“I’m looking for a complicated dress—something busy and fussy to wear.”
Now that’s a sentence I’ve never said. When it comes to dresses, I’ve always wanted something with clean lines—something simple and beautiful.
Simplicity.
I want the concept in my closet—and in my life too. And I’d like it for December, the fancy month with all the sequins and ruffles and fur-trimmed edges that can’t be washed in the machine if something gets spilled on it.
When I still had twenty days to go before Christmas, I had a sliver of an idea for our card, a vague sense of how I’d hit a few holiday markets, a nugget of an idea for what goodies I’d bake, and a loose plan for how I’d tackle the girls’ wish lists. And now I know even less.
So, what if I ventured onto an icy cliff with my bag full of How Christmas Should Go and dropped it over the edge? What if I chose simplicity instead?
The evening of December 3, I left the house for a meeting. Shivering, I climbed into the car; Jack Frost nipping at one’s nose is cuter in the song. If I hadn’t said yes to the gathering, I could’ve stayed at home in my coziness. Instead, I navigated rush hour traffic in the frigid darkness for nineteen miles to Lino Lakes.
Only a few of us made it to that meeting for the host families and staff members of Safe Families for Children. But we warmed ourselves with stories of the kids we host and why. And we talked about some challenges the little ones bring into our houses: grief, attachment issues, separation anxiety.
The director of the organization mentioned a particular hosting—one-year-old triplets—and its current circumstances. I had seen the Urgent Need online in our private group weeks earlier, noted it was filled, and moved on. But the need had risen again—with a new twist—and my preoccupation with the holiday card, the baking, and the gifts blinked out of my brain like a faulty strand of tree lights. Her words tore away December’s baubles and glitter, and my own five-word sermon to my girls throughout their lives twinkled brightly—this time for me: This Life Isn’t About You.
I drove home from the get-together, toying with an idea. What if I shifted my focus from gifts, treats, and festive activities to diapers, feedings, and play time on the living room rug? My December wouldn’t be easy, but it would be simple.
At home I relayed the evening’s discussion to Husband and Dicka. And I told them the story of the one-year-old triplets.
“Let’s take them,” Husband said, not missing a beat.
Dicka’s face glowed. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
It was all the confirmation I needed.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.