The mountain is hidden by clouds today, but the snowy blanket that covers the yard is beautiful. I’m thinking of the grandchildren who raced about throwing snowballs and creating snow angels just a few days ago. Christmas was special this year surrounded by family, good food and fond memories. Celebrating the birth of Jesus draws families together and reminds us of God’s greatest gift.
As I took down the Christmas decorations, I smiled as I thought of Christmases past. When my three daughters were little they were always thrilled to help decorate the tree. It would look great, but as we approached the big day, I would move a little ornament here, or fill in a big gap there. Revisions, revisions, revisions!
Many Christamases have come and gone since they grew up and started their own families. What I find to my amusement, is that now that I decorate the tree on my own, I still revise it here and there: moving an angel closer to a tree light or trading places with two ornaments, only to move them back to how I had them the next day. This goes on right up to Christmas Eve, when I must pronounce it the most beautiful tree ever! Other people might disagree or have suggestions and that’s ok. My husband wants us to do tinsel next year – we both have fond memories of our mothers instructing us to put the tinsel on one strand at a time, while we wanted to throw it in gobs, all at once!
My book revisions seem to follow the same path: I will look at a scene and realize it needs to take place much earlier in the book. Or read a paragraph over for the hundreth time and realize it shouldn’t be there at all. Only to read the chapter again the next day and wonder why I ever took it out. I want it to shine. I want it to be the best I can make it. As I passed my self-imposed deadline, (Finish a book in December? What was I thinking?) I realized that at some point I will have to pronounce my book finished. At some point, in my journey to publication, I will have to let someone read it. If they disagree or have suggestions, I welcome that.
And about Dad&Me.; My earliest memories of him are about comfort and security. My absolute earliest memory is of our horse, Baldy, a big workhorse. My dad has always been somewhat of a cowboy with a horse or two around, sometimes more. I was very small, playing in the yard and Baldy got out. She came up behind me and nudged me with her nose, sprawling me on the ground. That is the memory, but the thing I know is: my dad picked me up. I know, because he’s been doing that all of my life.