Traditions

There's something that warms your heart when you come upon the familiar, the traditions. For instance, the tradition (as of late), to stay up early in the morning working on things that will be all undone tomorrow. Hence, my state of consciousness at this late hour of 3:30 in the morning. Forgive me for any grammar errors. I've discovered I am a great deal poorer at editing at 3 in the morning than I am at 3 in the afternoon.

Today, I looked back upon years past and discovered that whether I recognized them or not, there are many traditions that I have without making them traditions. They are something that everyone has this time of year. For me, however, I've discovered that some of them have not necessarily been out of a forward-motion thought process...it's simply become.

Traveling to my grandparents has always been something I look forward to every Christmas. But there are little things that I've realized have become traditions, become those little things I look forward to that mean more to me than I sometimes want to admit.

For the many years we lived in Hawley, we would travel to the farm during the night after Dad finished preaching the Christmas Eve service. (Often, it was our Christmas eve program, filled with cute costumes and even cuter kids that forgot their lines - except for me. The kids would be showered with gifts and were given a brown sack filled with peanuts and chocolate goodies.) The White Oldsmobile was packed and as soon as dad locked the church doors, we would be on our way!
As I sat in the back seat, even before my sister was born, I would lay down in the back seat and lean my head against the door, gazing up into the sky. I remember vividly the tall trees that lined the road, dusted with a soft sprinkling of snow. I remember years with stars that filled the sky so brilliantly that I could gaze at them for hours. The "monster" - a face that appeared in the stars if you look closely, was a favorite of mine to spot. Every now and then I'd let out an "Are we there yet?" - until finally my eyes would fall so heavy and I'd fall fast asleep. I'd startle awake when my dad turned that sharp turn onto the gravel road, that for years has been known as "Grandpa's Road." It was then that I'd exclaim "Already? It just feels like 5 minutes!" to which my parents would reply "The drive always goes faster if you fall asleep." (I literally thought I could speed up time by falling asleep.) I would then unbuckle my seat belt with excitement and lean forward onto the middle portion of the front seat - the full length one seat with a divider in the middle. The rule was that once we got to Grandpa's Road, I was allowed to take off my seatbelt. Partially, I'm sure, it was because I was so excited and antsy at this point that a seatbelt could hardly constrain me.

Today, I found myself listening to my favorite Christmas album (since receiving it in the 6th grade), gazing out the window, peering at the snow-laden ground beneath me and the brilliant stars above me - that is, once we got close enough to McGregor for there to be snow on the ground This winter has been severely lacking in that form of precipitation. Mom and dad were sitting up front as usual, chatting away or just listening to a tape (yes, cassette tape) of Lorie Line. My sister took up the backseat, which has been her designated seat for several years now. (She, like me, likes the back left.) I sacrificed the back for the middle, yet made myself quite comfortable enough, now curled up under a blanket and fluffing a pillow beneath my head. As we pulled onto Grandpa's Road, I unbuckled my seat belt as I have in years past and watched out the front window in anticipation of seeing the lights of the house that we will soon greet. Dad drive around the curvy windy road, and soon we are rounding the last curve in the driveway. I get my first glance at the house this year. It's not as decorated as normal, but it still has lights. There's a small tree on the new porch, complete with its own dusting of snow.

I step out of the van, just I have done for countless previous years, as Grandma opens the front door to greet us. We gather our first handful, then step into the house, barely able to set our things down before hugs and kisses abound us.
The house smells its familiar smell - firewood. Added to that smell is the smell of Christmas goodies - mini-cupcakes, cookies, food in preparation for tomorrow.

Dad and I quickly unload the van - a "chore" that started once Naomi was born, that has simply just become "one of those traditions."

The old massive bulbs that once dawned Christmas Trees of past have since been replaced with new LED lights, but yet the tree still appears the same as it does every other year, as it's sparse of full branches, yet plump and is just tall enough to graze the ceiling.

Oh, there are other things that have changed. The Christmas tree is no longer squished in the corner of the living room with the windows looking out. The rocking chair and its matching ottoman have been reupholstered. The wood fireplace was replaced with a more energy-efficient corn-fueled fireplace, which has been out of order for the past several years. (It's just one of those things on "That List of Stuff that needs to get fixed but still hasn't yet.") Tiki and Patti, two trusty old dogs, have passed on, leaving their mark on the legacy of Davis Family dogs. But Girl, an addition to the family when Diane and the girls moved up 7 years ago, greeted me as I exited the van. My "bed" is no longer upstairs, as it is currently occupied. But I have been quite comfortable on the pull-out "bed" from the chair in the entry-way living room.

Tomorrow, after the church service, a tradition of other sorts will take place. Over the past 5 years or so, my cousin Tiffany and I have battled it out to see who can "wrap" the other's gift the best. It started with duct tape, a few "mixed up" boxes, and stress relief pills. Yes, I was the instigator, I will admit to that. Since then, we've discovered that packing tape is far more irritating and impossible to unravel, expanding styrofoam insulation should be done in layers and takes hours and hours and hours to dry, nor should you use water to attempt to get it off in the event it should land on your skin, ice melts quickly under water, both wood and plexiglass boxes can be broken by slamming it on cement really really hard, and sometimes an adventure that brings you on a trip down memory lane is fun - as long as you can remember your shared memories, since that's where your gifts will be located. We have done basically everything short of cement. (Just in case you're wondering about some of these things, the rule of the game is simple: One must not use any tool or cutting device or any kind, nor may anyone else assist you in the unwrapping and obtaining of one's present.)

One may ask, how does one come to do such terrible things to their cousins for Christmas? Simple. It runs in the family. Our parents used to do similar things to each other as well. Although, if I must admit this as well, we have taken things to much higher levels than they ever did. I guess if it runs in the family genes, it must escalate...I can only dream of what our children will do. (YIKES!)

It's as I look back on years past and make the connection that I sit here today doing the exact same thing that I realize just how blessed I truly am to have these traditions. There is snow on the ground, and with the severe lack of snow this year, my heart smiled the biggest smile as I caught my first glimpse of it on our drive up. Seeing all the Christmas lights up on houses, especially Grandma's as we pulled in, was heart-warming. Hugs and kisses to go around, health and happiness, joy.

But perhaps the biggest tradition of all is the one I've been familiar with all my life.
The birth of my savior. The one who has brought me through bad Christmases and terribly tough times. The one who has come to my rescue more often than I'd like to admit. The one who has forgiven me for the countless mistakes I've made and given me a stamp of approval for admittance into heaven. The one who, 2011 years ago, was born in a town named Bethlehem and grew up to become the one who saves the earth from itself.
Tomorrow (or rather, today), we celebrate because God sent HIS son to us, because he knew we needed him. And that tradition is by far the greatest and most worthy reason to celebrate!
So as I look around at my family tomorrow, laughing and making jokes, opening gifts and sharing hugs, I will sit back and think how grateful I really am for all God has done for me. He has blessed me.

May you be as blessed as I am. Not only to have such a great family surrounding you during the Holiday season, but also to realize what the biggest blessing truly is - the gifts of love, forgiveness, and joy that can only come from Jesus Christ and the Heavenly Father.

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I miss this - a dance teamer's Saturday.

Hours before the dawn breaks, I board a bus wearing warm-up sweats, my hair already pulled back ready to be set in a tight bun. I lug a large bag filled with the many items needed for the day and a garment bag keeping my precious costumes away from anything that could damage them. As the bus starts its trek, we grab our pillows and blankets and try to catch a few snoozes before arriving. Towards the end of our trip there, our routine music fills the air and we sit and think of the routine. Visualization is somehow extremely helpful.

Several hours later we arrive at our home for the next 10 or so hours. The smell of hairspray and makeup wafts through the school and an electricity ignites the air. Sensing the nerves and the excitement, we walk through the school to our designated room.

The next hour, we scramble to get our hair done and our makeup on. My hair is slicked back with ridiculous amounts of gel and hairspray - which is discovered to be an equal rival to cement. No, there is no way my hair is coming undone on the floor today. To add to that, my coaches paste a strip of rhinestones to the top of my head along my part with eyelash glue - that I know will take me at least an hour and three shampoos to get out.
Makeup is caked on - foundation, three or four layers of eyeshadow, fake eyelashes, eyeliner, bronzer, blush, and two layers of bright red lipstick.
My tights and first costume are already on, in addition to my warm-up sweatpants and jacket.
With a nervous flutter in my stomach and hairspray fumes filling my nostrils, I begin to stretch out to the soft music playing in the background.
Before I know it, we're rushed off to our floor-check time. The next 5 minutes none of us talk, except the coaches, who demand to move 4 inches to the left or stand on just outside that line. We're lucky if we even have time to run through the routine.
We walk quietly in a straight line back to the room. Remember 3rd grade? Exactly like that.

Back at the room we sit in a circle, close our eyes, and imagine our routine as the music is played.

In between, we grabbed bananas, apples, carrots, or celery to keep our stomachs from growling.

Then it's time for the Parade of Athletes. We line up for our entrance, our arms glued to our sides, smiling straight up to our parents and other spectators. We're proud to wear the name "Centahnas" - it means something. It's not just a dance team - it's family. A family of sisters who love to dance - so much so that we're willing to put our bodies through hours of scrutinizing work to create perfection to music.

Soon it's performance time. We line up in the shoot, completely silent, doing some last stretches and trying to perfect our technique on the things we forget and the things we don't do perfectly. My stomach flutters and my legs feel like jello. I get in "the zone"...that moment when I hear nothing else and think nothing else except a keen awareness of our impending routine. I hear nothing around me, just myself counting in my head "5-6-7-8", thinking of the routine.
Then before we're announced, we gather, peering into the gym. Our parents, flooding the middle section of the stands with red white and blue, cheer loudly for us. "CENTAHNAS! CENTAHNAS! CENTAHNAS!" They hold up letters spelling our team name.
And now, the "Century Centahnas with 'Paint it Black'. The choreographers are ...." and as we're announced, we run out onto the floor, quickly finding our spots and getting in our first pose. We wait as our heart pounds, preparing for that first beat. "What's my first move?" I think.

The music starts, my body starts moving, and for the next 3 minutes, my heart pounds, adrenaline shooting through my body as I smile, wink, and make cute facials way up into the crowd. Before I can feel it, the music ends and I land in my final pose. I wait to hear "5-6-7-8", and I get up with the rest of my team to quickly and quietly move off the floor.

Now it's time to get ready for the next routine - quick change costumes, change hair-pieces, change shoes! We do this 2 other times for more routines, and finally we sit to watch our competition. They're good. But so are we. They practice hard. But so do we. They practice for hours and hours. So do we. They love to dance. But so do we.

Once everyone finishes, all the teams gather on the floor in their respective circles and jam to the music played on the speakers while the judges scores are tallied. When it's finally time for them to be announced, we sit on the floor, crossed our arms and holding hands as we wait in suspense. We scream, jumping up and down, when our name is called. Sometimes we placed really well, 2nd and 3rd, sometimes we placed not as well, like 5th. But we're still proud of how we danced! Our parents flood the floor with their cameras, ready to snap several hundred photos of us with our trophies.

And finally, it's time to pack up and head home. It's around 6 pm. The three hour bus ride back is filled with everyone watching the routines on their home cameras, watching how they did and how everything looked. Constantly analyzing our every move, we make mental notes to remember that for the next practice.

And somewhere around 9 or 10, we finally arrive home, exhausted from the day, but proud of how it went.

This is where I belong. I belong in the land of dance competitions - spending a Saturday at a school filled with parents sporting their child's team's colors, dancers wearing their costumes and warmup sweats, a land filled with the aroma of sweat, hairspray, makeup, and the air filled with music and the cheers from the crowd.

This is familiarity. This is exhilarating. This is long and tired hours. This is so much hard work all coming down to one day of competition - about 9 mintues worth of dancing and hours worth of waiting and watching. This...this is home.

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