I have this compelling urge to fabricate moving, sentimental moments for my children to catalog in that parcel of gray matter labeled “Nostalgia: Do Not Open Before Middle Age.” So every year, I scour my craft books. I eavesdrop on private conversations. I hunt through bookstores and magazine racks at supermarkets looking for that one craft project, that one inspired ritual, that one unforgettable recipe that will forever live in my family’s mind and heart.

I came up with a wonderful recipe for breakfast on Christmas morning - apple fritters, juicy delicious apples encased in a mouth-watering sweet batter, deep-fried golden brown, served piping hot, smothered in 100% pure maple syrup, preferably imported from Canada tapped from trees that don’t use formaldehyde. My family hated them. Actually, my family hated them for three years.

Then there was the Christmas when I insisted on reading a beautiful, moralistic vignette before my greedy little children tore into their gifts. It was an honorable effort to temper materialism with more spiritual values - the reason for the season, as they say. In-laws, children, all alike, lost my drift apparently somewhere between the introduction and the first paragraph. In the din of animated conversation, I was left sulkily reading to myself. I decided that was one tradition I would forego. My pious attempt to redeem the spiritual significance of the holiday had been thwarted, so I let them open their gifts and wallow in the mire of their greed. Though I did rather enjoy the new set of bath towels I received that year.

We’ve tried making Christmas cookies, but they never quite look like the perfect creations in the women’s magazines - too much backyard grit, I suppose. The kids fight, competing for the cookie cutters and sprinkles, and they eat more dough than goes into the oven. So I’ve cut them out of the process. Now I try to arrange a time to bake - secretly, on tiptoe - while they were otherwise occupied putting potted plants down the toilet or running away from home.

Christmas cards are a very important tradition for me. I love to receive warm greetings from friends and family, far and near. I staple them to the wall for a festive decorative touch. I hate, however, getting beautifully embossed cards from people who’ve been married twice, gone on an archaeological expedition to South America, and delivered a baby in an elevator, and sign their cards simply, “Merry Christmas, The Smiths.” Better still, they have the printer sign their name, so all they need to do is mail them and pat themselves on the back for once again doing their part in maintaining the warmth of friendship across the miles.

I do sympathize with the problem though. I used to hand sign every card. The first batch would be signed with the name of every family member, including dogs, bunnies, and fish. Each card would include a humorous, informative, and personalized letter. The next batch would get a shorter
list of family - no pets - and a very brief, but newsy, note. By the time I reached the back of the address book, the scrawl would be barely legible. The card would be signed “Lilly and co.” — no note. Currently, I send out long photocopied epistles itemizing all the exemplary accomplishments of my cherubic children, so everyone can resent me.

I thought perhaps this year we’d begin a caroling tradition, but our neighbors might think we were begging for money (which is not a half-bad idea). Or perhaps we could hot glue homemade ornaments, which should be good for at least a couple of third-degree burns. Maybe we’ll be like those people who put painted nativity cutouts on the lawn and string enough lights to power a small industrialized country. That custom would either last till the neighbors complained of the traffic, or till we got the electric bill.

Years from now when my children are grown, they may not remember all these truly inspired moments, but, hopefully, they will reflect with love and warmth on the many years when Mama tried to start a Christmas tradition.

“Three fast-food workers were found shot to death Wednesday….”

“An explosion caused by a leaking propane tank leveled a house, killing a woman….”

“A young actor…was found dead in a hotel….”

“A former long-haul trucker was executed by injection Wednesday for raping and stabbing three women….”

“One body was discovered Wednesday in the wreckage of a pair of collapsed buildings….”

How many deaths was that-four, five, no, seven? I scanned the news in the local paper as I sipped my hot coffee and nibbled the remaining crust of my whole-grain toast. How could I just sit there eating, so uninvolved, so unaffected by the suffering of so many? Did the weight of all that pain only justify a few lines of ink and newsprint-read today, tossed tomorrow? I had become calloused, hardened, I suppose, by the constant barrage of reported crime, death, accident and war. I’d become somewhat immune to the suffering of sons and daughters, fathers and mothers-people just like me.

I wondered if someone had picked up the Atlanta paper in May of 1979 and, over coffee, skimmed the tiny headline about a young man in a motorcycle accident who spilled half his bright red blood on Bankhead Highway.

My eighteen-month-old son was in his highchair screaming and pasting spaghetti to his hair when I received the call. The woman identified herself as a nurse from Cobb County General Hospital.

“Your husband has been involved in a motorcycle accident. He may have a broken leg.” I proceeded to ask perfunctory questions. She proceeded to give directions and very little specifics.

I knew, in my heart, it was bad. My mind flashed an image of Kelly flying through the air. My son still screamed. I felt numb all over.

Immediately, I arranged for a baby sitter and a ride to the hospital. I didn’t dare drive. I moved in and out of a haze of tears and desperate “please Gods.”

Word spread, and friends gathered, keeping the long vigil with me on hard plastic waiting room chairs. Tears, phone calls, prayers, blurred conversations, heaviness on my chest. We waited and waited and waited.

I saw Kelly for a brief moment as they wheeled him down the hall to recovery in ICU. He was barely lucid, sunken, gray, and vacant, but he was alive. And he still had his leg-what was left of it.

This was the beginning-the beginning of numerous reconstructive surgeries, infection, physical and spiritual pain, depression, physical and spiritual therapy. For others, the crisis was over. They moved on to the next headline. But for us, the crisis ebbed and flowed for months and years. The newspaper headline became an archive while the pain wore on.

Has our society become like the ancient Romans and their gladiators, getting vicarious pleasure out of the suffering of others? Or is it just that we hold headlines at an emotional distance, cluck our tongues, and inwardly thank God that this tragedy didn’t touch our home?

“Five perish on deadly day in Valley.”

“Twelve special-needs adults suffered minor injuries when the bus they were riding in collided with a vehicle….”

“A…man was killed Thursday morning when he allegedly ran a red light….”

I can’t help in every situation. I may not be in a position to touch directly the lives I read about, but I need to care. I need to deeply care that someone in my community this night comes home to an empty house, comes home to a future alone after great loss. Someone faces months of protracted pain and recovery, and so many “whys.” There is someone weighted with guilt over choices made and consequences earned, someone who wishes they could relive the moments.

I need to pray for the peace of God to intervene and invade these broken lives-these broken hearts. I can pray in a knowing way, as I remember what it feels like to live behind the headlines.

Twenty-one years since the motorcycle wreck, Lilly’s husband, Kelly, is leading an active, normal life, though he wears a leg brace and is periodically plagued by skin eruptions and latent bone infections. Says Lilly, “Even though it is scarred like a patchwork quilt, he has his own leg, and for that we are very thankful.”

I just had a birthday, and I’m not handling it very well.

I never really had a hint that I was “aging,” as such, till I approached my 30th birthday. The realization finally started creeping up on me that Diet Coke was not the fountain of youth. After the sagging flesh and lovely purple stretch marks of childbirth, I felt I needed a bit of a boost to my femininity. So for my birthday, I decided to get my ears pierced in order to wear all those cute little delicate earrings that no one sees under long hair. The boost lasted about a week.

Thirty-five also caused me pause, because “the big four-0″ seemed right around the corner. My biological clock was ticking like a bomb. We decided three children weren’t enough of a threat to overpopulation, so I got pregnant again. At this point my metabolism ground to a screeching halt. Consequently, for my 40th birthday, I purchased a silvery white panel control girdle for $29.95. Hadn’t had one of those things since my teens when I didn’t need one. I wore it once, then shoved it to the back of my drawer with my sexy camisoles and one-size-fits-all T-shirts.

Now 50 is sneaking up on me in army boots. I have fearful visions of being asked for my senior citizen’s card before its time. That would rank about as high as being asked when the baby is due, and my cryptic response is, “Eleven years ago!”

I mean, when does it happen? When do you grow old? Does it happen in the dead of night? Do you just wake up one morning feeling extremely wise, craving boiled eggs and Metamucil? Do you start feeling anxious about all the books on your shelves left to read and start cramming for the finals? When do you all of a sudden learn how to play bridge?

I think it’s a stealth operation. Age is a terrorist that sneaks up behind you unawares and starts taking tiny nibbles out of your life force, one at a time. There you are 20 years of age minding your own business – busy being invincible and cultivating stupid habits that’ll take a lifetime to break. Then all of a sudden you wake up one morning, and you’re almost 50. The passage of time seems so inconsequential; you hardly even notice, until you receive promises of an AARP card in the mail. The shock finally registers that you’ve been had – you’re a victim of the ravages of time and free radicals.

But it’s not my fault. I didn’t ask to be middle-aged with toenails that need to be cut with hedge clippers. Did I sign up somewhere for something so lovely and descriptive as liver spots?

I’ve decided it’s my oldest son Christian’s fault. After all, if he wasn’t 22, then I wouldn’t be 49. Or maybe it’s my dad and mom’s fault. If they had stayed in there 50′s where they belonged, I’d still be in my 20′s.

People of their generation didn’t mind their 50′s because they weren’t spoiled like us baby boomers. They foolishly expected the passages of time and flowed gracefully from one stage to the next. My generation was raised on television. We aren’t emotionally equipped to handle life without plastic surgery, airbrushed perfection, and everlasting reruns.

Well, I’ve got a year to think this over. I could live in denial from here on out – 49 forever. Or I could hold my breath till my face turned blue, but God’s never been inclined to respond to temper tantrums. I guess I could try to accept the inevitable and enjoy the prospects of a quiet empty nest, grandchildren, and unsolicited help out to the car with my groceries. But I’m telling you right now; if I get a sudden urge to be a Wal-mart greeter, I’m marching right out and getting a membership to the fitness club.

How are you dealing with aging? Learn how to embrace aging by celebrating your sesason of life and learn to live your life with purpose.