If the sound of my voice is as beautiful as my daughters singing together in perfect harmony, but my words do not demonstrate love, my voice sounds more like a two-year-old set free on the drums and cymbals. If I can tell you the future plans God has for you including all the mysteries and knowledge of your life, and if I have faith to throw the California mountains along Route 1 (that I love so much) into the sea, creating a break along the San Andres Fault that separates California from the US mainland which creates a beautiful island, but I do not demonstrate love….then all that will be seen is the tusnami devastation, and all I am is nothing. If I give all my money to the poor people in Nairobi, the place that broke our daughter Sarah’s heart, and if I make Nairobi my home to assist the people there, but none of this is motivated by the love that I have for God and the people of Nairobi, then I gain nothing.

When I watch my husband, I see love demonstrated. When I tell him my endless stories over and over, and don’t really want an answer or a “fix”…just a sounding board, he patiently listens even if he has a list four miles long of things that need to be accomplished. When I am over-wrought with fatigue and stress, he fixes me a cup of tea and rubs my back. When he receives awards for his service to the community, he barely remembers to tell me. When he accomplishes great things, he gives God the glory. Even when others treat him harshly, he does not speak behind their backs, but redoubles his efforts to treat them with kindness and respect. He routinely looks out for the interests of others, sacrificing his time and desires for theirs. When I lose my temper and yell, he answers softly. And while I might tend to nurse my wounds, he quickly forgets his past hurts. He protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres.

Even though Nate loves well, there are times he fails to love, because he is human just like I am.  But love itself never fails. Greater love has no man than this that he lay down his life for his friend. Perfect love is God, and God loved us so much that He died for us. In that love, we find our way to love each other…not just with words…but with actions.

When in Tennessee

When my daughter, Chelsey, was three, we had some friends visit from Tennessee. They blew into town with a storm. As I struggled to hold the front door open for them, the wind fought me.

“What crazy weather!” I exclaimed. “Come inside quickly before we blow away.”

“We saw a tornado,” were the first words of greeting from six-year-old David.

“You did?! Where?” I searched the green sky.

“In a field,” he announced.

“Near here?” I asked.

“No, it was about an hour ago,” David’s mother, Kittilu, answered.

“You saw it in a field?” my daughter ,Chelsey, asked.

“Yeah,” David answered.

“Was it red?” Chelsey asked.

We all stopped talking and stared at her for a minute as we tried to process her random question.

“No, it wasn’t red,” David said scornfully. “It was gray.”

“Gray?” Chelsey asked.

“Yes,” David responded.

“So was it dirty?” Chelsey questioned.

David didn’t know how to respond, so his mom, Kittilu, answered. “It was made of dirt, Chelsey.”

“Oh,” she said. But she looked puzzled.

“At one point, we thought maybe we were in the eye of the storm. It was so calm,” Kittilu continued.

“It had eyes?” Chelsey asked. “Big eyes.? Was it watching you?”

Kittilu patiently explained, “Not eyes like people have. The center of a tornado is called the eye of the storm. It is calm there.”

“Oh,” Chelsey nodded. “So eyes like a potato has in the center of it?”

Everyone laughed. “No, not like eyes on a potato,” Kittilu detailed the wind directions of the eye of a storm. Chelsey nodded.

“So was it really big?” Chelsey asked.

“Yes!” David answered.” It was huge.”

“It was huge?” Chelsey continued to try to process this information. She stretched her arms out wide. “Like this?”

“No!” David was getting frustrated. “It was taller than this house.”

“What!” Chelsey was incredulous. “I’ve never seen a tomato as big as a house.”

Finally everyone understood her confusion. Three-year-old Chelsey had never heard of a tornado…only a tomato. David gave her a quick lesson in storms.

Six months later we were visiting these same friends at their house in Tennessee. Kittilu was cutting tomatoes for a salad. Chelsey pulled up a stool to the counter to watch her. “Oh, I see you are putting tornadoes in your salad. I like tornadoes.”

Apparently Chelsey, who obviously still had no concept of what a tornado was, decided, “When in Tennessee, speak like those in Tennessee speak.”

Eighteen! How can my miracle baby possibly be eighteen? Taylor’s birth was also the birthing time of the outline for my book, Leaping the Wall.  I mailed the manuscript for Leaping the Wall to the publisher yesterday, eighteen years after I titled it. It seems like God-ordained timing, finishing the book asTaylor turns eighteen. God completes the work that He begins.

As I write this blog,Taylor’s music fills the room. I feel my spirit soar with the joyous melody of her piano and soulful voice. I remember her playing “Amazing Grace” by ear when she was only two-years-old. As those early seeds of music were planted inTaylor’s life, I wondered how God would use her musical talent. Today I see the bud almost ready to bloom. Miraculous! God completes the work that He begins.

Last Tuesday I sat across the table from the pastor that first brought the Word alive for me. His passion for God was as visible as it had been in my confirmation class. I hadn’t seen him in thirty-five years. I pondered his life. An ordinary life in many ways, yet he led my uncle and dad to the Lord, and now all of their children and grandchildren knew the Lord, too. The completion of my manuscript, inspired because of my love for God’s Word, began with this pastor. He started me on the journey of knowing God and absorbing the Word, and now I am writing about that very same God. I sensed, once again, God’s ordained timing reminding me that God completes the work that He begins.

As I shared with this pastor what God was doing in my life, he reminded me of a verse. “Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.” Psalm 37:4. It was the fourth time that day I had come across the verse. God was obviously speaking to me. I had raised the child that I thought I wouldn’t know until heaven, and she is ready to embark on the next chapter in her life. The book that was inspired by her birth is complete.  Indeed, I had been given the desires of my heart. God completes the work that He begins.

Addendum: The following excerpt from Leaping the Wall explains one episode of how God met me during the crisis ofTaylor’s birth – 18 years ago.

Joy emerges from even broken vessels. It is found in the hope of those who tread the valley of the shadow of death. It reverberates in the songs of praise offered from broken hearts. Joy is like the arching of lightning that illuminates the darkest storm or the brilliant colors of light that splits open night with the dawn of hope. Joy arises from the soul that offers quiet praise when all seems lost; it is the cry of the heart that rests in the Giver of hope.

My headlights illuminated the road just ahead of me as I steered my car out of the hospital parking lot into the starless, winter night. The outer darkness seemed symbolic of my mood which was dark, cold, and depressed.

The grim news of my premature daughter’s progress seemed like a black hole pulling all light of hope into its unknown depth of despair. A chest tube had been inserted intoTaylor’s delicate one pound thirteen ounce, tiny body to rescue a collapsed lung. Her lungs were so underdeveloped that they already required a full respirator and one hundred percent oxygen. This grave report balanced precariously on other serious conditions already being constantly monitored: a hole in her heart, unstable blood pressure, and a digestive system so immature it could only receive one drop of milk at a time through a feeding tube.

Future issues also loomed. Every new trauma threatenedTaylor’s chance of survival. We were waiting on results from a brain scan; fifty percent of premature babies her size had brain hemorrhaging. Retinopathy of prematurity, a retinal disease, was also a common issue for preterm babies. When I had asked the doctor about the prospect of her future vision, his eyes searched mine compassionately. “One day at a time,” he had counseled. “Eye disease is still down the road. We have enough to deal with today.” He was right; I was overwhelmed with the negative medical information, and I felt my hope for the survival of this precious daughter disappearing into the black hole of despair.

“Lord, Taylor is three weeks old, and I have never held her,” I poured out my heartaches to God, angry that my omnipotent Father had allowed all this pain. The Holy Spirit reminded me of a verse I had memorized earlier in the week. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18 ESV). There was no reason to hide my thoughts and emotions from my all-knowing Father; He knew my every word before one of them formed on my tongue.

Memories of my visits withTaylor haunted me as I headed toward my parents’ home, our temporary residence due to its proximity to the hospital. All I could do to comfort Taylor was to open the portholes of the incubator and touch her fragile skin. Her entire hand would grasp onto my index finger, clenching it tightly. She would try to open her eyes, perhaps recognizing my voice. The bright lights of the hospital were too much for her; however, so she closed her eyes and simply held my finger tightly.

“I am reaching for you likeTaylor reaches for me, Lord,” I prayed. “Where are you? I just want you to hold me, to rock my soul. I am desperate to just cling to you. Is this how Taylor feels? Abandoned? Alone? I can’t hold her physically because she needs the incubator, but that doesn’t change my love for her. I know you are there, too, watching and loving.” I tried to voice truth that I couldn’t feel. Only darkness surrounded me. Despair was closing in.

“I don’t know how to deal with depression. I feel like I am going crazy—like  I will never be the same. I will never be happy again.Taylor’s life will change me forever. If she dies, I will never get over it. My happiness is gone. I will never again be known as a joyful person.” Tears rolled down my cheeks as I poured out my heart to God. Typically, I saw the blessings in life and counted the joys. Dark moods usually passed quickly, but not this time. This time the dawn never seemed to break. I was in endless night.

I Choose Joy. Larnelle Harris’s song on the radio broke my train of thought and spoke God’s truth to my soul. Joy was a choice. I had to decide if I was going to let my circumstances ruin my life and affect my relationship with God. I felt stunned that the Abba Father would speak to me so directly through the words of this song. Banging on my steering wheel with my fist, I proclaimed, “I choose joy! I choose joy! I choose joy! By your strength, God, I choose joy.”

As I wept on my way home that night, my soul searched for joy. I pondered the way my headlights illuminated the night and the road before me. God would show me the way a little bit at a time just as my headlights showed the road ahead of me but didn’t illuminate all the way home. A bit of hope was beginning to break through. “I will walk with you, God, one step at a time. And on that journey, no matter what comes, I choose joy.”

This February 6 will mark the day that Nate asked me to marry him—thirty years ago!

 I was a pretty skittish bride. I was afraid to commit…after all…making a promise for my entire life was no small promise! I remember wondering how a person really knew if this was the “right” person. But this much I did know…Nate was my best friend, and I didn’t want to live my life without him.

 I can honestly say, marriage has been way better and so much more fun than I had ever dreamed possible. Nate is still my best friend. If I have heartache, he is the one who holds me and wipes my tears. When life is full of joy and excitement, Nate can barely contain my exuberance.  Has it always been easy? Nope.  Lots of times it has been hard…really hard.

  A friend and I were talking about the term “happily ever after” today. We were saying that this phrase sets children up to think married life will be happy, happy, happy all the time.

 As a result of this thinking, when marriage gets hard, people think they made a mistake, or that they married the wrong person, or that love failed, or maybe that they were never in love to begin with. They feel disappointed, and they give up. Looking for something that is elusive and unreal, they move from relationship to relationship.

 So let it be known young people: Love never fails, people do. Marriage is hard work. It takes self-sacrifice. You have to think about the needs of others before your own needs. It takes communication, confrontation, and being committed to working through the hard stuff together. Perhaps marriage is not so much about our happiness as it is about shaping us into who God wants us to be.

 Marriage is a commitment:

In sickness and in health: cancer? heart disease? diabetes? stroke? dementia?  You are there for each other.  You hold each others’ hands and wipe each others’ tears.

 For richer or for poorer: out of work? food stamps? bankrupt? Together you trust the true provider, God.

 Til death do us part: Love is a commitment. It says, “When you wake up tomorrow, I will be here.” Love is an action, not just an emotion.  It is patient and kind. It includes giving, rejoicing, and hoping. Feelings come and go. True love doesn’t disappear.

 No greater love has anyone than this…to lay down his life for a friend. So marry your best friend, and share life together no matter what. Now that is truly living happily ever after.

This exerpt from LEAPING THE WALL is dedicated to my friends who are either near the finish line or have recently crossed the River Jordan to their eternal home. “We do not grieve as those who have no hope.”

Hope for Eternity

             Hope believes that life conquers death through Jesus Christ. Time on earth is the small beginning dot of a ray that stretches endlessly into eternity future. This eternal future holds untold joy, hope, love, and peace. No matter how difficult life on earth is, it is temporary. For those who have put their faith and hope in Jesus, our struggle will end the moment we meet Jesus face-to-face. In all of Job’s loss, he had hope for eternity. If a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my struggle I will wait until my change comes.” (Job 14:14 NASB).

                    The Bible says that God’s eternal perspective of time is different than our earthly view. To God, one thousand years is like a day, so in heaven’s perspective, all of life on earth is just a speck of living compared to infinite eternity. God grieves with us when we lose a loved one, but He promises that our parting is temporary if we belong to Him. Truly life on earth is like grass that withers. God hears our cries of grief and knows our breaking hearts, but He also knows our grief is temporary.  It is then that He whispers to our soul reassurances of reunion in eternity.

            For those who hope in Christ, death is not the end. When believers die, we hope to see them again. We do not grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Perhaps our loved ones who have gone to eternity before us will become part of the great cloud of witnesses described in Hebrews 12:1. Perhaps they are surrounding us and cheering us on as we run the race with endurance to the finish line.

            Several years ago, four people who were dear to me crossed from earth into eternity in a relatively short period of time. As I grieved, I tried to think of time from an eternal perspective. I imagined God saying, “Welcome home! The rest of your family will be home for lunch.” For if one thousand years is like a day, then all of earth’s time is like just a few hours to God.

            The years since my loved ones have been gone seem like just a blink of time. Memories of them keep them near to me. In a few more blinks, I will be home with them and all the others I have loved and lost that have gone before me to the arms of Jesus.

            Heaven’s joys will exceed our hope. Our Heavenly Father is creating a new heaven and a new earth, and God himself will dwell among us (Revelations 21:3)

. … He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”(Revelations 21:4-5a ESV).

             This new heaven and earth will be far more than we can think or imagine. Life’s earthly joys are only a shadow of heaven. The Apostle John describes heaven in the book of Revelations as a city having the glory of God with brilliance like a costly stone of crystal-clear jasper. The city is pure gold, like clear glass, and its foundation is adorned with precious stones. Each gate of the city is a single pearl, and the glory of God illuminates it for its lamp is the Lamb. Its gates shall never close. The river of the water of life flows from the throne of God and of the Lamb. There shall no longer be any curse. In this new heaven and earth, we will reign forever and ever (Revelations 20 and 21).

            Heaven is a place of rejoicing and gladness. Peace, joy and love reign for there will no longer be any curse. . . . no more shall be heard in it the sound of weeping and the cry of distress (Isaiah 65:19b ESV). Even the animals will dwell in peace during the Millennial Kingdom. “The wolf and the lamb shall graze together; the lion shall eat straw like the ox, and dust shall be the serpent’s food. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain,” says the Lord (Isaiah 65:25 NASB).

            Because we have this hope laid up in heaven, we can have the strength to endure whatever comes. Life on earth is temporary, and one day those found in Christ will have eternal joy. In the meantime, we press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus (Philippians 3:14 ESV). We strive to honor God as we walk this sin scarred earth. We desire to be counted worthy of our calling. By God’s grace, we press on to fulfill every desire for goodness and the work of faith with power so that the name of our Lord Jesus may be glorified in you, and you in him, according to the grace of our God and the Lord Jesus Christ (2 Thessalonians 1:12 ESV).

Song: Hope Now by Addison Road

Bible Passage: 1 Peter 1:3-9

Memory Verse: Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God (Psalm 42:11 NASB).  

Reflective question: Why is hope such an essential part of our faith?

Prayer:

God of all hope,

You are a faithful God, and your promises are true. My hope is in you. I know that you are always with me; you will never leave nor forsake me. Thank you for the promise of eternal life through my Savior, Jesus Christ. What a glorious hope to know that the suffering on earth will soon be over, and in heaven there will be no more sorrow, no more death, no more sickness, no more pain. As I wait for the days of eternal joy and peace in your presence, help me to run the race with endurance for your glory and praise. Amen.

The Myth of Control

            My favorite scene from the movie Jumanji is a perfect illustration of the myth of control. A woman sits in a compact car at a stoplight listening to a self-help tape. She repeats with the tape over and over, “I can take control of my life.” (Or something like that. I don’t remember the exact words.) As she is repeating this phrase, a herd of African animals comes out of nowhere. The animals of all varieties run around her car, over her car, and surround her car while she continues to chant about control.

            I can be like that. As I am trying to grasp control of life, it is often flying completely off-kilter. I think it took cancer for me to fully understand that control was a myth.

Sometimes life has to be completely off- kilter before we recognize that we have believed the myth that we have control of our lives. Although we are dwarfed by the universe, we tell ourselves that we can control our world, but in reality chaos is all around us and threatens to consume us. We are not the ones in control of our world; God is. And for that we should be very grateful. When life is chaotic and we have no control, God still reigns. Peace often comes when we relinquish control to the one who knows better than we what is best for the good of our soul.

 When we release control to God, we are demonstrating that in obedience we will follow God’s guidance and trust Him with the results because He is worthy of our trust. God’s compassion and love for us are greater than any other love we will experience. If God is for us, who can be against us (Romans 8:31 ESV)? When we trust the one who reigns over all, we will abide in peace. Even when life seems out of control, peace can reign when we rest in the truth of His sovereignty, trusting that everything He allows has a purpose for His glory and our good.

Perhaps the Christmas’s that have meant the most to me have been the ones that were the most difficult. In the hard places, we are often most open to God’s voice.

 When I was seven, we spent Christmas morning in the hospital celebrating the good news that my mom and newborn sister were going to live. After battling many illnesses for several months, my mom had given birth to my premature sister (2 pounds and 9 ounces) on Dec. 9. By Dec 25, we knew they were both going to live. The doctor told my parents that God had been the Great Physician. I began to ponder this God.

 When I was twelve, both of my parents had food poisoning and were very ill. My Grandma and I wrapped all the presents on Christmas Eve and filled the stocking. Grandma told me we were “elves”. I began to understand the gift of service.

 The Christmas I was pregnant with my first child, Sarah, I contemplated Mary. How must she have felt giving birth to the Son of God? How her heart must have broken when He chose to die for us all…even her. Her son was her Savior.

 In 1993, I spent Christmas in bed. I had been in bed for over two months trying to delay the early birth of Taylor. Jesus was so near me that year. His peace surrounded me. Many of our celebrations took place on my bed, yet I had such a spirit of contentment that only comes from God.

 There have been Christmas’s when I was mourning those I loved –gone from earth and home with Jesus. This year is a bit like that. My mom-in-law will soon meet Jesus face to face. What a glorious day that will be for her. This Jesus, who came to this sin-soaked earth to die so that we can be in heaven with him. One day soon, Mom will sing with angels the heavenly version of “The Hallelujah Chorus”…and through tears, I will echo the song…rejoicing in her joy.

 Is this Christmas difficult for you? Trust the One who loves you so much that he came to earth for you. May He fill you with his peace and joy even in the midst of sorrow.

So many stories are told about grandmas’ attics, but my grandma’s attic was truly magical–especially at Christmas.  The attic was one big room with giant dormer windows on three sides. Against two opposite facing walls were brass beds with feather mattresses in which we grandchildren slept…or jumped.

A ping pong table stood in the middle of the attic, and around the edges of the room were old-fashioned trunks full of mysteries that grandchildren were not allowed to discover for they were locked.

On the fourth wall was a small, magical attic door, not much taller than I was at the age of eight or nine. Behind it were stored fun things like Christmas decorations and wrapping paper. It, too, was locked and only opened on special occasions.

Under the front dormer window was an old dresser which neatly held a brush and hand mirror from ages past. Next to the dresser hung all of my mother’s old ball gowns from her high school dances in the fifties. I begged my Grandma to let me try them on, but she refused…so all I could do was gaze at their taffeta, lace, and silk beauty—and dream.

The attic held a not-so-secret spy hole which was actually the only heat source for the upper room. It looked down upon Grandma’s dining room table where the adults would gather on holidays to play games after we children went to bed – which never seemed fair to us.  Thinking we were oh-so-sly, we would drop pennies, while stifling giggles, onto their game table.  Being not extremely brilliant children, we always wondered how they knew the pennies-from-heaven were from us. “Go to bed,” my parents would gaze directly up into the heating vent, and we would scurry, laughing hysterically, across the cold floor to the warmth of the feather beds. We were certain that our games were more fun than theirs.

One Christmas Eve, my sister and I slept in the feather bed together, and in the morning we saw animal footprints in the freshly fallen snow on the roof next door. Keeping the Santa story alive for my siblings was part of the joy of Christmas for me, so I told her they were reindeer hoof
prints, even though I strongly suspected they were made by squirrels. Her joy was so contagious that I began to wonder myself if truly we would have seen Santa’s sleigh if only we had stayed awake a few minutes longer the night before.

Pennies from heaven. Childhood days in Grandma’s attic. Moments of time locked in my memory. Gifts from the Creator of all good things—teaching me about mystery, joy, laughter, and grace.

It took seven years to settle on a compromise about Santa. During two years of dating and the first five years of marriage, the conflict would come up every Christmas.

 The disagreement started one holy night during Handel’s Messiah. Stained glass windows reflected the twilight sky, candles blazed at the altar, and The Halleluiah Chorus was at its climax. Nate turned to me and confided in a whisper, “I am so glad my parents focused on Jesus instead of Santa Claus. There were years I wished we could believe in Santa, but now I am so glad that we never did.”

 Stunned, I was certain I had heard him wrong. “What? Did you say you didn’t believe in Santa?”

 “Of course not,” he replied as if anyone would know that Santa was not worthy of a child’s attention.

 “I have never heard of such a thing,” I whispered back. “That is really sad.”

 “Sad?” Nate didn’t understand. “Why is it sad? My parents focused on the real meaning of Christmas which is Jesus.”

 As the choir sang, “Halleljah,” I cried for a little boy who had no Santa at Christmas.

 Years later, I found the irony in this. Santa was a big part of my childhood, but I had grown up without Jesus. It wasn’t until I was nearly a teen-ager that I began to truly grasp the meaning of a Messiah who came to earth as a baby with a mission of salvation. Instead of shedding tears for a boy without Santa, I should have been shedding tears for children who celebrate Christmas without Jesus, for He is the hope of their souls.

 As Nate and I compromised our differences about Christmas, our children grew up with both Santa and Jesus. They understood that Santa was a game that we played at Christmas, but the true meaning of Christmas was about the Christ child.

 One day our daughters came in from playing in the snow. As we sat at the dinner table, our three-year-old daughter, Chelsey, said, “Daddy, there was red smoke coming out of the chimney.”

 Nate, never a fan of Claus, said, “Maybe Santa burned up coming down the chimney.”

 Chelsey eyes popped open in horror and she covered her mouth with her hand. Then she visibly relaxed. The hand that had covered her mouth patted Nate’s arm. “Daddy, remember, Santa is pretend; Jesus is real.”

 After I teasingly smacked Nate, I was overwhelmed by a sense of joy. My daughters were growing up with a true understanding of Christmas….a holy night….a dark manger….and the lover of our soul who came to earth so that we could be with Him.

In the late 1960s in Peoria, IL there was a talking Christmas tree in the basement toy department of the Bergner’s Department Store.  He was a fake white tree with huge eyes the rolled around searching the toy department for children to question about their behavior. Were they on Santa’s nice or naughty list? What did they want for Christmas?  If it weren’t for the magic of Christmas that clung to the toy department, he would have frightened anyone under the age of thirteen.

 Bergners’ Department Store was mystical at any time of year because it had magic doors that opened for you as you approached the store entrance, but at Christmas time their toy department was the next best thing to the North Pole itself.  Santa, his elves, and even his reindeer took up residence at Bergners’ during the Christmas season. My only disappointment was that they left Rudolph at the North Pole. I would search for Rudolph every year because he had nose problems just like I did. His was red; mine was flat. I was convinced we were kindred spirits.

 One year I dragged my three-year-old sister, Laurie, up to the talking Christmas tree. She was reluctant but fascinated.

 “Hello little girl!” the Christmas tree’s eyes rolled around and his huge red mouth moved up and down in what seemed more like an eerie grimace than a smile.

 Laurie nodded and said nothing.

 “What is your name?” the tree persisted. (Apparently he didn’t know that you weren’t supposed to ask children their names, but Laurie knew not to give her name and address even when she was only three years old.)

 “My name is Miss Mini Midget,” my sister gave her stage name. She and our mom drank tea and sang a ritual song about her being a “Mini Midget” every morning while the rest of us went off to school.

 The tree laughed. It seemed that all of his ornaments were about to fall off when he shook. “Well, Miss Mini Midget, where do you live?” the tree continued his questions that no child should answer to a stranger, even if the stranger is a tree.

 “I live in the ‘don’t go in it’ street,” my sister answered matter-of-factly.

 The tree and all of the watching parents laughed hysterically, and Laurie smirked. Nobody, not even a magical tree, would get personal information out of her. Laurie figured that if this tree was related to the “real” Santa….he should already known her name and address…cuz Laurie knew her name was on Santa’s nice list. Besides, my skeptical sister later confided, she had pulled on Santa’s beard, and it had come off!