I'll never forget Clair.
I met her several years ago, not too long after we'd moved to Alaska as newlyweds. Her brown, naturally frizzy hair was always going its own (usually wild) direction, and she had a personal style that some might describe as trodden and frumpy. She and her husband drove an older, dirty van full of their passel of jubilant, fuzzy-haired children. For most of their life, they didn't have much of what many would consider to be of value or worth.
But, Clair smiled.
She smiled.
Hers was that rare sort of smile that is made of abundant sunshine and happiness. Absolutley honest, and thoroughly genuine, the light of her face was reflected by her up-curved lips and shining white teeth. Her laughter was easy and flowing, like the spilling and splashing of water over stones in a brook. Contingent on nothing, her joy was of the finest quality; the essence of all that makes beauty and wealth. When you were near her, you instantly knew that this day, this very moment in time, was the best part of her life.
I remembered a story, the other day, that Clair had once told me. It was about their family's first Christmas in Alaska. They had packed their clunky, patched-up car and, with their toddlers and babies, had driven the very long, pot-hole gashed road that is the Alaska highway, all the while looking forward to a new, and, hopefully, more abundant life once they reached their Promised Land.
But, nothing. They had come with next to nothing, and had arrived to find next to nothing. After some wondering and searching, her husband was finally employed to flip pancakes in the greasy kitchen of a local diner, while Clair spent her days and nights caring for their toddlers and babies at home.
Soon, Christmas was near and their little ones had that look of delight and anticipation in their eyes. But Clair and her husband had nothing.
Then, in the light of that beautiful smile, I'm sure, Clair told her husband that everything would be alright, that the holiday would be wonderful, if she only had a sack of flour.
A sack of flour.
A few days later, here it came, their holiday, tucked under her husband's arm as he walked through the door, stomping wintery snow from his boots.
With her lilting laughter and splashes of smiles, Clair told me about how their holiday literally came out of that sack; salt dough ornaments for their scrubby swamp spruce, a nativity set molded by little hands, cinnamon rolls, bread, cookies.
As I listened, a knowing impressed itself into my deepest soul: she was talking about the best time of her life.
I could see it in her smile.
So, earlier this month, when there were birthdays on our horizon, I remembered Clair's smile and her sack of flour. Literally and figuratively, we celebrated our boys' special days with goodness of the sweet and creative variety.
As you know, there were the number shirts that shouted the newest, most fabulous age to be, a big bang for $0.75 thrift store plain-front t-shirts and freezer-paper stencils.
Then, for a birthday breakfast surprise, there were homemade cinnamon rolls, or donuts, depending entirely on the whim of the mama that morning.
There was a fun activity, or two (almost all of which were free!), that were, of course, wrapped in secrecy until just the right moment.
We had a family of friends (bearing little gifts) over for dinner and cake, lit birthday candles, sang a chorus of 'Happy Birthday', and gave a couple of simple, yet very special presents to each boy.
Flour sack birthdays.
We're smiling.
