Christmas-ness. And it's sad.

But it's no one's fault but my own (or your own, if you happen to have this same problem. Sorry, but it's a problem that needs to be recognized).

What is it about the day after Christmas that makes me (us) feel this way? It's not like the decorations go down as soon as it strikes midnight after the 25th (they don't). It's not like I can't pull up Pandora and still listen to Christmas music (I can). It's not like the Savior was born one day and now has nothing to do with my life (yeah, that's just not even close to true).

So what is it?

I think that some of it (at least for me) is that I have this sense of multiple times of life. There's summertime, then there's normal time. There's Christmastime, and then there's normal time. That separation--even though it's only mental--creates a divide between my feelings and actions (and dare I say, the feelings and actions of others) that is very real.

So today, on December the twenty-eighth, a whopping three days after Christmas, I did something very Christmasy: I went to see the lights and nativity display at the Mesa, Arizona temple.

Granted, the feeling was a little different. The blinding LEDs weren't accented with the usual before-Christmas anticipation and spirit. But. In combining the "Christmas" and the "normal," I felt a distinct feeling of peace and a desire to begin anew.

So maybe there are different times of life--but none should be settling, none should be "normal." The time of Christmas is perhaps the time of reflection; so now it's time to move on to the time of action. (That's what New Year's resolutions are about, right?) And that's fine...as long as we let the spirit of Christmas linger as we move from time to time.

Costco-ish

Once upon a time (AKA Thursday) I came home for Christmas break. I went with my mother to Costco on Friday. I stood by our giant cart waiting for her as she discussed on the phone whether or not to get the peanut butter-filled pretzels for some family friends (I had already voted yes, but she wasn't quite convinced). I heard some people coming down the aisle, singing Christmas songs. Musta been a man and children. Smiling to myself and thinking, how awesome is that, I peeked around the corner to catch a glimpse of this family choir.

And there they were! A bald man with two little girls singing as they pushed their huge cart along--a bald man and two little girls that I recognized. He was one of my high school religion teachers, and the two girls were his two daughters. We exchanged hellos and news and then they had to head off. I smiled to myself again. It would be him and his daughters caroling through Costco.

Then my mom gets off the phone and round the corner swings more people we know! A coach of mine from junior high school, and her daughter. Again hellos. Again news. Again a brief but lovely talk followed by having-to-leaves, etc.

It's one of the things that just goes with coming home: seeing people you know. Seeing people you know at Costco, of all places. But it's nice. Nice to know that even when things change--and you're coming home because you've left home, and your little brothers are more like little men, and your old coaches and teachers kept living after you graduated from your time with them--that change doesn't change the pleasant little connections we've made. 

And I can chat in Costco with any of those people anytime.

Needer-ish

Today I heard a lovely little tale about a girl I know.

She is one of those friendly girls who talks to you like she's known you for years even if she doesn't know your name.

She goes with her family to the Utah Jazz games and sits up in the box. Every time they go, she says hello and how are you doing to the usher girl, not thinking anything of it.

The last time they went to a Utah Jazz game, she did the same. Hello. How are you. Hope you have a merry Christmas.

The usher girl broke down crying.

You've been such a friend to me, she said. You have no idea. Thank you.

Everyone says, "You never know the impact you could have." And yeah, sometimes that's true. Sometimes you'll go through life never knowing what impact you made in someone's life.

But it's the times when you do know--when you figure it out somehow--that make a difference. Because when we have those times, or see other people have those times, that's when we realize that people do notice us; that people do care. I guess it all goes back to what the Dollar Giver said a couple weeks ago: people just need each other.

So accept it when people try to fill your needs, and then try to fill others'. We're all just a bunch of Needers, after all.

Tiny-ish

There is a tiny town smack-dab in the middle of Utah called Manti.

And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. You drive through canyons to get there, past miles of wide fields, waving at sheep and cows as you go. The houses come only as often as the fence posts end. Then, suddenly, you are THERE. Tiny shops line the tiny street for a block or two until the buildings end and the fields and the sheep and the cows begin again. It's a quaint place. It's open, and empty of noise or busyness. Surrounding the valley is a guardian row of distant yet not-too-distant mountains.

On a hill in this tiny town stands a white castle, one tower on each end, its grounds garnished with a few trees and short white benches. Above the entrance, the castle proclaims in all-caps "HOLINESS TO THE LORD," then, "THE HOUSE OF THE LORD."

The castle is a temple. I went there yesterday with a group of young adults--a group of friends, as a church activity--and felt the magnificence that is there. The beauty of the edifice itself inspires, that is true; but more importantly, there is a feeling of peace there. Of comfort. Of perfection, even, as much perfection as can be achieved in this world. It was amazing...in a tiny little town on a tiny little street, we found the greatest, largest, grandest thing of all: a closeness to the Lord of all creation.