Mikulas and the Enduring Joy of Family Traditions

Several studies have found that a big key to family happiness and closeness is the practice of having traditions. In that arena, my mom was an expert! We had daily traditions like prayer and scripture study, weekly traditions like journal time and Family Home Evening, but our very favorites had to be the annual traditions which circled around "the most wonderful time of the year," Christmas. I think all my siblings can agree that the tradition we were most excited about was the one granted to us by our Hungarian ancestry. My mom's maternal grandparents were Hungarian immigrants, and one of the traditions they brought with them from their homeland was the celebration of Saint Mikulas Day (or Saint Nicholas) on December 6. Grandma and Mom grew up celebrating it, and now the fourth and fifth generations are continuing that tradition.

The thing I remember most about my great-grandmother Block was that she baked lots of cookies and she always insisted on us having a big glass of milk and as many cookies as we wanted when we visited. I got the feeling that cooking for her family was a way she expressed her love for them. Grandma and Mom were the same and making Mikulas dinner was definitely a labor of love! Even though the dishes seem a little plain, almost peasant fare, most of them took practically all day to prepare. I have often wondered how the Hunagrians used to do it wihtout all the fancy kitchen gadgets we have today.

One dish we learned from great-grandma was the Krumpli Noodli, or potato noodles. After boiling and mashing potatoes and kneading them into a dough (which mom often did at least in part by hand), she would roll out long snakes, cut them and roll each noodle between her palms to taper the ends. These would be laid out on floured sheet pans to dry a little, then be boiled in batches and tossed with toasted buttered bread crumbs. It took forever and made a big floury, sticky mess, but every year we'd roll up our sleeves and do it again. There was also the Palacinta Ham stack, a dish mom never recalled her mom or grandma making which she found in a Hungarian cook book. It incorporated a traditional Hungarian crepe, called a Palactinta, which grandma did make quite often and is now a breakfast staple among all my siblings. Normally we ate them rolled up with jam, but for Mikulas dinner mom would layer the crepes flat with a creamy ham sauce and cut it in wedges like a cake. She also served red cabbage sauted until tender and stirred with sour cream. I never ate it when I was a kid, and now I crave it but rarely bother making it because no one will eat it with me.

But the crown jewel of the feast was always the dobos torte, or drum cake (visit my cooking blog for the recipe!). It was traditionally a 9 layer cake (though we usually just did 8 layers) spread with a silky chocolate icing and topped with a hard golden candy top. The layers were a delicate sponge cake baked in swivel pans. I remember the old tarnished sliver pans mom used only once a year to make the cake, unless one of us had a heritage or cultural foods day at school, and then the dobos torte was the usual choice we were all proud to share. The story was that it was called a drum cake because you had to smack it hard with a knife to cut through the candy top. A true officianado could make a perfectly straight crack rather than shattering the surface, and a well cracked cake seemed to be symbolic of good fortune in the coming year. Later we did some research and found out it was probaly just called a "drum cake" because the baker who invented it was Mister Dobos, a name that just happened to mean drummer. Misinformation aside, the cutting of the cake in our home was always attended by great ceremony, and a well placed smack was met with a hearty cheer. 

After dinner was over, sometimes while enjoying our cake, mom would read a chapter of Kate Seredy's classic, "The Good Master." The story tells of Márton, a well-to-do yet humble and generous rancher who lives with his wife and son on the pastoral plains of Hungary. His sickly, feisty neice whose mother has passed away comes to stay with them for an extended visit. Her shenanigans keep her aunt, uncle and cousin hopping, but they eventually tame the little savage and she snuggles her way into their hearts. Mom would skip to the ending chapters and read the one that takes place on Mikulas. The two cousins, Jancsi and Kate, start off talking excitedly about the aniticpated night-time visit of the mysterious St. Mikulas and what he might leave in their shoes, when Márton tells them both that they won't have to wait or even wonder about him because they are picking him up at the train station that night. The astonished children bundle up for the snowy sleigh ride and travel with father to the station. They can't believe it when they really do pick up a white bearded man in a red and white fur trimmed suit and escort him around the neighborhood delivering toys to all the children they know. At the last house they have run out of presents, and the two cousins choose to give up their own cherished gifts because they know these children are very poor and may not have anything otheriwse. That part always made mom's voice quiver a little. But the part that always got her was when they return to their cozy house and the children discover that "Mikulas" was in fact Kate's father, come from the city for a visit. Mom's tears were Kate's tears as she is reunited with her father. After Kate's father expresses his wonder at how his little girl has changed and matured, the children ask about who the real Mikulas is, and he gives one of the most beautiful explanations I've ever heard about the tradition of Santa Claus. Try as she did, Mom could never prevent the crying, and sometimes I vainly thought I could at least keep it together if I were to read it. The first time I did I was far from home and sharing this cherished

tradition with some new friends. Despite all my expectations, I bawled. I think mom's tears came because of the deep love she had for her family, the sweetness of reunions like that of Kate and her Father, the joy that comes from seeing the goodness in each other, and the infinte joy that comes with this season and the knowledge that thousands of years ago, a little baby came into the world as the greatest gift of all. Those emotions are powerful and I suddenly understood why mom had such a hard time holding back the tears. Knowing this story was so precious to mom, my sweet brother Joseph thought to read it to her a few days before she died. I recently came across this photo, where you can see the well-loved and weather-worn copy mom always used.

The final part of our Mikulas tradition was just before bed, we would each make sure our best Sunday shoes were standing in wait near the fireplace or the front door. In the morning, they would be filled with little gifts and lots of chocolate. It was never anything as big as what we'd get at Christmas, just a little a little "appetizer," something to tide us over until the big day arrived.

I'm so grateful that my husband has fully adopted this tradition with me, and helps make sure it is special for our children. I imagine they will all do it with their families. This year, the first without Mom, going through the process helped me feel her near, and I know she was happy to see the legacy being handed along to the next generation. It is not about the presents, or even about the food. It is about the people, about the ties that bind us, about the sense of family and what makes us unique. It's having a mutual secret delight, something to look forward to that only you and the people you love the most could ever fully understand. I'm sure it wasn't always easy to do one more intensive thing at this busy season, nor is it any easier for me with two added birthdays in December to also plan for. But mom always came through, and now I don't think any of us would skip it for the world.

I hope each of you has a very special something that you always do with your families, and if you haven't got one, that you'll be inspired with a great idea! I'd love to hear a little about your traditions in the comments if you'd like to share. Merry Christmas everyone, and may the love and joy of this season fill your hearts every day of the year!

Giving Purpose to Pain

When I was in my early 20's I exercised my grown-up rights and adopted a kitten. She was an absolute doll. I picked her out of the litter because while all the others were frolicking on the floor, she lay in my lap and just started at me with her electric blue eyes, her wise little soul gazing deep into mine. It kind of took my breath away, and for the next 6 months, she was my best friend. I thanked God every night for her, giggling my way through my bedside prayers because she was nuzzling my face and begging for my attention.

That chapter of my life ended with my kitten contracting a pair of fatal diseases and having to be put to sleep. I couldn't believe the pain I felt, the questions why, the emptiness of abandonment. Why, I asked, would God take the one thing away from me that I had asked him never to take? What would it have hurt if he had let me keep my kitten? For years, I had a small pessimistic feeling that good things were not meant to be mine, that anything I truly loved could easily be taken from me. It frightened me how painful it was, and I worried, if it was that hard to take my cat dying, how on earth will I handle it if I lose a child? I understood that experiencing loss is part of life, something we have to learn in order to truly appreciate the day when we will no longer be separated from those we love. It also helps us to better console each other by making us more sympathetic. I hoped these were the only reasons I was passing through that trial, but I think a part of me remained fearful that it was just a primer, a trial run of something far more heart wrenching, and something inside me has been bracing itself all these years.

So here I am, facing the first real tragic loss of my life. My mother is only turning 62 in 4 weeks. Until this disease seized her brain, she was active and healthy and in complete command of her mental faculties. I had normal conversations with her just 2 months ago, even though they were fraught with worry over the mysterious symptoms she was beginning to have. At least there's one advantage to being on this side of knowing the prognosis: I'm not worried about what might happen. I'm here, living in a kind of bad dream, and all I can do now is decide, like Gandalf said so wisely, what to do with the time that has been given me.

My feelings change frequently. Some days I think I'm okay. After we found out mom was going to die, I got to spend the week with her. There was a special spirit in her home, I presume because all the focus of everyone there was just making mom feel safe, loved, comfortable and happy. I felt like I was in a cloud of peace and comfort, and blessed with an amazing strength to handle this with grace and dignity.  I trusted I would be a far better person for passing through this fire.

Then I had to go home, drive kids and husbands to school, shop for groceries, do the daily load of laundry and try to fold and put it away before losing steam, cook meals, clean house, break up fights, do taxes, and always keep my cool. I think my peace cloud lasted less than 24 hours.

Thankfully I wrote down some of the things I felt would help me through, and even though sometimes it's hard to still feel strongly about all these things, I know they are still good advice. My mom gave her whole life to raise us and instill in us every bit of wisdom and truth we would need to live successful lives. I feel the greatest honor I can do her now is to carry on and make her proud. It hurts like heck going through this. My life is a minefield of cry-fest inducing memories. I can't walk through this house without seeing something mom bought me or made for my kids. Even my fridge isn't safe to dig through because it has things like the chocolate soy milk she got me hooked on, or the Jarlsberg cheese I got her hooked on. I could totally let myself drown in all the misery of missing her, or, I have counseled myself, I can give purpose to the pain, and let those reminders keep me on track to being a better person. Here are some of the things I'm trying to remember:

1. This experience gives me clearer perspective. Relationships matter. Families matter. The condition of my heart matters. Owning that cute necklace I saw at the mall does not matter. Being up to date on the most popular TV shows does not matter. Having a perfectly decorated Pinterest worthy home does not matter.

2. This experience reminds me that I don't have time to be idle. Life is short. Recreation is good, but idleness squanders one of God's most precious gifts to us. For years I have struggled off and on with a small video game addiction. I kept it like a naughty little pet, assuring myself that I had it under control, that I was still getting the important things done, and I just needed some time to unwind. One hour of gaming was a harmless way to do that. But one hour turned into 3 hours past my bedtime, and the resulting cold-cereal-for-breakfast, grumpy-tired-mom sort of day that happened far too often. I also started kicking myself thinking of the creative energy I could have been spending on art projects or home projects, with something to show for it in the real world when I was done, but all I ever seemed to crave was another jaunt in that artificial cyber-world. I knew something was wrong with this picture, but it took my mom dying to give me the wakeup call. I don't have a problem with video games in general, but I can see I did not have control of my habit, it was controlling me, and I am happy to take an extended break from it. Maybe I will never go back at all.

3. This experience will make me more compassionate. One of my favorite quotes from the writings of Joseph Smith Jr. came from a letter penned just after he was released from a miserable winter spent in Liberty Jail. He had been unjustly incarcerated and rendered helpless to assist his friends and family who were being persecuted and murdered and forcibly driven from their homes. After all this, Joseph wrote to a friend, "It seems to me that my heart will always be more tender after this than ever it was before...For my part I think I never could have felt as I now do if I had not suffered the wrongs that I have suffered. All things shall work together for good to them that love God." I want to come out of this with that kind of faith and sensitivity.

4. This experience is teaching me how to keep it real. I am an emotional creature. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, and although I have matured a lot over the past years, there is still a lot of the melodramatic in my nature. I had a tendency to "put on the emotion" just a little bit, perhaps in a slightly manipulative way at times. It was usually subconscious, but on the very rare occasion it snuck its way into my conscious and intentional actions. (Do you hear how desperately I am trying to downplay this flaw?) Now that I have something in my life that seems genuinely tragic, I feel really stupid about everything I acted so upset about before, and I'm kind of tired of it. Grief can be exhausting. I don't know how Archie Craven or Mary Crowley could keep it up for months or years. I'm just tired of being sad. I mean, when you gotta cry, fine, have your cry, but there comes a point when you've got to go have a laugh at something or change the subject or you might just collapse. I think I have a better idea now of how much emotion is truly appropriate, and I don't ever want to go beyond that, especially intentionally. I feel much better equipped to handle hard things, simply because I no longer feel like I will be overwhelmed by the pure emotional burden of it. You can't carry those kind of burdens around. You have to put them down.

Which leads to #5. This experience is teaching me not to worry so much! I am a worry wort. So was my mom. She worried about planning and arranging big events. She worried about aluminum in anti-perspirants being a possible cause of Alzheimer's. She worried about offending people. I worry about raising my kids. I worry about getting things done. I worried about tragedy striking and how I would handle it. Now here I am, and I am finding it is a lot easier to handle tragedy when it actually happens than when you are waiting around for it to happen. Because honestly, there's very little you can do beforehand. We prepare for what we can, but then we leave it in God's hands. And if something happens that we weren't prepared for, we deal with it. Why waste time wondering what we would do, if we don't even have all the details? You can't solve a problem if you don't even know what the problem is, so why waste time trying to?

6. This experience proves that laughter is medicine. While mom doesn't say much, I think we all take great delight in still being able to make her laugh. Before I arrived when the family gathered 2 weeks ago, those that were with mom entertained her with a rollicking round of an improv game called "What are you doing?" One of our favorite teachers had taught it to us in elementary school. Word is, they had mom in stitches. While I was there, we also enjoyed watching some funny movies and shows, and some upbeat music videos with her. It tickled us all to see our mostly immobile mom tapping her feet, almost involuntarily, to the infectious "Smiles For Life." Despite his somber reputation, all us kids know better about our dad, that he is a big tease, and he still takes pride in being able to make mom smile at his jokes. Laughter and cheerfulness has made this whole process so much more bearable.

7. Because of this experience, I no longer want to waste any time being angry. This is perhaps the hardest lesson for me. Being a mom is incredibly challenging. Sometimes I feel like my kids are 10 times harder than me and my siblings must have been. I certainly don't remember quite so much yelling going on, and I could be certain we did our homework independently most of the time and never talked back disrespectfully to our parents. My room wasn't perfect, but I remember cleaning it of my own volition now and again, and chores were something we knew was just expected of us. We played on the computer, but that was only a small fraction of the creative things we did for fun. We were always coming up with new adventures in creativity. So where did these kids come from? Why do they challenge every thing I say? Where are all these messes coming from? Where is the fighting coming from? Why do they get bored with anything not shining out from a screen? Anyway, I'm drifting. My point is about anger. I don't want to go there. Sure this is hard, and lots of things frustrate me. But I can't spend my energy that way. It's counterproductive. People aren't perfect. I'm not perfect. We are all working on it, and we all deserve and owe all the patience that can be afforded. We all need to breathe more deeply and let things go a lot more, and lighten up.

If I can internalize all this, then my mom will not die in vain. She will have in fact given her life for my sake, sacrificing those 2 or more additional decades we could have had with her in order for us all to become more mature, more compassionate, more grateful, more productive. And the pain will all have a purpose.