Today I'm sharing a story I posted on my blog a couple of years ago. "O Holy Night" was previously published in the book, Chicken Soup for the Soul: It's Christmas. Since I have lots of new blog readers, I thought maybe a "throwback" was in order.

And if you're a long-time reader I would still invite you to take a peek.

Why? Because this is EVEN BETTER than the original. Why? Because last weekend, while looking through my father-in-law's old photo albums, I found pictures from that night! At the time, I didn't realize my father-in-law was taking pictures! So, here 'ya go. If nothing else, you can make fun of my hairstyle (and wardrobe) those many years ago ...   

After eight years of marriage, I thought my husband knew me better. I was wrong. It all began when our pastor asked everyone in our small congregation to participate in the annual Christmas program. Not being one who enjoys the spotlight, I cringed. Maybe I could just read a quick poem. But my husband had his own idea. I remember the day he told me about it. I was sitting at the kitchen table decorating Christmas cookies with our three-year-old daughter, Emily. Curt walked in and messed up my perfectly good day. 

“You want me to stand up in front of the entire church and sing?” I dropped my knife, splattering red frosting across the table. 

“Not by yourself.” He snatched an overly-sprinkled cookie from our daughter’s pile. “I’ll sing with you.”

“Oh that’s comforting,” I said. “You know I don’t like all those people looking at me.” 

Curt shrugged and took a bite of his cookie. “It’s a small church.”

“Not small enough,” I mumbled.

I don’t know how he did it, but a couple of days later, Curt managed to persuade me. We dug through our collection of Christmas music, looking for the perfect song. Finally we agreed on O Holy Night. I ran to the mall, bought the karaoke version and popped it into the cassette player. As the intro began, I felt a twinge of anxiety. I just need to get more familiar with the song.  

So I practiced every time I got in the car. When I ran to the store, I sang along with the lyrics. As I drove to the mall, I flipped the tape over and sang with the accompaniment. When we went out for dinner, Curt and I practiced harmonizing the chorus. Emily always sat buckled in her car seat, happily humming along. 

But I was not happy. With each passing day, panic grew inside me. I imagined myself standing up front on program night. Everyone’s eyes would be fixed on me. What if I forget the words? What if I trip over a poinsettia on the way up the steps? How did I ever let Curt talk me into this?  

All too soon the night I’d been dreading arrived. Curt and I sat in the back of the church waiting our turn. On the platform, a woman recited her version of ‘Twas the Night before Christmas. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies dive-bombing my stomach. 

Suddenly, something occurred to me. What should I do with Emily when we go up front? I couldn’t leave her sitting by herself. I scanned the church, looking for someone she could sit with. Maybe I could bring her with us. But Emily was pretty shy – what if she got scared in front of all those people? As I wrestled with my decision, the pastor interrupted my thoughts. 

“Curt, Sheri, come on up--” 

We walked to the front and stood together on the platform. 

The congregation sat still, watching and waiting. I felt the warmth rising up in my cheeks. I glanced over at Curt and gave him a subtle, you’ll-pay-for-this smile.

Finally the music began. I cleared my throat. O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining … As Curt and I sang, I was surprised to hear Emily whispering the words along with us. How sweet, I thought. She’d heard the song so many times; she’d also learned the words.

​After a couple of verses, Emily grew more confident and sang a bit louder. A few rows back, two gray-haired ladies nodded and smiled at our charming trio. They probably think we planned this. I gazed proudly at Emily. My nervous butterflies began to disappear. Things were going so well – until we reached the chorus. 

As the chorus opened, Emily began to sing with such enthusiasm, it startled me. She opened her mouth wide and belted out each sour note with tremendous conviction. I gave her a look, but she didn’t take the hint. Curt and I stared at one another in shock. Across the pews, men snickered. Women covered their mouths to hide their giggles. Curt and I sang louder, hoping to block her out. But her passionate performance overpowered us both. 

Finally we could no longer maintain our composure. Emily’s innocent joy was contagious. Curt and I stopped singing and joined the rest of the church in sweet, unreserved laughter. Emily grinned and continued her solo. 
Once the applause died down we returned to our seats. Someone else took a turn on the platform, but I couldn’t concentrate. I looked down at Emily, her eyes still sparkling as she picked up a crayon and began flipping through a coloring book. Suddenly I realized my three-year-old had taught me a lesson.  

​During my week of nervous jitters and trivial irritations, I had only been focusing on myself. Christmas wasn’t about me. Christmas was about giving to others. I reached down and patted Emily’s little knee. She hadn’t worried about what others might think. She openly shared the joy in her heart – and didn’t hold back. 
Mommy missed the point, I thought. But Emily reminded me that true joy comes when bringing happiness to others. 

One of my favorite parts about being a writer is getting the chance to tell other people's stories. Well today I'm sharing a story I wrote on behalf of my aunt. If you're an animal lover, I guarantee you'll enjoy Janet's story about her runaway cat, Tickles. And if you're not an animal lover, read it anyway. You might become one. 

(As a side note, the photo was taken a couple of months ago when my aunt ran a half marathon (13.1 miles) at 67 years old. Isn't that cool!?)

Here's Janet's story ...

My cat puzzled me. I’d always taken good care of her. I kept her fed and gave her plenty of love. So why, after all of these years, did she want to run away? Time and again she walked a quarter of a mile down the road to my elderly parents’ house. It didn’t make sense. What was so special about their house?
 
At first I thought she liked catching mice in their barn. But many of our neighbors had barns. Mom would call, saying the same words I’d heard many times before.
 
“Tickles is here again.”
 
Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. Stopping by Mom and Dad’s to help them was a daily ritual for me. I only grew concerned when I realized Tickles was expecting. I hoped she wouldn’t have her kittens at Mom’s. What if she gave birth somewhere along the way?  
 
As it turned out, Tickles delivered her babies at home in a warm, cozy box. She was a good momma. But six weeks later she was ready to go back. This time, five little fur balls followed close behind.    
 
“Tickles brought her kitties over again,” Mom said when I called to check in. Now instead of bringing Tickles home, I hauled five kittens back as well.
 
Eventually, her kitties grew tired of making the trip. Like rebellious teenagers they ignored their momma’s wishes. That didn’t stop Tickles. Her babies didn’t need her, so off to Mom’s she went. In time, all that walking started making her thin. Mom felt sorry for her. 
 
“I think I should feed her,” she said one day. “She keeps meowing at the back door.” Mom’s handouts only encouraged her to visit more often. When the temperatures dropped, Mom brought Tickles inside the house. That’s when I lost my cat.
 
“Next time I come over I’ll bring some cat food,” I told Mom one morning as I cleared her breakfast dishes.
 
Mom waved her wrinkled hand. “Oh that’s okay,” she said. “She’s not your cat anymore.”
 
To be honest, I really didn’t mind. With Dad’s physical limitations and Mom’s forgetfulness, Tickles was a simple way to brighten their day. I didn’t know what the future held for my parents, but I knew one thing. They both loved that cat.
 
One afternoon I dropped by and the house was quiet. I tiptoed to the living room. When I reached the doorway I stopped for a moment, reflecting on the peaceful scene in front of me. As the sunlight streamed through the large picture window, Dad snored softly in his favorite recliner. Mom rested on the couch, her knees tucked slightly as Tickles nestled close beside her.  
 
Well that explains it, I thought. I always knew God provided comfort in many different ways. Why not with a cat? Clearly my parents needed this kitty more than I did.

In time, Mom and Dad required round-the-clock care. I’ll never forget the day my siblings and I took them to the nursing home.
 
Mom sat on her bed, watching me sort through her clothes. Tickles wandered into the room and rubbed against her leg. Mom looked up.
 
“Well if I go away, what about the cat?”
 
Knowing this question would come, I took a deep breath. “It’s too bad you can’t take her with you, but the nursing home doesn’t allow pets. Tickles can visit, but she can’t go with you.” I kept my tone cheerful, as if talking to a toddler. “It’s okay,” I said. “I can take her. I’ll take care of Tickles.”
 
Mom looked down at the floor, collecting her thoughts. “Okay,” she said. “But don’t let her outside. She’ll think she needs to come home.”

​Tickles soon adjusted to life at our house. Though my husband never cared much for cats – especially cats in the house – he understood the situation. Tickles and Ed found a way to make it work. They ignored each other. That is, until Ed came home after his knee surgery.
 
I couldn’t believe the sudden shift in their relationship. Before the surgery, Tickles wanted nothing to do with Ed. After the surgery, she jumped off my lap to go sit with him. While Ed recuperated, Tickles stayed by his side.
 
A couple of years after my parents went into the nursing home, Mom’s dementia progressed to the point that she could no longer speak. She rarely smiled. Most family members were strangers to her. She was in her own little world, and with every visit it became more difficult to reach her.    
 
One day while at the nursing home I noticed a picture of Tickles on Mom’s bedside table. It had been a while since I’d brought her in. I held the picture out to Mom.  
 
“Do you remember her, Mom? Do you remember Tickles?” Mom's eyes narrowed as she stared at the photo. Suddenly, she smiled. Not just a little twitch on the corners of her mouth, but a wide, beautiful smile. She took the photo in her own shaky hands and stared at it for a moment.
 
Something was stuck to the front of the picture. Mom picked at it, distracted. I took the photo, cleaned it off and handed it back. She smiled again, as if seeing it for the first time.  
 
“Mom, do you want me to bring Tickles over to see you?” I detected a slight, but undeniable nod. Now I was smiling. With a little help from Tickles, I had reached my mom.  
 
I believe God uses animals to touch people. And Tickles certainly has touched those around her. Somehow she always knew who needed love and attention. Not only did she offer comfort and companionship, but she also had a knack for making difficult days a little bit brighter.

​Thanksgiving is just around the corner and you know what that means: family time with the in-laws. In-law relationships can be complicated – especially when it comes to mother and daughter-in-law relationships. I’m sure there are plenty of wives out there wishing they could tell their mother-in-law a thing or two this Thanksgiving. I can imagine the comments muttered from across the table …
 
I don’t remember asking your opinion.
I wish you would’ve taught your son how to pick his underwear up off the floor.
Parenting has changed since “back in your day.”
 
As a matter of fact, I’d like to tell my mother-in-law some things as well. I always think of her this time of year. You see, seventeen years ago she was fighting an impossible battle against cancer. She was only fifty years old.
 
I had a mother-in-law for a total of four years. If I had the chance, here’s what I’d tell her at Thanksgiving this year. 

Let me help.
Twenty-some years ago when Curt and I were dating (or even newlyweds), I could barely make green bean casserole. Now I know what it takes to prepare an entire Thanksgiving meal. It’s hard work.

You were an awesome cook. You made everything from scratch. Turkey and stuffing. Homemade rolls. Pumpkin pie. You took care of everything and I showed up just in time to sit down and eat. I never asked if I could bring something. I never offered to help clean up. I was completely content to sit by my boyfriend and let you serve me. Ugh. I’m sorry I did that.

Thank you.
I had a two-month-old baby when you passed away. Now I have three kids and 17 years of experience under my belt. I understand how difficult motherhood can be.

I’m sure you went through turbulent times while raising my husband. Thank you for never giving up on him. Thank you for your relentless prayers. My girls and I are reaping the benefits of your hard work.

Let me tell you about our girls.
It breaks my heart that you never got to know your grandchildren. (And vice versa.) You would absolutely love them. Emily is bright, creative and kind. And you should hear her play the piano. Taylor has a big heart – especially when it comes to babies and little kids. Madison keeps us smiling with her dad’s sense of humor (which he probably got from you). All three play various sports. I know, if you could, you’d be cheering them on.

​I picked up where you left off.
You spent more than two decades praying for my husband. Sadly, you weren’t able to see some of those prayers answered. But I did. And it impacted me in ways I can’t even describe. You’ve given me living-proof that prayer works. I wish you could see the kind of man your son has become. You’d be so proud.

Twenty years ago I wasn’t exactly the praying type. But I’ve changed since you passed away. When you could no longer pray on this earth, I picked up where you left off.
 
Well, there you have it. Just a few things I wish I could say to my husband’s mother. I know what you’re thinking. But Sheri, you don’t know my mother-in-law. That’s right. I don’t. But is she really that bad? After all, you married her son. She must’ve done something right.
 
I think when you lose a family member, you gain perspective.

So ... your husband leaves his underwear on the floor. In the whole scheme of things, it just doesn’t matter. Maybe this Thanksgiving we can all rise above it. 

​First band concerts ... I’ve witnessed this phenomenon three times now. Several years ago Emily played the clarinet. Then Taylor played the flute. Most recently it was Maddie’s turn. Somehow, I always forget what a band full of sixth graders sounds like. It’s not always easy on the ears.
 
Maddie started playing the oboe last summer. She’s already come a long way. At first she could barely squeak out a noise. When she did make a sound, I could’ve sworn she had bagpipes in the basement. Now she’s playing songs that are not only recognizable, but enjoyable.  

I found a seat as the band warmed up. A hodgepodge of melodies and sour notes echoed throughout the gym. I’m always amazed at the number of band kids in sixth grade. Unfortunately, we all know how it goes. By seventh and eighth grade the numbers drop significantly. That’s when kids realize that learning an instrument is actually a lot of hard work.
 
I glanced through the program. Twinkle Stars. Jingle Bells. Frere Jacques. It seems like only yesterday Taylor was playing those same simple songs. Now she’s in the high school marching band and gets to play cool songs like Eye of the Tiger and Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Her only complaint is the unflattering wardrobe, although I like to call it “character-building clothes.”

I wish I could pull each sixth grader aside and warn them. “There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. Stay committed. Keep practicing. It gets so much better than this.”
 
The auditorium grew quiet as the conductor stepped onto the platform. In no time she was conducting her little heart out. First she set the tempo. Then she gave signals to show how and when the band should play. But there was only one problem. Very few students bothered to look up at her. Every kid focused on their own music right in front of them.
 
They also weren’t listening to one another. The clarinets overpowered the flutes. The trumpets drowned out the trombones. I could see the conductor wanted certain sections to back off and play a little softer. But everyone just kept blasting out their own parts.     
 
It occurred to me that sixth grade band was much like the early years of my marriage.
 
A few years after Curt and I were married, we began to realize something. Marriage was actually hard work. The main problem? I focused on myself. He focused on himself. We really didn’t listen to one another, because we both had our own agendas. As you might guess, this became extremely frustrating. Honestly, I felt like quitting. 
 
And that’s when we did something we’d never done before.
 
We looked up.
 
God had never been a major part of our marriage. But in desperation, we invited him to lead us. We looked for His direction instead of our own, and we finally started doing what He told us to do.  
 
“Okay, back off now. You’re coming on a little strong. You need to be a little softer here.”
 
Everyone goes through difficult times in marriage. If you’re experiencing that right now, can I just encourage you?
 
There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. It can get so much better than this.
 
I’m glad we didn’t quit. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it is a great blessing. I believe the best is yet to come. Especially if we stay committed, listen to one another and most importantly, keep our eyes on our Conductor.

Toddlers are famous for fit-throwing.
But eventually, we expect our ​kids to grow up and get over that “all about me” mentality. 

Hey everyone! Thanks for stopping by. Today I'm sharing a recent post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. I invite you to check it out, How to Avoid Raising Greedy and Ungrateful Kids.

Have a great week!

​Sheri