Charging Ahead

Margaret is now a rising 7th grader!

The end of the year hoopla led to a lot of flashbacks to the end of Jack's 6th grade year. Hard to believe that from that point on we had exactly 3 months left with him.

As we stood with Margaret in front of her friends and their parents at her 6th grade dinner to read the "charge" we'd written for her, Tim and I wept. Not a gentle weeping, but choking sobs. I know that tears are cleansing and honest, but I wish so much we had been able to keep it together because this was supposed to be Margaret's evening. We intended to praise our beautiful, intelligent, spunky girl for all of her accomplishments in grade school, and launch her into the next stage of her life. We would share about her strength, her wit, her work ethic, her magnetic personality, and her huge potential for the future. We would tell her she could do all things through Christ who gives her the strength she needs (Phil 4:13). Of course all the parents understood our tears, but try to imagine being 11 years old, standing up in front of 40 people while your parents sob openly, and you just have to remain there, facing the crowd.

"I felt like an alien," she said on the way home. I think that may be the BEST, most accurate description of how I have felt as a griever, and I'm so proud of Margaret for putting her feelings into words.

In many ways grievers feel like aliens, trying to navigate a planet that is foreign to us. While we may have once thought we fit in, those days are clouded in our memories. Our new found understanding of what is important (eternity, love, relationships) and what is not (gifted programs, promotions, money, church politics) leave us feeling separate and on the margins.

We are reluctant prophets because we have neither the stamina or the inclination to stand on a street corner proclaiming our new revelations. We are tired. We are hurting. And what's the point of sharing anyway, when our knowledge has come at so high a price? When every person who lives will eventually learn these truths on his own, through the inevitable losses to come?

I think of Margaret, who did not have the luxury of learning about loss as an adult, or in a gradual, natural way.  At an age where being even the slightest bit different is a burden, she feels different in a significant way. If I could, I would take that burden from her. I'd carry it in a sack with me, alongside my own grief and pain, until she reached adulthood. Until she'd had a chance to experience other losses-- of a pet, a friendship, love, of a dream or two. Then I'd let it out slowly so it could settle gently around her shoulders and not knock her to the ground.

And if I could read her "charge" to her again, I'd tell Margaret that she brings light with her everywhere she goes, and that light will never go out.

Who Has 2 Thumbs and Is Going to Have a Great Year in 6th Grade?

THIS GIRL!

Yes, I'm a PROUD Mama!

She's Calling Him Lobbie

A Birth Story

Eleven years ago, on a stifling July day, we dropped Jack off at our friends' house and headed to our local hospital. It was still 2 weeks before Margaret's due date, but we wanted to have her early, if possible, to make sure I could get a full course of IV antibiotics before she was born. I am strep-B positive, and the fact that Jack came 2 weeks early made me nervous that Margaret wouldn't get the medicine she needed if we didn't induce.

The doctor who was supposed to deliver her had forgotten that it was her OWN daughter's birthday and asked if we could come back, say, in a week or so. After some discussion with her partner, we all decided to let the partner deliver the baby as long as we could go ahead and do it that day. In my vast birthing experience with Jack, I had come to realize that it's the nurses who do most of the work anyway.

So, they did a little something something in my nether regions that hurt like c-razy to get started, and sent us on our way for a few hours. The hospital was located near a town center with restaurants, movie theaters, and upscale shops centred around an outdoor fountain. We decided to kill some time there while waiting for things to get moving.

When we got to the hospital parking lot, I walked (lumbered) toward the car. Tim looked at me and said, "What? Shouldn't we be walking? Doesn't walking help labor?"

It troubled me a tad to think that my husband, the pony to whom I had hitched my proverbial cart for the rest of my days, was suggesting that a pregnant woman, in labor, should walk to and from the town center on a 97 degree day in the Virginia humidity.

What, pray tell, did he plan on doing with me when things really got moving? Ask a Gap employee to put me on a clothes rack and wheel me to the hospital? I wanted to go back to the doctors and see if they could un-do whatever gross thing they had just done to me to start my labor because there was certainly no way I was going to procreate, yet again, with this man. Alas, it was too late.

Tempted to be passive aggressive and walk to the town center just so I could complain about it later, I decided not to risk it. I put my swollen foot down and firmly said I needed a ride. Period. I also realized I could get mileage out of this story whether we walked or not.

So off we headed. Tim had also seen somewhere that laboring women should not eat anything. Awesome. Since the docs hadn't said that to me and I knew the heat, my girth, and active labor could all make me cranky, I snagged a bagel as we walked outside from shop to shop. Tim purchased a shirt and vest that he still wears. We call it "Margaret' Outfit."

After a while, we went back to the doctor's office which was connected to the hospital complex. They put us in an exam room and told us to wait. This is before smart phones, people. No blogs. No Words with Friends, Facebook, or Draw Something. Instead, we chatted and took turns reading a lone travel magazine over and over.

Time passed. Lots and lots of time. I've told you that Tim and I don't speak up much, right? That there is no one in this relationship who can send back food or return a pair of pants?

Well, turns out everyone forgot we were there. While we were waiting in the exam room, people were looking all over the hospital for the couple in labor who never showed up in the maternity ward.

By the time Tim stuck his head out the door several hours later, the office was in a tizzy and we were rushed to Labor and Delivery.

Bottom line? We were having our little girl two weeks early and we still didn't get the entire 4 hour course of antibiotics in my arm. I found that I was much more anxious about Margaret's birth than Jack's. It was as if the more I knew, the more nervous I was. About her safety. About everything that could go wrong. With Jack, they inserted my epidural wrong four times, but I didn't know it wasn't supposed to hurt that badly. With him, the cord was wrapped around his neck, but I didn't know that until after they had unwrapped it and he was, Thank God, fine. So a lot of friends were on prayer-alert for us because I just felt a lot more vulnerable this time.

Tim and I tried to stay relaxed and around 6pm it was time to get down to business. My sister couldn't be there this time, so we had her on the phone from Florida. I asked for a mirror so I could see what was going on "down there," a fact that disgusts Margaret to no end, even though she is determined to have at least 4 kids. I was hoping to see my beautiful baby be born and NOT see anything else.

My nurse left the room to check on something. The stand-in doc came in and started chatting up the other nurses. As he joked about his glove size, I interrupted and said, "Hey, guys, GUYS, I think it's time to get started." And it was.

One or two pushes later, out came Margaret with a full head of black hair. She was 6 lbs 8 oz of adorableness. I wished I had kept her in the oven longer so she could have grown some more, but we were so grateful she was absolutely, positively healthy.

The doc was gone within 10 minutes total, not to be seen until my 6 week postpartum appointment when he told me to go home and "Do your wifely duty." Nice.

Margaret was cuddly and delightful. Tim had to leave to be with Jack, so I kept her in bed with me the whole sleepless night. We had some very emotional times when I found out something was very wrong with my hospital roommate's baby. I never got details, but my heart broke for her and I knew I had done nothing special to deserve the gift of the beautiful, healthy baby at my side.

Two days later we took her home, by that time scrawny and yellow. I remember our friends bringing us a rotisserie chicken. In my hormonal glory, I took one look at it on the counter and burst into tears. With those tiny arms and legs, the chicken looked like my baby, minus a head.

It took Margaret a full 3 weeks to finally regain her birth weight, and she's been a little peanut with a huge personality ever since. Many of you have told me Margaret needs her own blog to record her zany insights about life. She's a great writer, so I'll let you know if she ever does!

Our daughter was a gift that hot day 11 years ago, and we admire her for her humor, intelligence, people skills, creativity, compassion, bravery in the face of adversity, athleticism, and her love of God. Her future is brimming with potential, and we are blessed to be along for the ride.

She is an amazing daughter, granddaughter, cousin, sister and friend.

Happy Birthday, Moops!

Universal Language

Lots to write about, but can't seem to get computers to cooperate these past few days. It's not like I'm asking for much, just to send a few emails and blog a bit. My frustration level is about where it was in the late 80's in the college computer lab, cursing my floppy disks.

So in the interest of keeping it short and sweet, this is from Margaret in the backseat of the car:

"Everybody always says music is the 'universal language'(scornful voice and air quotes) but that's not true. We all know Potty Talk is."

Indeed.

The Border

Soooo, I've mentioned a time or five that our family loves Taco Bell. The winning combination of cheese and thrift is impossible for us to resist. The fact that Jack refused to eat french fries, chicken nuggets, or ketchup sealed the deal years ago.

Since Jack's death, Margaret has noticed a few interesting menu developments at Taco Bell, all of which she attributes to her big brother.

First there was the Doritos Loco Taco, a regular hard taco with a Dorito shell. Tacos coupled with Doritoes? He loved them both! Add a Dr. Pepper and Jack would have died and gone to heaven. Okay, you know what I mean.

There's also the Beefy Nacho Burrito-- a burrito stuffed with NACHOS!. Can you say salty orange processed cheese food goodness? Making nachos and popcorn are the only two reasons I even own a microwave.

And now? There's the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, which is basically a hard taco INSIDE a soft tortilla. This is Jack's own invention he ate at home and at Taco Day at school. When we saw that one, we knew something was afoot. Oh, it also comes with "zesty pepper JACK" sauce!

Margaret figures Jack must be infiltrating a Taco Bell exec's dreams and leading to the invention of these yummy delights. I'm with her on this one. I wonder if his next invention will have something to do with Dill Pickles.

Sooo, on the last day of school we were going through the Taco Bell drive through and she was pointing all this out to me. We were laughing about it, and I decided to take a picture of the menu board with my phone. Oh how much we all missed before I finally got a camera phone! I took a couple of shots and then pulled forward.

When I got to the pick-up the window, I discovered I had forgotten to order! Ooops.

Laughing, I apologized to the worker. He replied, "That's okay. I saw you guys taking pictures back there. I told the others this must be your first drive through experience."

As if.

More laughter.

Loving, laughing and missing you, Jack! Wonder what you'll do next!

Oozing with Love

Margaret has been away for a week having a blast with her cousins in Ohio. She comes home today, and I'm eager to see her. Not only because I missed my sweet girl a ton, which I did, but also because it's been a little weird not having someone around to comment on my appearance, my clothing, and especially my acne.

When I was growing up, that role was fulfilled by my older brother John. "Hey Schween-bag, can I carry your zit?" he would ask with a smile/sneer, stretching his arms out in front of him as if he carried a boulder. I think the proper grammar would have been, "May I carry your zit?" but he certainly made his point.

On the other hand, Tim could see an oozing pustule akin to Mt. Vesuvius on my face and say nary a word. I think he lives in fear of my reaction.

Before I married him, I informed him that while I would be a certain size on our wedding day, I wanted NO comments about weight throughout our marriage, either to me or to any of our future daughters. I had seen too many friends deal with the crushing burden of eating disorders and poor body image to tolerate any nonsense from a man who I believed, from peering into the crystal ball of my father-in-law's physique, would always hover around a spry 145 lbs and would never experience the bodily havoc of birthin' babies.

Knowing my penchant for jumbo bags of Twizzlers and Little Debbie Swiss Cake rolls, this promise could have bothered Tim, but he never let on, nor has he EVER commented on my weight, positively or negatively, in the past 20 years...even when I outweighed him by more than 40 lbs before (and after!) the birth of our scrawny baby Jack.

Sooooooo, I guess it's no surprise he does not dare comment on my adult acne.

Neither did Jack, who got many of his mild-mannered traits from his dear dad. I must tell you that a peri-pubescent (new word?) Jack did once say to me, "That shirt makes your boobs look big. But in a good way" which made me chuckle.

But from Margaret, who as a speech impaired toddler caressed my thigh and said, "'Dat bumpy MaMa," I can always count on a little zit commentary when applicable.

Which seems to be more and more often as I get older.

So I've missed her, of course. And I'm counting down the hours until I can give her a hug, at which point she can weigh in on the constellation of pimples on my chin and forehead and any/all embarrassing habits I may have picked up while she was gone.


P.S. If she asks you if I played with her hamster, Bear, while she was away, please say YES. Thanks.

Monday Catch-Up

My sister says she checks my blog compulsively, hoping for an update. I don't want to assume that others do that too, as if I'm some sort of famous person, but I do feel bad when I let days and days go by without filling you in. Does it make you worry and wonder?

If I leave you on a sad note, do you worry that I am down for the count, under the covers until the next blog post appears? If I leave on an "up" note-- do I ever do that?--- do you think, "Wow, Anna's doing great?"

The reality is that during the course of a day, or even an hour, I am up; I am down; I am all over the place. Each day holds its blessings, and its pain.

Last week we had the UP of Margaret doing an AMAZING job as Lucy in "The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe" at school. You've known for years that this girl had dramatic flair, and being in her first play channeled that spunkiness beautifully:

When the narrator talked about "Lucy the Valiant" at the end, I thought. "Margaret, valiant, yes." Not willingly, for sure, but valiant all the same.

She has really, really wanted to play Lucy, ever since Jack played Lucy's brother Edmund the last time the school put on the play. We would practice his lines around the kitchen table. I was the White Witch, and Margaret was Lucy.

The play program this year said, "In Loving Memory of Jack Donaldson. With Aslan."

Wow. Beautiful. I know.

So, it was sweet to see Margaret get to use her gift of acting to entertain. And it was bitter without Jack there to cheer her on, or to critique her every move. Sweet/Bitter. Bittersweet.

Same with her class's Medieval Feast on Friday. She was an archer and did a lovely job. In the back of our minds, however, was Jack, our little dictator, The Lord of the Manor .

And Mother's Day?

There was the bitter of not having this little group together:

Mother's Day 2011 photos. That is a DART in my dress. A DART. Thank you. Seriously, if anyone enjoys Photoshop and would be willing to de-nipplify/dartify these pics for me, I would be GRATEFUL!

And the sweet this year of this hug after Margaret's soccer game:

A tough day, indeed, made much more bearable by cards, love gifts, flowers, texts and emails from friends loving on us. Thank you. By the new blue ribbons festooning fences in town. Thank you. By the prayers sent up by moms gratefully holding their kids close and wishing I could hold both of mine. Thank you.

And today, the school is attending a Shakespeare Festival. One year ago Jack played MacBeth.

This year his name and his favorite Bible verse (Luke 1:37) adorn the progams and the back of the kids' t-shirts.

Ouch. Bitter/Sweet.

So today's post is really just to let you know I'm here.

I'm up.

I'm down.

And I'm glad you are with me.

Comfort Zone Camp: Grieve. Heal. Grow

A few weeks ago Margaret attended a bereavement camp for kids aged 7-17 who have lost a sibling, parent, or primary caregiver.

Getting her there was quite a production, a story of epic proportions. If you want to hear about all of the yelling, screaming and crying (and that's just the grown-ups I'm talking about) I'll have to work up to that in another post. Let's just say I just might have yelled, "Satan, you CANNOT have this family!" as we endured the road trip from hell. Since the closest I usually come to talking about the evil one has been discussng Voldemort, I think you get the idea of just how bad things were.

The good news is that the camp was wonderful!

Comfort Zone Camp is a safe, fun place for grieving kids. Campers attend Camp for free and can go back once a year until age 17. This is especially valuable as they mature and their needs change. Each camper is assigned a "Big Buddy"-- a caring adult who will be with him or her throughout every aspect of the weekend. Kids are placed in groups (Healing Circles) according to age, and each small group is facilitated by a licensed therapist. Most of the helpers at camp have experienced a significant loss in their lives, so they can really relate to the kids' pain.

Kids discuss their individual stories, coping strategies that do and don't work for them, and they talk about their loved ones who died. They also play games, laugh, have a camp fire, and do outdoor activities like canoeing. I cannot overstate how good it is for these kids to have a place where they feel NORMAL and understood. The camp helps "break the emotional isolation grief often brings."

At the end of the weekend, the Healing Circle leaders share with the parents how the weekend went and how we can best help our kids as they grieve.

I am writing about Comfort Zone Camp today in the hope that if you know a child who would benefit from this kind of experience, even if the loss was years ago, you will pass along the info. Camps are now in 4 states, but kids travel from all over the country to attend.

And, if you feel like supporting this amazing organization either through a donation or by volunteering, you'll consider that, too.

We are so grateful Margaret had the chance to attend.

Do You Know "Whether/Weather" We've Been Watching Too Much TV?

So the Washington area has reported that we might get a "sleazy" mix of rain, snow, and sleet tomorrow. Huh? I took Margaret and a friend out to dinner tonight and told them of this weird, new terminology. I mean I've heard of a "sleety" mix or a "wintry" mix, but never "sleazy."

Margaret's response without missing a beat:

"Yeah, sleazy mix sounds more like when you combine a Pole Dancer with an Exotic Dancer."

Yikes.

That noise you just heard was our television crashing through the front window.

In our defense, she learned what these things were by watching "Cake Boss" and "America's Got Talent." Of course I already told you about "Toddlers and Tiaras" today, so we may not have any defense at all.

Margaret Non-Update and What Happened to "Anna See?"

For almost 4 years, this blog was semi-anonymous. I lived with "Jake," "Molly" and "Tom" in an undisclosed town in an undisclosed state. From photos one could see that we lived in an area with deciduous trees, but that's about it.

The kids knew when I took pictures for the blog to step away from car license plates and cover up the name of their school on their uniform shirts because I was too lazy to learn how to Photoshop that stuff out. I tried to balance the desire to protect the kids' privacy while also telling funny stories about them that begged to be shared. I never mentioned my job and, thank the Lord, tried not to write about individual people who drove me to distraction and madness, unless you count "Tom," but he didn't seem to mind being fair game. I didn't put my blog on Facebook or actively seek readers among friends and family.

On September 8, 2011, as prayers, tweets, frantic phone messages and news reports flew around locally and across the country when Jack was missing in the water, "Anna See" and "Anna Donaldson" became one in the same.

People have asked me if I mind that the blog is no longer anonymous. Not really. I would not trade the loving support my family has received from so many people just to have stayed private. And for some reason, I think the blog will be able to reach and help more people if it is not anonymous. Real people. Real names. Real miracles. Real crap.

I also realize, after having the unthinkable happen to my son, that my desire to control and protect "No M-rated games! No personal info on the net! No sleepovers at x, y, and z's!" while prudent and well-intentioned, didn't protect our little family from tragedy in the end.

As a blogger whose kids were getting older, I was having to change my writing a bit anyway. You see, when I started, Jack was 8 and Margaret 6. In recent years you may have noticed that Margaret featured more prominently on the blog. Well, first of all, it's because that girl is MIGHTY entertaining. But also, as Jack got older and we shared experiences either poignant, tender, or difficult, he would say to me, "You're not going to blog about this, are you?" and I would have to say no.

I think a lot of "Mommy Bloggers" find it difficult to figure out what to write as their kids get older because while diapers, bodily functions and mom wanting to lock herself in the bathroom with a Diet Coke are pretty universal (at least I hope so!), as kids age, they are less likely to want their "big kid" selves shared in the blogosphere. A blogging mom also has to balance the fact that while she wouldn't want her kids to put anything about themselves online, she herself does so regularly.

Margaret was not there yet, seeking privacy over blogworthiness, but I believe she is now. I don't want to make her feel more vulnerable and exposed than she already does as the "girl whose brother died." Margaret just wanted a normal family life, and as normalcy eludes us right now, I don't want her to feel like I am sharing her bid'ness for everyone to see. I want to tread lightly as my spunky child does not like having attention drawn to herself right now. Go figure. I did say EVERYTHING has changed, didn't I?

I'm writing this today because I have not mentioned Margaret prominently in recent posts, and I know she is on your mind and in your hearts. Instead it's: "Jack, Jack, Jack." I write about him now because, well I must. I want you to know what he was like, and what his spirit IS like.

But I want to assure you that Tim and I are here for Margaret. We are parenting, we are reading the books, we are seeing a social worker to talk about how to parent at a time such as this, we are watching cooking shows and "Cupcake Wars," and yes, we are going to the mall. Margaret is smiling, laughing, and being Margaret. Please keep praying for all three of us, even when my posts mainly center around how I am feeling and my experience with grief.

The good news is that both of my kids loved to write, so perhaps there will be a "Molly/Margaret" blog in our future where she can share her experience with us. Of course I'm afraid I'll probably be the "fair game" in that one.

Margaret's Excellent Adventure-- LA Style, Part 2

Thanks to YOU, and these very sweet people-- Coke and Dick Clark Productions execs-- We were able to go from this:

To THIS!

And my personal fave: But we still had ANOTHER night of adventure ahead of us-- The AMA's themselves!

The afternoon of the show was pouring rain, with flood warnings even, because apparently we like to bring the gray cloud of doom with us wherever we go. The pictures you are about to see were taken in our hotel hallway, before we got soaked to the undies walking to the Nokia Theater sans umbrellas.

Margaret had an adorable navy dress bought for her by her friend K's mom. I wore the black dress I wore to my friend Cynthia's wedding 5 years ago, and Tim wore a snazzy borrowed suit with a new tie.

Despite the rain and cold, we rallied for our stint of celebrity-watching on the red carpet (Joe Jonas! Other people! Those little girls from Ellen who like to rap Nicki Minaj tunes! Lots of skintight, butt-skimming dresses!) and we had a fabulous time.

We had great seats at the concert, even though you couldn't see us on tv. Margaret and I waved pink glowsticks, singing along to the songs we knew. We watched with amusement and alarm as Jennifer Lopez shed more and more clothing. "Naked except for strategically placed bedazzles" is how Margaret and I described it later. Tim and I subtly wept during "Good Life." By the time the Hoff started shaking it in smiley face boxers, we were truly having a blast and were sorry to see it end.

The entire trip was a wonderful respite during a time of intense sadness. We laughed, told stories, and ordered room service sandwiches. We snuggled in beds made by someone else, watching "UP" on our tv while the rest of LA partied. We marveled at how uncrowded LA seemed compared to Northern Virginia. We saw an amazing awards show, got to gawk at some really c-razy outfits, and were able to gratefully accept the kindness shown us by so many people.

And the final kindness? This photo taken by Erin, who has been pulling for Margaret since day one, even having set up the JBLiftMargaret FB page.

The day of the AMA's Erin flew into LAX with her family for Thanksgiving break. She took this picture while driving down the highway toward the city. While Tim, Margaret, and I were people-watching, shivering, and heading into the show, look what was going on right over our heads:

non-Monumental Issues

One of Margaret’s shoes is missing. They are just thrift store flats, but they're cute, comfy, and they go with her dress for the big night.

The prime suspect is our dog Shadow, because although she does not chew shoes, she does have a weird habit of carrying a shoe in her mouth each time she goes out to pee. The leaves have fallen and the chances of finding a little shoe in the yard are nil, so I hope it’s in the house somewhere. Now you may wonder why I’m concerned that Margaret have this particular shoe for her adventure. Let’s just say you do not want her to be unhappy with her footwear or to get a blister on the big trip. Nope.

Reminds me of our trip to the Washington Monument this past August. I suggested Margaret wear sneakers and socks, an idea that was met with much scorn. She wore flip flops. After a pleasant trip to the top of the monument, Tim had the audacity to think that at ages 10 and 12, our kids (or I) could handle more than one landmark per DC outing. Silly man.

Against my better judgment, we started walking to the World War II Memorial which was right down the hill, and Margaret started freaking out about the heat, her aching legs, her feet, her… BLISTER! I got pissed, not at her, but at Tim for breaking my “one landmark” rule, and because I’d promised all of us Rocket Popsicles, which were clearly in the opposite direction.

Tim’s neck started to bulge and he yelled at Margaret and me, “Aaaargh! You’re both such... such…” The kids, wide-eyed, implored him to tell them what the next word was going to be, but Tim did not divulge. We were pretty sure it wasn’t a good one.

We hobbled to the memorial, the women-folk definitely not showing the reverence it was due, unless glaring and whining were proper protocol. Tim and Jack ended up walking all the way back to the car on the other side of the mall and picking us up, after Margaret and I had cooled off by the water’s edge.

Tim later told me Jack was great at talking him off the ledge on their long walk to the car. It was a good bonding experience for them as they commiserated, whether with or without words, about the lunacy of their female counterparts. Now lest the boys get off scot-free, I could mention Jack's "My coke is too small mania" in Jamestown last year or Tim's "You are such...such..." outburst in Washington, D.C. Oh yeah, I already did.

Margaret's problem that day was a blister on her foot. My issues are usually the heat, the cold, the humidity level, my bladder, or perhaps blood sugar. Margaret and I liked to think we were doing our part to help prepare Jack for the world of women. The car pulled up, we got in, and all was right in the world. Sans the Rocket Pops, of course. Good times.

Man, I really hope we find that shoe.

Operation Christmas Child

My sister and her kids drove 5 hours each way to see us for less than 24 hours this weekend. It’s just so wonderful and terrible to see them. Seeing her son, just 9 months older than Jack, is heartbreaking. I love my nephew; I need him; I am so sad for him; I am jealous my sister has him to hold.

Weekends are the worst around here. Too much tv. Too much computer. Too much time. Too much quiet. Margaret doesn’t want to do anything we used to do together like hiking or geocaching. Which leaves us with more tv, or shopping. I’ve been to the mall more in the last 2 months than in the past several years. I don't blame Margaret. I don't want to do anything I used to want to do either.

When my sis and the cousins usually visit, we sit in the kitchen talking, or engaging in parallel play while reading magazines and sipping tea. We leave the kids to their own devices. Outings? Meh. Not usually. The kids would be having too much fun to want to go anywhere.

But this time we needed an activity, so we worked on our Operation Christmas Child boxes for Samaritan’s Purse. This was one of Jack and Margaret’s favorite charitable activities because packing a shoebox full of toys and goodies to enable a child somewhere in the world to experience Christmas is a tangible way to spread God’s love as well as count your own blessings.

Last year we packed 10 boxes, but Jack said “Next year we’ve gotta do 20!” Margaret and I started shopping for items in the spring and summer as we would see things on sale. After Jack died, we asked people to contribute to Samaritan’s Purse in Jack’s name. Many, many people did, and we are grateful that through our loss, children are receiving Christmas gifts all over the world.

We were joined on our shopping trip by my sister, her kids, and Jack and Margaret's favorite babysitter from when they were younger. This week Margaret, Tim, and I will lead the 5th/6th grade youth group at our church as they pack boxes. Next week we’ll join Tim’s colleagues as they do the same. We already know my car will hold dressers and chairs and junk off of the street. I am excited to see how many stuffed shoeboxes will fit in it.

If you are interested in making shoeboxes with your family, here is the information about what to put in them. You will also find drop off locations listed. Many Chick-Fil-A restaurants give out free shoeboxes and are drop-off spots. My blog friend Ellen is doing shoe boxes with her students in honor of Jack and they are including things Jack would have liked such as Legos, Puzzles, Hot Wheels Cars, balls, and brain teasers.

Box collection takes place next week, Nov 14-21.

Thank you for considering this service project for your family.