Girls, let’s never forget lunches at the kitchen table with dark clouds outside and laughter inside.

I am still a little confused about what Hope believes about Santa. I do know that Naomi won’t get within 20 feet of him (as witnessed last weekend at our local Christmas Train visit).

My prize for a long day of mothering never comes before the sun sets.

My mother reminded me this morning that today would have been my grandfather’s 100th birthday. December 17, 1907.

I was only ten years old when he died at the age of 77 almost 23 years ago. When he died, I was more worried about my mother than I felt my own loss for him. I was young and had not built any life with him.

My memories of him are childish, layered with snapshot ideas of hot summers and Thanksgiving tables. And these memories are old, stunted in time and probably influenced more by photos in albums than by my own recollections. But, as I try to call up thoughts of my grandfather, they are rich and peppered with Julys in Northern Indiana, wide open grass and prickly new cucumbers. I see him near a hay barn and old farm equipment; I see him among rows of corn and the dusk’s fireflies. These memories are mine.

There are things I could say that are my sister’s, and there are memories I could relate that belong to my mother. But we all have our own stories to write.

In all honesty, I must say that the feelings of pain I feel at my grandfather’s absence are not that of a daughter for her father. The pain I feel at times is dull, but real. The hurt is not in the “missing”, as my mother would feel. My ache is over incompletion, something that has gone unfinished. It was as if something beautiful was begun, but was cut off. My ache is more for a relationship unknown, for conversations never had.

I do not miss my grandfather. Not like a wife misses her husband and the daily things he does, or how a daughter misses her father, the words and hands held. I don’t. I wasn’t given enough time with him. But the ache is there. Maybe my ache is for my young mother who lost him too soon; maybe the ache is that I am certain he would have been in love with my two girls. Maybe the ache is because I know he might have liked the woman I’ve become. Maybe he would have been proud.

I have long ago given up on the fact that my family will sit as a group, open the Christmas cards we receive one by one, and smile and laugh and joy in the families we know.

Now, with the our busy schedules, the cards get stacked on the counter or the table, and I go through each of them, reading the letters and a relaying any appropriate information to my husband. Then I plaster each one of them to the back of our front door. It is becoming an amazing photo-journal of the lives of our family and our friends across the world.

This morning, the cards that the post brought us yesterday were still sitting in a stack near my sink mixed in with December’s bills. During my daughters’ breakfast (I had already eaten – standing up…), I began to read each one.

Sometimes there is unexpected treasure in seemingly simple places.

A card, a normal card, came. From a woman in my church around the age of our mothers, this card was beautiful, simple. Pictures of grandchildren, a nice sentiment, and then a typed letter neatly folded inside.

I read the letter and stood dazed. It was a sweet and honest “thank you” for the ways my words had affected her life for good this past year. It was also an encouragement for others to thank the person who had made a difference in their lives as well.

I am humbled and stunned. I am overwhelmed by the kindness of this dear woman. I often live in disbelief that my words might affect any person in a positive way. I am sincerely humbled.

So, thank you, Judi, for your words. Thank you for your candid kindness and openness. Thank you for changing me with your gratitude.

Thank you for this treasure.

I can. I really didn’t want to, but I did. It was good for me and I don’t regret it.

I ran 10.22 miles this morning in 97 minutes: slow, I know. I decided to run long, flat laps around a local reservoir, each lap being 1.7 miles. That’s six, long, slow times around.

The first lap was stiff and slow. The second lap was defeating because I thought of the 8 plus miles I had left to go. The third and fourth were the “sweet spot” laps when I was running my fastest and I felt invigorated. The last two were just a little numbing: my muscles weren’t fighting against my mind any longer; they just did what they had done for the 7 miles previous.

I’m tired now and my feet hurt. But what gets me is that I almost didn’t even go out. Really. Some days my motivation just plummets. I’m sure its a combination of stress, being a mother of little ones, exhaustion and too many loads of laundry folded.

But as I did get dressed (two layers on top, one on the bottom, sunglasses, ipod, headband, Garmin, watch, socks, shoes, car key), this is what I thought: I can. Simply, I can. This is something I can do right now. Even if I don’t want to do this, I can.

There have been times in my life when ten miles would have been impossible: when I was overweight and out of shape, or during my pregnancies. And there will be times in my future when I can’t do this any longer: I will age, my ankles will break down and my knees will most likely need replaced (unless I am the 75 year old grandmother who runs 6 hour marathons three times a year).

Right now, I can. Of course there is the extra ten pounds I carry because I don’t really watch my eating very well, but I am in moderate to good shape. My legs and heart are strong, my feet will move me that far, and my husband will watch the kids so I can do this.

I can.

It makes me wonder what else I can do…

Let me begin by stating for the record that I am not a shopper. Online, yes. In store, I’ll pass. Usually. I like browsing, but I usually put whatever I picked up down before I make the effort to buy it. I talk myself out of it.

However, the combination of the holiday as it is pressing upon us and my trip to Europe putting a kink in my get-it-done-before-Thanksgiving habit has forced me into the malls.

Today I stood in a Christmas line at a bookstore which wound far away from the counter and through the aisles of books.

I made friends with the women near me. I moved forward in line. I put something else in my hand (a board book for Naomi). I watched as the little girl behind the counter “broke” her cash register. I stopped moving. One register down. Another manager-esque employee stopped ringing up customers to come to her aid. Two registers down.

Eight minutes and I haven’t moved at all. I put another thing in my hand (A book-light)

“Thank you for you patience, please bear with us during this problem. We will have the issue resolved momentarily.”

One lady, having made her purchase and was now free from the line, tried to exit the store. Buzzers, lights….her book had not been desensitized. Another employee addresses this problem. Now, there is only one working register. This is why I usually use “virtual” shopping carts.

Twelve minutes with my feet glued in the same place. I choose something else from a shelf near me (a bookmark for Hope’s stocking this time). This is the time when I usually put down everything in my hands and head for the door.

I stuck it out; I smiled and was even labeled “optimistic” by the shopper behind me in line.

Register fixed: I now know the login code for this particular bookstore because the manager-looking man practically yelled it into his headset when he was in the middle of the crisis.

I made it to the counter with my original choices and three extra “grabs” as I was waiting in line. As I am thinking about my $74 spent this morning and knowing that about $24 of it was “extra” because I saw it waiting around…I wonder….was it rigged? Did they KNOW I (and others) would place extra items in my hands while waiting? Do they realize it is people like me who make impulse buys that make capitalism work? They must. They put these things at eye level, hand level, wallet level: cheap enough to buy but expensive enough for a perceived value.

I usually pride myself on being able to say “no”, to magazine door-to-door kids, to telemarketers, pretty much to anyone who wants me to spend money. I will choose how I will spend my money and I will not be persuaded. Usually. This morning was different. I felt like I was at an all-you-can-stuff-your-face-with place: thing after stupid thing made it into my credit-card-wielding-hands.

My only excuse is that I was truly a captive audience, I was tired and hungry, other people had more stuff than me, I was in the “idiot rows”, I was bored, I …wait, that is more than one excuse. No real excuse except that I was caught up in the buy-it-all spirit of Christmas shopping.

Perhaps I should stick to online shopping from now on from the comfort of my own computer.

I looked down at my hands this afternoon, and normally, they are soft. But this week, they have been roughened from a combination of the change in weather and a manicure long-overdue. My cuticles need pushed back and my nails need a good file. In general, my hands are overworked and under-pampered.

If it weren’t for my husband, my garage would be organized and my counters would be free of clutter, but then, I probably would not have a garage or kitchen to clean.

If it weren’t for dance classes, gymnastics practice and toddler play and music, my mornings would be quiet and calm spent with a cup of coffee and a magazine, but then, I would never feel my heart smile as I watch one of them succeed at something newly tried.

If it weren’t for little fingers wanting to help with dinner, I would finish quickly and have a hot meal waiting at the table, but then, dinner would never be as fun if it weren’t for a 5 year old to thank.

If it weren’t for four people’s dirty dishes and laundry, I would have all the time in the world to exercise and write at my leisure, but then, I probably would have nothing to write about.

If it weren’t for a toddler who likes to dump out drawers and toys, the playroom would be organized and clean, but then, I might not have a reason to keep a playroom and it would become an office.

Everything has a cost; nothing truly comes for free except for our greatest Gift. What I pay each day in stress over disorder, time spent cleaning, and work done with my mother-hands, I reap in benefit thousands of times over. I receive little arms hugging, tiny lips kissing, and pretend tickles on the floor. I receive a husband who adores and provides and daughters who are doing their best to grow up and obey.

I will gladly pay the cost for these beautiful things.