A Merry Mennonite Christmas
Hello. My name is Roxanne. I’m a Mennonite.
I know, you’re thinking how is that possible, since I wear make-up and jeans and don’t have a little black beanie pinned on my braids? My pacifist rebel blood set me on a different path from my ancestors but there is much I cherish about my Mennonite heritage.
Wareneki… noodle-y, cottage-cheese-y, creamy…
Rollkuchen and watermelon… the perfect summer supper, well, except for the deep-fried batter bit…
Cabbage borsch… thrifty, delicious – and nutritious!
…and plumi moos, that cold sweet pudding-y soup filled with prunes and raisins and cherries.
Watch out, though; those prunes pack a punch. Hm. Maybe, with all the noodles and bread, that’s the point.
Anyway, since carbs aren’t my friend and I don’t spend my days hitched to a plow, I rarely indulge my Mennonite appetite.
Music, however, is a different story. Especially at Christmas.
Despite a deep suspicion of the arts, the Mennonite culture embraces music as form of worship. (Nothing you might want to dance to, though. Dancing is Very Bad. There’s an old joke among us Mennos: why don’t Mennonites have sex standing up? Because it could lead to dancing.)
So although we do not dance, few Menno kids grew up without music lessons of some sort; most of us sang in the church choir. Some of us sang in chamber choirs that even went on tour.
That’s a life-time ago, but I can still sing along with The Hallelujah Chorus of Handel’s Messiah and it remains one of my favorite pieces of music, especially at Christmas.
My family tree is filled with humble, hard-working, painfully honest people who are probably deeply concerned for my soul. After all, as a fiction-writer, I am, by definition, a liar. And although I can’t dance, I dearly wish I could, which is just as bad.
Nevertheless, I am grateful for the bedrock of love and faith I was raised with. I am grateful that we can celebrate Christmas together despite our differences, with simple pleasures.
Like music and food.
Hallelujah!
Merry Christmas!
“Self-Doubt…
… doesn’t do anyone any good when you’re right.”
Or so said Hugh Laurie’s Dr. House, if I recall correctly.
Most of us are plagued with self-doubt at one time or another. I seem to have it a lot. Which doesn’t make sense, given that I’m also right a lot of the time. Or at least, pretty self-righteous. It’s an unfortunately combination, which may explain why I don’t go out much. It’s better for us all.
Or maybe it’s a writer thing. Nora Roberts said “Writing doesn’t make you neurotic; neurotics become writers.” So I guess it was inevitable.
But, writers, plumbers, doctors, ranchers or whatever, we’re all prone to human failings and frailties. It’s a fallen world, after all. Despite our best intentions, we all inflict bone-headed, self-centered, blindly stupid mistakes on those around us, for which we end up scraping for forgiveness.
And sometimes, we have to be big enough to do the same for others.
I’m at that wonderful stage in my book where my characters have slipped off each others’ masks just enough to see the true person beneath. It’s an ugly, painful experience, but wildly, truly, whole-ly human. I love being able to orchestrate this from above, putting true words into the mouths of made-up people, giving them honest actions and reactions in fictitious lives.
I wish it would come together the way I see it in my head. It would be The Best Book Ever.
But who knows? I could have it right already. And self-doubt doesn’t help anyone, when you’re right.
Sweaty, Naked Guys? AGAIN?
Tomorrow I’ll be guest-blogging about Three River Ranch on the Fresh Fiction site. I hope to see you there!
One lucky commenter will receive a free download of Three River Ranch. If you’ve already got your copy, come join us anyway – I promise, I’ll make it worth your while!
Will I be talking about cowboys? Home renovations? Bad break-ups?
Only I know for sure.