Hygge

Tonight I sat in the most hyggelit space I've ever seen. An old farmhouse, a scholar's home library, full of books and art. A piano at one end of the room. Deep windows with thick cushions. Nestled in chairs and perched on stools and snuggled in sofas, maybe 30 people listening to a Christmas story being read aloud. An unadorned cedar branch lay across the mantel, and below, a fire crackled. Before the fire was a rug, and on the rug lay a kitten, stretched out and sound asleep.

We read The Gifts of the Child Christ, by George MacDonald (click the link to read it online). 

I was sitting at my friend's feet, and she played with my hair while we listened. Someone I didn't know sat down beside me, and squished up against me in the crush, and it made me feel cozy and welcome. Conversation afterwards was warm and lively, and there were clementines and meatballs and ginger cookies and tea.

I've always loved curling up cozy at Christmas and reading. One of my favourite regular gifts was a stack of books from the secondhand store and a tin of flavoured popcorn. After presents were opened, I'd curl up and read until Christmas dinner (and I'd be too full from the popcorn to appreciate that properly), and then read all through boxing day.

The coziness of reading, but with other people who also love it, is a treat I haven't enjoyed for a very long time. Food for soul and body and mind, warmth and comfort and the soft silken fur of a sleeping kitten. 

Oh my friends, I wish you all this kind of peace this Christmas.

Xo.

The Zerb-able Universe

At bedtime, one of Kachi's traditions (routines? Nightly faves?) is getting a zerbert on his belly. (Zerberts are also known as blowing raspberries)

Tonight I was sitting on his bed and he was talking about the observable universe, except his tongue tripped and he accidentally replaced the V with a B. I pounced on him and told him his belly was the zerb-able universe and blew a giant zerbert until I had no breath left. He laughed until he was wheezed out, and then we prayed and I thanked God for my own particularly favourite corner of the observable universe, my zerb-able universe.

I saw a reel the other day where Blake Lively was talking about Ryan Reynolds, and how she and their daughters are his home, and he runs to them after work. And I felt a little kinship with her because I feel the same way about my own family, my own people. We're each others' home.

And Jesus feels the same about us. 

He came to us and made us his home.

The dwelling place of God is with humanity. He will dwell with them and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. (From the book of Revelation, chapter 21, verse 3). 

We're not just somebody that he used to know.

We're his zerb-able universe.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

A Lamp in the Dog Park

There's always a point in my advent blogging that I'm like - why am I doing this? I'm tired, I'm busier now than almost any other time in the year. Why am I sitting here on the internet with my layers peeled back, instead of curled up in bed keeping my thoughts to myself like a sensible person?

I suppose I persist because the hidden beauty of Christmas waits behind closed doors to be found. And I want to find it.

And this is what I found today, at the dog park.

It feels like I only ever get to walk Eevee at night these days. By the time I pick up the kids after work, run our errands, and drop them at home, it's already dusk. She bounds out to the van, and follows her nose around the dark, mostly empty, dog park.

Tonight I noticed I didn't feel unsettled in the dark park. I wasn't huddled under the lamppost, squinting distrustfully into the inky space around me.

It's darker earlier than ever, but, because of the snow on the ground, it's lighter at the same time. The softened, reflected light illuminates the dark places and makes me feel at peace. Not only can I see within the park, and watch Eevee following invisible scent trails, I can even see into the woods beyond the fence. I don't feel like anything unseen is watching me or could be sneaking up on me because I have more light.

And that shouldn't be surprising because obvs - if you can see more, it's less scary. You know where to go, and you can see what's coming. When I'm in the park at night when there is no light, I act differently than when I have lots of light to see by.

It's a metaphor the scriptures use over and over again - we can take steps in the light, move in the light, be free in the light.

When we have enough light to see around us, we can enjoy ourselves and be at peace. We can be busy loving our neighbours as we love ourselves. 

When we don't have a lot of light, we're frightened and worried and unable to even see our neighbours, let alone have space to love. Yesterday, the park was dark and spooky; I left pretty quickly. Tonight, awash in freshly fallen snow, it was peaceful. Comforting. Alight. I lingered and enjoyed myself, enjoyed Eevee.

There's no sense in today-me telling yesterday-me that I shouldn't have felt spooked. Yesterday-me walked in the light I had, and responded according to that light. Today-me walked in the light I had, and responded according to that light.

I guess what hits my heart tonight is that, as we walk through life, we're all in different seasons and have different light. We'll react in different ways to the same situation because we'll see it differently. Judging other people about that is pointless and unhelpful. God grant me mercy to not judge.

Light for all the world 

Born at Christmastime.

Merry Christmas, friends. Wishing you a quiet night in the snow light.

Xo.

Secret Santa

A lot of the staff at our school decided to do Secret Santa this week. Gift giving is not my forte, but it's so fun to practice. And I love having a buddy to think about and to see her face light up when she opens her gift! 

I cannot tell you how much joy it adds to the day to see people tiptoeing around with presents or notes in the morning to leave for their recipient, and then the little exclamations of surprise when they stumble across the gifts left for them. 

Merry Christmas, friends. Wishing you coworkers as nice as mine! 

Xo

The Opposite of Silent Night

Pascal was difficult tonight.

He spoke/yelled all through supper, yelled YouTuber jokes at me while we played Pictionary, and argued about washing his share of the dishes. He was still bouncing around the house like a monkey at full-volume by bedtime.

"You can't go to bed like this," I told him, "put on your boots, we're taking a walk instead of a coze."

On our walk, he climbed a parking lot snow-mountain and slid down it on his belly (no snow pants or mittens). He stomped on every snow chunk he could find. He shouted hello to a rabbit. He asked if we could play the alphabet game and gave up every second letter.

When we came home and headed up to bed I asked him for a smooch.

He put his arms around my neck and gave me a kiss and when I said thank you, he farted.

And then, when he realized I had filled up his water bottle without his asking, he sighed, "you're the best mama in the world." And he curled up with his book to go to sleep.

Silent night at last!

Wishing you a peaceful night or two this Christmas, my friends.

Xo.

Reframes

As the weekend crashes to a stop, all the should-have-dones and wish-i'd-done-differentlys come sliding down like uncleared snow onto my windshield.

Briefly, I spoke to God about this. "You can reframe it," I felt him laughing at me, "you're a writer. Write it differently." 

Spent too much time in my book and the laundry didn't get folded. The reframe? I rested and recharged ahead of a busy week.

I feel like I didn't connect with each of the kids very much today. The reframe? I hosted Sam's friends so he could build those friendships, drove Vava and her friend across town so they could connect, played pictionary with Kachi, and kitchen soccer with Pascal. 

I wish I'd gotten more veggies into the kids today. The reframe? I fed my kids homemade food today! 

The weirdest thing is, both the discouragements and the reframes are true. I can decide which ones I want to read. 

It's always, always, always a matter of perspective, isn't it? 

Merry Christmas, friends. Thanks for writing joy into my life.

Xo.