What are we giving Jesus for his birthday?

At some point during the Christmas season, we take our kids shopping for each other, or maybe for a friend. It's a good chance for some one-on-one time, and for a chance to talk through the process of buying a gift for someone else. It always starts out the same way: they find something they want for themselves, and then start to do a little math - if they spend less on the gift, can they afford to get themselves something? 

And with a little - or a lot - of reminding that Christmas is about thinking of others, they finally let go of their own wish and start to think about what the recipient might love.

Yesterday, Vava started singing happy birthday to Jesus while we were hanging out in the kitchen. When she left, Pascal asked me what we're giving Jesus for his birthday. I told him that Jesus counts all the kindnesses we do for others as if we had given them to him, especially the giving we do in secret and when the recipients can't give to us in return.

These are the words of Jesus:

Matthew 25:35-40 ESV

[35] For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, [36] I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ [37] Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? [38] And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? [39] And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ [40] And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

Matthew 6:19-21 ESV

[19] “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, [20] but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. [21] For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Every evening from December1-24, I sit and rummage through the thoughts and experiences of my day, looking for love and looking for Jesus. Thank you for seeking him alongside me. I hope you've found him, right there in the hands receiving your bounty, right there where your heart is. If your heart is broken, I pray for you healing. If your heart is lonely, I pray for you comfort. If your heart is glad, I pray for you to be able to share it.

May God bless you with the chance to both give and receive his love this Christmas, my friends.

Xo

Let brotherly love continue

Today was a busy day, where I had to take 3 of my kids shopping, one at a time, to buy for their siblings.

One of them was stumped. "I don't know what to get Sam," they said as we pulled into the parking lot. "I feel like I don't know him as well as his friends do now."

While acknowledging that that's a normal and developmentally appropriate state of affairs, I also told them that I think they maybe knew him better than they thought they did.

"Let's look at some pictures to see if anything comes to mind," I suggested, and I pulled out my phone and we started flicking through albums. Before long, we were laughing over old memories, revisiting moments long forgotten, and appreciating things about being siblings that we hadn't considered in years.

Twenty minutes later, we were hopping out of the car with the perfect gift in mind, and tonight, the two of them are laughing and playing games together like besties. I should have sent them to bed hours ago, but this friendship is too precious to take for granted.

I love that Jesus calls himself our brother. He came to be one of us, know us, love us, care for us, protect us, and take us home.

Every Christmas, we look back through that album and remember - 

May you find yourself laughing and staying up late and to enjoy his presence this Christmas, my friends.

Xo.

Adventavit Asinus

I was shopping with friends today. We were in a clothing store and one of my friends wanted a sweater that was hanging out of reach.

"I'll ask an employee to get it," I said, and I found a tall man sorting coats and asked him to reach it. 

He seemed puzzled over which I wanted, so I waved over my friend.

"Est-ce que tu parles français?" he asked her.

Our french-speaking friend was also there, so she stepped up to clarify which particular sweater was wanted.

It was too high for the tall employee to reach, so he went looking for a pole. He prowled the store from front to back while another employee took the coats he'd been sorting and put them in their places. We waited, and finally he came back and told us he couldn't find a pole to reach the sweaters. Then the other employee offered to get it, and he turned, bewildered, to find the coats he had been trying to purchase all put away.

This lovely, helpful man was not an employee 😂 He was not sorting coats ... he was buying coats. And now he had to go through them all again.

We apologized and laughed and apologized some more. When we parted, he waved and warmly wished us goodnight (this was right after lunch, which I am only pointing out so that you will see how dear he was to try again in English). 

Sometimes at Christmas I feel like Mary, bearing the precious child. Sometimes I feel like the shepherds, seeking the Christ. Sometimes I feel like the wise men, worshiping the king. And sometimes I feel like the ass. A festive ass, but still an ass.

May your Christmas shopping bring you kind encounters and lots of laughs, friends. 

Xo.

All I Want for Christmas is a Millstone

I love that Jesus came to us as a baby. I feel like it shows us the dearest, sweetest, funniest side of God's heart - he came to us as a squishy, helpless, precious, hilarious, stinky, wonder-filled, sleepy darling. 

With the arrival of each of our precious lambs, I was struck by the enormity of work involved in keeping a tiny human alive; hearts and schedules and bodies bending around the basic needs and unarticulated demands of an utterly incapable, indescribably sweet baby. What does it show about his longing for us, that God would risk placing himself at our fallible mercy?

I remember one day when I was out walking with Sam in his stroller, and a stranger at a stoplight told me a racist joke. I was flooded with fury that those sounds, those intentions, were being shared in the same space as my tiny darling. "What makes you think we want your racism in our ears?" I demanded, then turned and walked away. I had never before experienced my hackles rising like my mama-bear-hackles rose that day.

I cannot even imagine the feelings that Mary must have felt when she knew that Herod was hunting and killing babies, trying to get to her son. The sorrow, and fear, and rage?

We, palely, bear the fingerprints of the Defender of the Weak. His Good-Shepherd hands shaped us, and we storm against injustice and cruelty because that is his character as well.

The blacked-out Epstein files are a slap in the face to every child who has ever had their innocence stolen and autonomy violated. They make a mockery of peace and justice.

Do you know, when he grew up, what Bethlehem's adored baby, what Mary's wise son, what the merciful Christ had to say about people who harm children? 

"It would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea." (Matthew 18:6, Mark 9:32, Luke 17:2)

For any child who was not protected, who was violated or abused

All I want for Christmas is a millstone.

Shakespeare's Puck

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the rink, and the heat lamps are the sun

And in their glow the waking crowd does gather

And watch with bated breath til th'game is done.

Two teams, both alike in dignity,

In the arena, where we lay our scene 

From recent grudge break into familiar mutiny 

Where civil blood may slip out from behind a mouthguard to make the ice unclean.

From forth the fatal benches of these équipes 

Two groups of stick-crossed players, lock'd in strife,

Within the bounds of twenty minutes, thrice,

Do chase the sliding glory, knife by knife.

Oh hockey, hockey, wherefore art thou hockey?

Thou hast no hock; deny thy pretense and be called puckey

Or if thou wilt not, be but honest about thine etymology:

Shepherds chased with hooks the sneaky, myst'rious sprite.

Eager crowds do mob the canteen stall

Press'd close from wall to door, from door to wall 

French fries are boundless as the sea

The slushie as deep

The more they make, the more the people buy

For both are infinite.

Let me not to the flirtations of two teenagers

Admit impediments

Hair is not hair 

Which is not tossed when it admiration finds

Or tucked behind an ear, with upward glance.

Oh no, it is an ever-fixèd sign

From the mall to the school to the rink 

Surer than a wink.

All the rink's a front porch

And all the crowds and players merely neighbours

They have their hellos and water bottles and coffee,

And all may play, or sit, and rest, and cheer.

(I know, I know; it's not even Christmassy, but we went to the game tonight and I was struck, as always, by the poetry and ritual and neighbourliness of the rink. It's truly the town's front porch, and I love it. Xo.)

Mini me

Today I was supervising the holiday dance when one of the kindergarteners ran up to me and asked, "are you Kachi's Mom?? You look just like him!" It made me so happy. I love that. 

And I love meeting my friends' parents, and seeing the dimple I so love dancing in the face it came from, the extra cowlick sticking up on his father's head too, the bridge of nose jutting in just the same elegant way.

Jesus' disciples knew Mary. They probably noticed the way his hair was the same colour as hers, how he had the same shape chin and the same easy smile.  

But who he really wanted to show them was his dad. "I'm just like him," he said, "if you know me, you know him." (Paraphrase mine)

John 14:1-9

“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way to where I am going.” 

Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” 

Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you had known me, you would have known my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.”   

Philip said to him, “Lord, show us the Father, and it is enough for us.”  Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you so long, and you still do not know me, Philip? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father."

Jesus. Friend of sinners and healer of the sick, defender of the poor and oppressed. Feeding the hungry and welcoming the seeking. Hotly rebuking abusers, especially abusers of children. This is who God is. 

That little baby lying in the manger probably looked an awful lot like his mama. But he came to show us his dad.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

and dwelt among us

John 1:12-14 ESV

 But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. 

I love palindromes.

Wow.

Mom.

Taco cat.

Racecar.

A man, a plan, a canal: Panama!

Eva, can I stack cats in a cave?

And the scriptures are full of them. Not the wordplay ones so much (although wordplay's there too), but palindrome events. There are all sorts of little mirrors set up, where something happens and then the same thing happens again, but backwards.

Like this passage here, John 1:12-14, where people who believe become children of God, and where the child of God became a person, to help people believe.

And we mirror his giving again every year, giving gifts to show our love for him, just like he gave us Jesus to show his love for us.

Singing carols by candlelight, like angels sang the good news by starlight.

The child of the poor, who came to give us his incorruptible inheritance.

Forwards, backwards, forever and ever, the good news folds and unfolds again: the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Christ Merrymas, friends.

Xo.

.            (among us! I couldn't resist)

As yourself

In the health lessons I've been doing with my grade 7&8 classes lately, we've been talking about how kindness to ourselves is a protective factor in good mental health. But as we grow out of childhood, being able to like ourselves is a weirdly hard task.

One of the assignments that has thrown my students for a loop is "A letter to a little you," where they imagine they get to sit next to the 4-year-old version of themselves, put an arm around their shoulder, and write that little kid a letter from a place of tenderness and kindness.

It's a hard ask ... but why? Somewhere between childhood and puberty it becomes easier to mock ourselves, or criticize ourselves, or ignore ourselves. But this isn't ideal. When God wants us to love people very very well, he asks us to love them as we love ourselves... the assumption being, of course, that we treat ourselves with kindness and care and integrity.

But I see kids in grade 7&8, and even younger, struggle to like themselves. They struggle to be kind to themselves, or protect themselves from harm.

I was shopping with this lamb last week and we walked by the clothes section. 

He scooted in to peek at himself in the mirror, and I heard him whisper appreciatively, "ooh yeah, I'm adorable."

It stopped my heart. He's been calling himself ugly and stupid and worthless lately, and yet here he was, taking a moment to observe himself and celebrate.

I snapped a picture because I wanted to remember how dear and sweet this was. It's so hard to look in the mirror and say something nice about me. It's so hard to be caring and kind to myself. But if a tempestuous and self-doubting 9-year-old can pause to give himself a compliment, can't I? Can't we?

This little bit of sweet self-kindness, my friends, is what I wish for you during this last week of Christmas.

During your comings and goings, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window or mirror, grin at that beautiful person and give yourself a compliment with joy. 

You're adorable.

Merry Christmas friends.

Xo

A Shadow in the Snow

The dog park was quiet and empty. Eevee spent her time sniffing the perimeter, running lightly and then pausing with intent concentration. As the sun went down, she blended in with the shadowy snow, white and dark, until I could no longer see her. 

One of my friends sent me a reel that said something like, "sometimes we get so wrapped up in being good moms and helping our kids grow up that we forget we're also still girls getting to live this stage in our lives for the first time ever."

And it hit me so hard. 

Watching my oldest two step into being teenagers, with all the First Times, aching along with them at the difficulties and challenges, and celebrating as they delight in the abilities and opportunities they have now, I definitely feel the weight of wanting to guide and not press, to celebrate and not insist, and the push-pull of seeing them through the lens of my own experience. I care for them and worry about them and drive them around and make their appointments and remind them to do homework and brush their teeth and eat their vegetables and try to gently pass these skills on to them without being too annoying and ... Whew. Sometimes I blend in with the busyness of my kids' lives so much that I don't see myself there anymore - I become like Eevee, a shadow in the snow.

But dang.

I'm also someone I've never been before. I'm also new to being a mother of teenagers, new to working full time in this challenging, rewarding role. I'm learning and growing as a person, and holding new thoughts and perspectives. I'm continuing to listen to that still small voice and getting better at tuning out noise, usually. And yes, mostly I like who I'm growing into but it's not all good change - I'm regularly shocked at my middle-aged forgetfulness and baffled by some of the old-person things that come out of my own mouth. I still struggle with decision-making, and being firm (the downside, I think, of being able to see things from multiple perspectives), and I overthink small moments and interactions in a panic (I'm learning to ask questions and clarify, but it's still a challenge for me).

She looks like a middle aged lady on the outside, but really this Janelle is a teenager herself. She's still chatting on the phone with her besties (although now she uses her thumbs and not a land line cord stretched across the kitchen ). She's still worried about her skin (although it's more about the lines and droopy eyelids and less about acne). She still hopes the guy she has a crush on thinks she's cute (and she curls up in bed with him every night, much to her delight). She still dreams of being a teacher and a writer. She still never knows what to wear. She still stays up too late and regrets it in the morning. She'd still rather lie on the couch reading, with her legs dangling over the armrest, than do her chores.  She still thinks stuffing is the best part of Christmas dinner (although now she has to cook it). She still feels like she should ask someone before sneaking into the tin of Quality Street.

She's a girl, living her life for the first time.

And she's so lucky to get to.

In the midst of your busyness and making Christmas bright for others, I hope you have a minute (or a few!) to enjoy being you - a girl, or a boy, living your life for the first time.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo

In times like these

Tonight we sat around the table with our homemade menorah and lit another candle. 

We talked and laughed and ate supper while Patrick explained the history of the Maccabees. Sam and Kachi egged him on, feigning exaggerated interest in Alexander the Great's four sons, and Pascal told everyone that fifteen Jewish people were murdered on Bondi Beach. 

We've never observed Hanukkah before and we're definitely doing it wrong and in our own very Herdman-y way, but pausing together and lighting candles in the dark feels important and valuable in times like these.

Happy Hanukkah, friends.

Xo

God entrusted Mary

We went to church today, for the first time in a long time. It was the third advent Sunday: a time to think about the joy in waiting.

Our friend's niece and nephew did the advent reading and lit three of the four candles (to represent hope, and peace, and joy). They were confident and capable, and made the most dear and relatable mistake.

"Mary praised God," they read, "who entrusted her with a scared role. Great things God has done!"

I mean, absolutely yes! She would have been scared indeed. And there were so many things to keep on being scared about.

The angel's visit. Pregnancy. Telling Joseph. Telling everyone. The journey to Bethlehem. Birth. The threat from Herod. The journey into Egypt, and back again. The lost teenager. The threatened rabbi. The captured innocent. The crucified saviour. The buried son.

Scared.

And she did it anyway.

I've got my own scared role, and I imagine you have yours. Losses that you've already borne, risks you take and have to take again, the constant and heavy burden of knowing that other precious lives depend upon you taking your responsibility seriously and fulfilling it well.

And Mary handled the scared by embracing the sacred; waiting in joy to see God work.

When the shepherds came to see the Messiah, drenched in wonder from the angels' proclamation, she kept it all in her heart. (Luke 2:19)

When Elizabeth's baby leapt for joy when Mary came near, and Elizabeth knew that she was carrying the Saviour, Mary sang a song of joy. "He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy,  as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever." (Luke 1:54-55)

As the calendar nears its end, I usually look back on the year that is almost over. What joy can I find? What tasks did I complete? What scared and sacred work has God entrusted to me?

God entrusted Mary with a scared role.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?

The juxtaposition here just blows my mind.

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, Luke 1:26.

The shift in expectations is dizzying. The angel Gabriel! Sent from God!

I feel like the next line should be something Fancy:

to the Great High Priest!

to the Temple!

to Caesar!

but it takes a sharp turn from glory to  backwater.

Nazareth's population in Jesus' time was less than 1000. Lots of shepherds. Farmers. Craftspeople. Poor people.

I can't help but feel a little kinship with Nazareth, here in Smiths Falls. 

We're not fancy. Our population isn't big. Lots of blue collar workers.  And just like Galilleeans used to say pfft, can anything good come out of Nazareth? the rest of Lanark County thinks the same thing about Smiths Falls.

I mean, they're not speaking without reason. There's a long history of poverty, addiction, crime, and challenges here. Many lives have been shaped by a lot of hard stories and difficult circumstances.

But it was where Jesus grew up. 

Where he cut his teeth and learned his alphabet. Where he dreamed and studied and made friends and gained critics. And ... it's why he came.

He didn't come to add dignity to the temple, the ruler, the wealthy citizens. He came to us.

He came to us.

To the metaphorical Nazareth in each of us which doesn't feel good enough to welcome him to. 

Contrary to our expectations, he didn't come to the most comfortable, beautiful, luxurious, accommodating of places.

He came to Nazareth.

Which makes me feel really relieved because I, too, am a Nazareth. A friend once learned that I am not the most disorganized in my family and she shook her head in disbelief. Nazareth. My carpets haven't been vacuumed since Sunday. Nazareth. I'm 43 years old and just starting back out in a career I trained for 16 years ago, when most teachers my age already have almost 20 years of classroom experience. Nazareth.

Well.

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth.

He came to Nazareth.

That Nazareth and this one, my Nazareth and yours.

He comes to our mess and meets us here. He settles in and touches one thing at a time.

And in the end, the answer to the mocking question, Can any good thing come out of Nazareth? will only ever be able to be a resounding yes.

Yes, the Christ.

Yes, the Christ.

Yes, the Christ came out of Nazareth.

Merry Christmas friends.

Xo.

A Star, a Star, Dancing in the Night

One of my friends told me about a tough night she had at the local Emergency Room. After a late night of stress and tests, around 2am she was told she had to drive an hour to take her child to a larger hospital that was more equipped to meet their needs.

"You can't delay," said the nurse, "but while the doctor is writing the prescription and sending it over, we'll have about 10 minutes. I'm going to go get you some coffee."

And I knew immediately who this nurse was. She hadn't described her physical features, but the way she saw my friend's needs? The way she went out of her way to care for the mama, as well as the sick kid? The thoughtful tenderness?

That's the kind of deep inner beauty that shines through the dark.

You can't tell much about someone's heart by their cross jewelry, their churchgoing, or the people they choose to hate. 

But when that love shines through?  It lights up the night like the star of Bethlehem. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

A Different Perspective

It was a snow day today, so for an hour or so today I had a collection of students I don't usually teach in my room.

I let them choose from an assortment of work packets, and went around the room and spent time sitting at one desk or another while they worked.

I sat with one kid who sometimes struggles in school. He had chosen a Hanukkah word search. Instead of the French vocabulary on the list, he was circling nonsense words - and making them make sense. 

He circled I L O V and crossed out the next four letters, writing in E YOU.

Then he spied D I N N in a line, with a curved connection to E and R.  He kept finding words that weren't intended to be there, words that were close to being there, words that were there, if you could just tilt your attention sideways at the right point. Thirty kids could look at that page and see the twenty words deliberately cached, but he could see something else.

Jesus was foretold in prophecy, but only Anna and Simeon were waiting for Him in the temple. The star shine over the whole world, but the wise men were the only ones we read of who followed it. 

Sometimes we can look at the same thing as everyone else and see something a little bit differently. I think that's what makes artists, writers, thinkers, worshipers: a different perspective. Looking at the same thing as other people and seeing something different is a gift.

Even if other people think we're crazy. Even if we end up doing something sideways, like worshiping a baby who was born 2 millenia ago. Like spending your time providing food for a hungry kid. Like stopping on your way to work and pushing someone's car out of a snow bank. Ten cars drive by without seeing, but when you see - 

When you see, you do something about it.

May God give us eyes to see, hearts to understand, and the courage to do something about it.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

the moon, caught on a random metal piece of tower.

Seven swans a-swimming

An incomplete list of dead birds I have found:

A headless black and white bird in a pile of feathers on our front lawn

A hawk, half-flattened on the side of the highway

A robin, torn open, in our backyard in Thunder Bay 

A half-eaten something feathered, left by a cat in the cradle of our tree

An incomplete list of bird parenting I have witnessed:

A mama robin stuffing stringy worms into her babies' loud and demanding beaks 

Adult ospreys teaching their young to fish

Grown grackles teaching their babies to fly 

A mother swan removing something from a cygnet's feathers

Adult geese, hissing me away from their downy spring-green flock

These scrappy little piles of bone and feather

Persist and persist and persist and persist 

Even though their end may be terrible 

And their lives so short

Why do you bother? I whisper to the birds,

Who are busy

Hunting for food and teaching their babies 

Building their nests and migrating south

And singing 

And soaring 

And greeting the dawn.

They do not answer me.

They are busy 

Flying and feasting and swooping and sleeping and singing 

It is no waste, says the heron, standing still in swift water.

She is so sure.

Jealous? Weepin'?

If you haven't heard it yet, you might like to listen to Iron & Wine's Flightless Bird before reading further (click here).

This fall, I kept this song on repeat. I would listen to it while I walked Eevee, while I got ready for school, when I drove around town. 

There was one line in particular that caught at an old sadness and tugged, tugged -

Have I found you? 

Flightless bird -

Jealous, weepin'

And the immense tenderness and light in the artist's voice lifted and shattered a buried brick that had weighed on my heart since I was little.

For most of my childhood, the fiercest and most defining emotion that I can remember feeling was also the one of which I was most woefully ashamed. And I had somehow come to the conclusion that it was the one emotion that Jesus couldn't have empathized with, because how could he ever possibly have felt it?  

Jealousy. 

I was wracked with it. Jealous of my sisters. Jealous of kids with cool clothes. Jealous of girls with straight hair. Jealous of anyone who achieved anything better or earlier or with more panache than I. I remember one of my sisters whipping the awful accusation at me one day, voice dropping with shame that I would walk in such blatant Sin: "you're just ... jealous!" 

And I couldn't argue with her. She was right. I was that despicable thing.

And worst of all, I wasn't a blazing, honest sort of jealous. No; I was a squirming, crying, angry, pretend-it's-about-something-else sort of jealous.

I writhed.

I longed to be one of those people who could celebrate others, who could love the good things that came to them instead of envying them. But I could not. 

I was walking Eevee through a gloriously orange October sunrise. Flightless Bird came through my headphones like it occasionally did, and suddenly I heard it, the tender chorus that was like listening to a song sung by a very kind, a very wise, a very deeply happy Creator:

Have I found you?

Flightless Bird,

Jealous, weepin' -

And the absolute drenching beauty of sunrise washed over me as I listened to it on repeat. I could see it now: little Janelle, jealous and weeping and raging over the unfairness of existing as a flightless bird. Of course weeping. Of course jealous. Wings bound tight. Raging, and longing.

Jealous? Weepin'? What else could I possibly have felt?

Have I found you?

I cried like a baby. Watching little Janelle through His eyes was so healing.

Yes, he found me.

I wept for the whole world.

Bound. Jealous. Weeping.

He found us.

He found us and he keeps on finding. He found us in Bethlehem, in Cana, in Galilee, in Gethsemane. He found us in the dark dawn (jealous? weeping?). 

He finds us.

Wherever we are, whatever our burdens.

And (sometimes out of the blue on a sunny morning) he sets us free.

Xo.

for moms who don't feel like enough

Tonight I was cozing Pascal at bedtime. He was wearing his softest, fuzziest pyjamas. "These make me want to cuddle you close like a stuffy," I said, patting his arm.

"Bet," he said, and crawled into my arms, pulling them around him.

We squeezed each other tight, and I held him while he fell asleep. 

I think about Mary a lot during Advent. The brave little mother, to whom God himself entrusted his son. When we're kids, we think our parents know everything. We don't realize that when we present them with problems or fears, it might be the first time they've encountered these. We don't know that their replies might just be parroting the words they heard as children, or repeating the turns of phrase their older friends used. We don't know that they don't know ... anything.

But Jesus knew! I mean - I think Jesus knew. I think he entrusted himself to this girl who loved God and who, like all of us, was a complicated, fearful mix of nature and nurture. He knew he would  be held in her arms, and thay she, with her wildly frightened heart and enormous love beating like wings in a cage, would be brand new at this, just like He was.

He didn't choose an old pro mom. He didn't choose a perfect mom. He didn't choose a rich mom, with all the world's resources at her disposal.

He chose her, with her willing heart and big dreams, and, in just the same way, I think he chooses us for our lives. He chooses us for the roles we fill and the burdens we have to carry. He chooses that perceptive kid to sit next to that lonely kid at school. He chooses that bright coworker for you, to pop you out of tiredness and make you laugh. He chooses you, with your eyes and your hands, to live on your street and love your neighbours. And he chooses you to be the mom, the dad, to your precious babes.

You're who they need. 

You're who he sent.

He knows you're not perfect.

He knew Mary wasn't perfect.

And still, he picked us.

For love's sake.

Merry Christmas friends, 

Wishing you a season of comfort and joy, peace and fulfillment.

May you always know that you are chosen, brave, capable, and created just for this - for being who you are, for loving those around you, and for showing up, over and over again.

Xo

Like a Candle in the Dark

I love Collective Soul's song Shine, but today I discovered that Dolly covers it ...

Click here to enjoy.

A snippet of the lyrics:

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to look
Tell me, will love be there?
Will love be there?

Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me, will love be there?
Will love be there?

I have yet to look and not find love. I spend each December opening up the windows in my day and looking inside. Whenever I look for it, I find it.

It weeps with those who weep. It rejoices with those who rejoice. It shines like a candle in the dark. It glows in the warmth of friendship and flows like communion. It pools like mercy.

There is darkness and there is hate, there is bitterness and there is sorrow. But when I look for love, it is not overcome. Love remains.

1 Corinthians 13:13 - So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

In which I realize my shame-o-meter is broken

I fell coming out of Costco tonight. My feet shot out from under me and I heard my grandmother's voice coming from my mouth in a terrified and cartoonish "whoooooooa!" before I hit the ground.

A passing woman gathered my dropped groceries, and another asked if she could help me up.

I shook my head no, got to my feet, thanked the kind woman and took my groceries, averting my face.

And then the whole way to the car I cried hot tears of shame and embarrassment.

My friends.

I am aware, logically, that I did nothing wrong. I didn't get in someone's way, I didn't swerve or race or trip over my own feet. I wasn't careless or impatient. I didn't have anyone to be sorry for or to, and I didn't even harm anyone or get in anyone's way as I fell. My shoes simply slid in the slush and snow and I went down.

But when I gathered myself together and walked away, the prevailing emotion I felt was ... shame.

Why?

It isn't hurtful or cruel to slip and fall. It isn't wrong or bad.

But something in me, in my life or my perceptions (or maybe my misperceptions?) equates making a mistake, even something as innocuous as a misstep, with being bad. And being scared to make even an innocent mistake can make you scared to do anything at all.

I almost decided not to write these posts this year. For all the kind comments, there are usually a few unkind ones (and those are the ones that seem to stick in my teeth). And it's scary to put my thoughts and feelings on a screen for anyone to see. 

But scared is a pointless way to live.

And shame can be a useful feeling but I know my shame-o-meter needs recalibrating. 

So I will likely write something dumb, or silly, or cringe. But I might also write something hopeful, or comforting, or glad. I just might be another arrow pointing to the everlasting love, and I'll take those odds.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

a frostbitten milkweed, from my walk with Eevee today. 

Veiled in flesh

About Jesus, John wrote, "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." 

John 1:14 - The word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only son from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Look at these lambs.

Love put on flesh and dwells with me.

Sorrow put on flesh and dwells with me.

Hope put on flesh and dwells with me.

Insecurity put on flesh and dwells with me.

Possibility put on flesh and dwells with me.

Compassion put on flesh and dwells with me.

Tenderness put on flesh and dwells with me.

Weakness put on flesh and dwells with me.

Strength put on flesh and dwells with me.

Intelligence put on flesh and dwells with me.

And I have seen the glory, the glory of creation from God's hands, full of complexity and dearness.

Three of my friends have new babies in their lives this week, and their pictures are so impossibly sweet. The personalities and humanity, coiled up in them as mysterious and inevitable as fingerprints, will be revealed day by day. 

Jesus came to us just this way.

He unfolded Himself to us, He unfolds Himself to us, and we see His glory in glimpses and fragments.

Just like we see each other.

Incomplete, veiled and revealed in flesh.

Merry Christmas, friends,

To you and the glimpses of glory you live with.

Xo

Maybe he shares mine

Is there anything in the world as lovely as

A hound, dainty of foot, and fleet;

Sniffing and dancing and sniffing again, nose stuck on repeat?

Do you think little Jesus had a dog?

Or maybe he shares mine

And maybe he calls her, with a sound just out of my ears' reach,

Every evening when she starts to whine.

Maybe he walks behind us, or a little ahead, 

Throwing invisible sticks 

And she leaps and cavorts at His side while I daydream 

And teaches her invisible tricks.

Maybe he laughs as she stalks through the grass 

And he hides all the bunnies from view

Maybe he brings scents and sounds on the winds

And tells her from where and from who.

Then off they run, for the love of the run,

And love of the night and the chase 

And running for relief to be out of the house 

And the love of the wind in the face.

 

To you and your kin

Pascal and his friend H were chatting about their day.

P: know what M told me today? {M is a big kid in grade 6}

H: what?

P (clearly over the moon): he said I have some skill in soccer.

H: you do! 

P: you do too! And your little brother and sister sure have some skill as goalies.

🥰

Because love, like light, overflows.

M's generous compliment filled Scally's bucket and overflowed to H and his siblings.

When the magi followed that star, and found Bethlehem's child, they saw him, and their hearts and hands overflowed with gifts.

When the sick woman reached out for help, just to touch the edge of Jesus' robe, his love and life overflowed and healed her.

Like a light set on a hill, we can't keep love in. It abounds. It bubbles up and spills over. It flows from one heart to the next.

May we feel it this season - and may we, too, pass it on. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo

Ordinary Gifts on Dec 2

I drove to work in the morning sunshine

Coffee steaming in my cupholder

Kids laughing about something 

Frost-flattened grass dusted with snow 

Roads clear.

I drove home in the December sunset

Western sky alight with gold

Kids laughing about something 

Heated steering wheel warm on my palms

Six swans flying through the blue overhead.

I walked Eevee in the clearest dark

Sky so drenched with moonlight and dotted with stars that I tried to capture it three times before giving up 

Eevee followed her nose, legs twinkling, light feet barely leaving prints.

I'm not just opening presents 

I'm walking among them,

Living in them,

Lit by them, surrounded and filled by them,

Gift upon gift upon gift.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

By the light of the Menorah

On this first advent post of the year, I bring you a little gift from Hanukkah.

My students were asking about its traditions and meaning, so we looked up the Hanukkah story and I learned something new.

The light in the middle of the menorah, the one that is used to light all the other lights, is called the Servant Light.

The night before he was crucified, Jesus ate with his disciples. Was the table lit with a menorah? And is that why, when they started arguing about which of them was the greatest, he pointed them gently in the other direction?

Kings try to rule over more and more people, he said, be the opposite: lay down your authority. Let those who are leaders become the servants instead. (Luke 22:25-26, my paraphrase)

The Light in the centre of our faith calls us to light one another's candles, meet one another's needs, fill up where another is lacking.

In warming others, we will be warmed; in filling others, we are filled.

Our light is not lost by sharing with others, instead, it lessens the dark and widens the welcome.

Just like he did, and does, our servant light.

Happy holidays, dear friends.

Xo.