I pushed the bow down harder to drown out the negative thoughts that were distracting me from what really mattered. Whenever I found myself questioning whether practicing my violin was a valuable use of my time, I reflected on what my daughters might someday remember about the holiday. Would they remember how shiny the floors were? Whether or not the Christmas cards were mailed out on time? How many homemade desserts lined the counters? Or would they remember that on Christmas morning, their mama played her violin. They’d always wanted to hear their mother play, and it sounded better than they ever dreamed it would.
After all the gifts were opened on Christmas morning, I announced that I had a surprise. I watched as my parents, Scott, Natalie, and Avery all looked at each other inquisitively.
What happened next made me so thankful that for the three days prior, I’d cut my workouts short, let laundry go unfolded, forgone curled ribbon on the gifts, and allowed the floors to collect dust so that I had time to practice.
I unlocked the violin case with a loud click. By the look on my family members’ faces, I was opening the gates to a secret world in which they had been banned for far too long.
“Is that your violin, Mama? Are you going to play, Mama?” The girls peppered the air with eager questions. They were so excited they actually stood on their chairs as if Itzhak Perlman himself was about to perform. I simply smiled and let my instrument answer their questions.
I began with “Silent Night,” which I knew they would recognize, and then moved on to “Greensleeves.” I’d chosen that one specifically for my mom because it was my grandma’s favorite. Just as I’d hoped, my parents cried, Scott beamed, and my children were delighted at the sight of me with my violin tucked under my chin.
As I stroked the handcrafted bow on the graying strings of my instrument, a familiar feeling of peace settled over me. For a moment, I felt as if I was back in the pale-yellow bedroom of my childhood. On shaggy green carpet, my music stand held papers dotted with black notes that beckoned me away from my adolescent worries. Difficult teachers, friendship drama, and insecurities about my physique all seemed to fade as I became engrossed in the act of making music. While playing my violin, I had no choice but to be present in that moment. I was not thinking of what had been or what was to come — it was all about the now.
I was genuinely surprised to find that the violin still had that effect on me, even twenty years later. The performance I gave for my family was far from perfect, but it didn’t matter. I’d retrieved a gift I thought was no longer available to me; I’d discovered a way to stop time and find refuge from the worldly distractions and pressures once again.
A few days later my mom told me something about my younger self that I couldn’t quite fathom. She said, “You know you haven’t always been this driven, Rachel. As a girl, you got lost in the moment. You took your time. You were carefree. It wasn’t until college that you became so focused on always being productive.”
A chill ran up my spine. When I went to college was precisely when I stopped playing the violin. That is when I stopped “playing” — period.
But after a beautiful rendition of “Silent Night” amidst the awestruck expressions of my family and the tears of my parents, I’d discovered I had the ability to play again. It was just a matter of choosing to do so. This time, I’d made a good choice.
That Christmas day the floors were dirtier than ever. The food I prepared was not magazine-cover worthy. My hair was in a messy ponytail. But it didn’t matter. That holiday my home held a joyful noise — one of laughter, love, and a squeaky violin. And for a brief moment time was ours, so we held it with loving care.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will make time to play. I will delight in an old hobby or talent that used to bring me joy. If the voice of productivity tells me I am wasting time, I will say, “On the contrary! I am stopping to momentarily hold time!” And then I will knit, bake, garden, woodwork, paint, sculpt, dance, or sing until I am completely lost in a moment and my soul is refreshed.
GIVE WHAT MATTERS TO GIFT A MOMENT
The month before Scott turned forty, I began thinking about how we should celebrate his birthday. Early on, he made it abundantly clear that he did not want a surprise party. Actually, he said he wanted no party whatsoever. He specifically said he just wanted to spend time together as family. It sounded easy enough, but yet I knew that I would be sorely letting him down if I did not make his fortieth birthday somehow different than the thirty-nine birthdays before.
I wanted to make Scott’s birthday special, but I secretly hoped I could figure out something that didn’t require a lot of effort on my part. The sad truth was, I made a point to go the extra mile for just about everyone in my life, but I often “cut corners” when it came to my spouse. I banked on the fact that my husband would love me no matter what, which meant he got shorted on my time, effort, love, and attention. These truths are not pretty, I know. However, painful admissions such as these are the key to grasping what really matters on this Hand Free journey. So with that said, I give you more honesty. I decided a nice family overnight at a local hotel with a pool and amenities would make a unique and memorable fortieth birthday present. This gift idea had the appearance of a big deal, while requiring little effort from me, the giver. It was the perfect plan . . . for me, that is.
I immediately made the hotel reservation, stressing to the receptionist that although my husband frequents their chain of hotels for business, it was imperative that they did not send him an email confirmation. I hung up feeling quite satisfied with myself. Make special plans for Scott’s birthday . . . Check!
A few hours later my husband walked in the door with a puzzled look on his face. “Do you know anything about a hotel reservation for December second?”
Crap! (Or if I am being totally honest, slightly worse than crap.) I could not believe it. My surprise was ruined! Or shall I say, my “easy out” was ruined? I went straight to the phone, punching the numbers so violently that I misdialed three times. For the next thirty minutes, I traveled the hotel’s chain of command until I got to the top, lambasting every poor phone representative along the way. When I finally got to executive director, Renee, beads of angry sweat glistened on my forehead.
“Do you know how many times I told your reservation receptionist not to send my husband an email confirmation?” I asked in a snarly voice that even I did not recognize.
Poor Renee. Of course she didn’t know. All she knew was that she needed to get off the phone with this customer-service nightmare. Renee offered me some “frustration points” to rectify the situation.
Frustration points? That’s putting it lightly! I thought. What about “Our Hotel Messed Up a Brilliant Fortieth Birthday Surprise” points? I am going to need about 50,000 of those, and they’d better cover the cost of the room! I lamented in my head.
At this point, I felt as if my head was about to pop off my body. I knew I needed to take a deep breath before I said something I would regret. That’s when I caught sight of myself in a hallway mirror. I did not like what I saw. In fact, the sight of my puffy, irate face was so embarrassing that I wished I could rewind my life forty-two minutes and forgo calling the hotel. All this drama, nastiness, and anger over someone’s innocent mistake? I don’t think so. This epic meltdown was not about the accidental error made by the person who sent the hotel confirmation to Scott. This complete overreaction was about me! This was about the woman who was desperately trying to “cut corners” on her husband’s fortieth birthday when she should be taking those corners, dipping them in chocolate, covering them in sprinkles, and adorning each one with a tiny gold crown.
As anger turned to tears, I knew it was time to acknowledge a few hard facts. I was blessed to be married to a man who would rather spend his fortieth birthday with his family than have a huge bash. I was blessed to be married to a man who would rather eat my smoked almond-turkey meatloaf on paper plates with his wife and children than be serve
d on white tablecloths at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. And most importantly, I was blessed to be married to a man who never ever cuts corners on me!
That’s when I knew his fortieth birthday gift was going to be different than I’d planned. I was not going to take the easy way out on this one. His gift was going to require more than simply dialing the 1-800 number of a hotel chain. It was going to require more than presenting a credit card at his favorite store. This gift was going to be one that represented what really mattered — how Scott truly mattered.
I immediately sat down at the computer and wrote an email to every family member, friend, and work associate Scott had ever known. I informed them that he was about to turn forty and that I would like them to send me a memory of him — funny, serious, meaningful, or all of the above. Over the next few days, the email messages started pouring in. Although I know my husband very well, there are twenty years of his pre-Rachel life that I don’t always know that much about. And although he is a good communicator, there are just some memories and facts about his life that do not come up in daily conversation. And although I love my husband deeply, there are redeeming qualities about him that I have not yet come to fully appreciate. So as the messages filled my in-box, I found myself learning amazing things about my husband that I didn’t know. I found myself in awe of small gestures he had done for people that had profoundly changed their lives. I found myself hanging on every word, as if reading a biography about a truly kind and inspiring man. I found myself laughing out loud. I found myself wiping away tears.
When the deadline for memory submissions came, I printed the huge stack of responses, slid them into page protectors, and placed them in a binder. But before I wrapped the binder, there was something I knew I must do. I called Natalie and Avery to sit with me, and then I proceeded to tell them all about their daddy. I read bits and pieces of the loving, humorous, and meaningful messages that I thought the girls would understand and enjoy. They loved hearing how Scott had once worn pink as a baby. They laughed when they heard how his wooden-bat baseball league teammates called him “Scooter” because of the way he “scooted” across the field (a much kinder way of saying he ran slowly in his ripe old age). The girls delighted in knowing Scott had sent money to his little sister when she was in college, and he sent it with only one condition: to have fun with it. They laughed envisioning their daddy as a sixteen-year-old boy installing speakers in his car with a bass that nearly shattered the windows. Their faces grew solemn when they learned of the way he helped tornado survivors, inner-city kids in need of role models, and a friend with cancer. As Natalie carried the book to bed with her that night, I knew this gift was something that mattered.
On Scott’s birthday our family gathered around the kitchen table, and I began reading a list entitled “Forty Things We Learned about Our Daddy.” When we spoke of childhood tent-building with his cousins, my husband quickly looked surprised. “How do you know that?” he asked bewilderedly.
I kept reading and the children kept smiling, because he was about to be handed the most unexpected gift. When the list had been read, we presented the album and left him alone so he could read every thoughtful word written about him in silence. At one point, I peeked around the corner to see his reaction. Scott held the same look of happiness I’d seen on our wedding day and the same serene expression he wore when he’d held his children for the first time. It was a look that said, “Something divine has just touched my soul and filled me with peace.”
The rest of the weekend was spent celebrating in a Hands Free manner I like to call Going Where Life Is Simple — running around the park in the sunshine, going for a leisurely walk, eating smoked almond-turkey meatloaf made from scratch, devouring cupcakes slathered in buttercream frosting, and getting lots of hugs from little hands. That night, as Scott drifted off to sleep, he whispered, “Thank you. This was my best birthday ever.”
As I watched my contented husband fall into peaceful slumber, a chilling revelation struck me as I realized the full magnitude of his memory book. Such meaningful sentiments are not usually spoken about people until the day of their funeral. This means people never get to hear exactly what others love about them. They never get to hear how they touched someone’s life. They never get to hear the words of gratitude someone always wanted to tell them. But by the grace of God, and every single person who wrote a message in Scott’s album, my husband got to hear these significant words on the day he turned forty. And equally important, his children got to hear them too while their daddy was still alive to be celebrated.
As my eyelids grew heavy at the end of a memorable day, I thought of the one line from my husband’s memory book that I’d tried to read aloud to him, but my voice had failed me. It said, “Scott Stafford never misses a moment.” I smiled at the irony. What did I give my husband on his fortieth birthday? For once, I didn’t cut corners. Instead, I gave him a moment. And it was the perfect gift . . . for him.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will make plans to gift an experience, a moment, or a memory to someone I love instead of a material item. I might ask my mom to show me how to make her famous apple pie. I might ask my dad to go golfing or fishing. I might offer to help my children make a fort in the backyard. I might offer to give my friend a manicure. Today I will Go Where Life Is Simple and invite someone to come along. Away from the distractions of everyday life, I am more able to say the words I often don’t take time to say. I will not wait until unexpected tragedy to express my love and appreciation for the people in my life.
GIVE WHAT MATTERS TO EASE THE PAIN
An editor for a small magazine that featured stories about creativity, courage, and world change contacted me about an article I’d written about Natalie’s uninhibited gift-giving practices. The editor hoped that Natalie herself would be interested in writing a piece that detailed how and why she gave. As I read the editor’s message, the child in me became giddy. By the time I turned eight, I’d already filled ten Mead notebooks with poetry, narratives, and endless streams of words. As a budding author, nothing would have made my story-writing heart happier than to see my words in print. I wanted to respond to the editor with an enthusiastic yes, but I knew that was not appropriate. Just because this would have been my dream as a child didn’t mean it was Natalie’s. I hoped she would accept this unique opportunity, but I decided I would not pressure her. It would be entirely her decision.
That evening as Natalie was preparing for bed, I told her about the email I received from the editor of Courageous Creativity. As casually as I could, I asked, “Would you be interested in writing an article about why giving gifts makes you happy?”
Suddenly the head that was lost in a sea of flannel popped out of the hole in her pajama top. “Published . . . like in a real magazine?” my daughter asked excitedly.
The word yes barely escaped from my mouth when Natalie jumped straight into the air and screamed, “I would! I would!” Without missing a beat, she eagerly asked, “Can I get started right away?”
Although it was close to bedtime, I was thrilled by Natalie’s enthusiasm. I offered her twenty minutes to write. My eager little author ran to get a pencil and paper and then positioned herself next to me on the floor. Although it is my inherent nature as a former special-education teacher to instruct, guide, and make suggestions, I said nothing. This was Natalie’s story, not mine. Therefore, I knew the words must be hers, not mine.
The two of us sat there in the peace of my child’s lemon-yellow bedroom, each of us writing stories we couldn’t wait to tell the world. My daughter began writing “Giving from the Heart” while I worked on a blog post. The twenty minutes flew by quickly, and soon it was time to call it a night. Reluctantly, Natalie agreed to work on her story a little more the next day.
After one more twenty-minute writing session the next evening, Natalie announced her piece was ready to be viewed. I was given the honors. Within the first paragraph, the teacher in me spotted a clearly s
tated main idea and thoughtful organization. I made a mental note to thank her third-grade teacher for the exceptional job she had done teaching my child how to write an effective narrative. I continued to read on, thinking there would be no surprises. After all, I was there the day my big-hearted child wrapped toiletries and used books in hopes of bringing cheer to homeless people in our city. But as I continued reading, I realized I didn’t know everything. And what I learned changed my perspective of the world dramatically.
Natalie described driving into the heart of the city. Her story picked up where we saw hundreds of homeless people gathering for food distribution. I remember exactly how I felt in that moment. I was scared. I wanted to protect my children, cover their eyes and spare them from seeing such despair, desperation, and hopelessness. I remember thinking it was a bad idea to go there. But as much as I wanted to beg Scott to turn the car around, I didn’t. And now with Natalie’s profound words staring back at me, I was given confirmation that proceeding into that heartbreaking scene was the right choice for my child. In that moment, fear was the furthest thing from her mind. This is what Natalie wrote: “We were in the downtown area of our city when we drove past something I will never forget. Many homeless people were crowded around this broken-down truck. A man on the truck was holding up an orange, saying ‘Merry Christmas’ and throwing out oranges for hungry people to catch. When I saw people pushing each other to get to the oranges, it made my heart drop. They were fighting for a piece of fruit. That is how little they had. Beside the truck, I saw an old man, maybe around the age of sixty. He was eating one of the sandwiches and oranges given to him. I thought to myself, ‘I want to help this man.’ I quickly hopped out of the car, gave him a gift, and said, ‘Merry Christmas, sir.’ Earlier, he had seemed so gloomy, but as we drove off, I saw a smile. I felt so good!”
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