I Don't Forget

At bedtime tonight, Kachi wanted me to rush through prayers. "Just say three things!" he whispered after he finished, before I began to pray.  It's Christmas Eve, after all, and he is far too excited for a prolonged period of silence.
So I prayed my truncated prayer, and picked up the story.
"Wait," he asked, "did you pray the neighbour part?"
"No," I shook my head, "do you want me to?"
"Yes please," he asked.
So I quickly asked God to help us to love our neighbours as ourselves, and Kachi said, "you know, I don't forget that you're my neighbour, mama."

And now he is snoring against my back, my precious little neighbour.

And Jesus, too.

He didn't forget us.
He didn't forget that we're his neighbours.
He came down, moved into the neighbourhood, took on humanity.

And loved us as himself.

Wishing you so much joy as you celebrate with your loved ones this Neighbour who did not forget - and does not forget - to love us as himself.

Xo.

Love Came Down at Christmas

Patrick and I fell in love at Christmas.

We'd been chatting on MSN for a few weeks when he invited me to his parents' place for Christmas. I said yes, and booked a train ticket to Toronto, where he was going to school, and then we bought a pair of tickets to take us both up to Northern Ontario.

I was so excited to see him, to spend time with him in person, but also so nervous. We'd only met in person once, so briefly, for less than five minutes. What if he misremembered what I was like? What if he was disappointed in me, in person? What if I was too ugly, or too tall, too frizzy, too freckly? What if he saw me arrive at the train station and decided to turn and walk away?

When I disembarked at Union Station, I couldn't find him. I found my bag, and then stood on the platform, waiting. As each minute ticked by, I grew more certain that he'd changed his mind, and didn't want this stranger infringing on his Christmas after all.  He wasn't coming. He must have seen me and decided to slip away.  I hadn't slept much on the way up, and nerves had prevented me from eating. The room began to spin.

Suddenly there he was, striding through the crowd, cheeks bright and eyes apologetic.  He walked straight up to me and put his arms around me and held me close.

The whole world stood still.

There was nothing else but the relief and joy of his embrace; no drafty room, no thrum of trains beneath my feet, no strangers spinning in a panicky whirl. Just Patrick.

He had come for me after all.
He loved me.

I knew it before our first kiss, before we'd ever held hands, before we ate our first meal together.

Because he could have been anywhere else, but he was right here, hugging me and not letting go.

And I know Jesus loves me, because

He came for us.
He did not leave us alone in the dizzying, spinning universe.

He came.
Because he loves us.
He has loved us from the beginning.
He came for his own, and he will not let go.

Xo.

Ordinary and In Between

Right now, Pascal and Kachi are sleeping. Vava is cuddled up with Patrick, watching a cartoon Anne of Green Gables. Sam is playing Super Mario on the Wii. A soft glow is shining outside, the magic of streetlights on snow, and I am sitting by the window, watching their faces. 

I love them so much. 

There's a picture I've seen circulating on Facebook lately, a painting of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus. Joseph is sitting, leaning up against the wall, and Mary is lying on the floor next to the manger. Starlight gleams on the Baby's face. 

It captures a stillness I don't often think about - after the flurry of birth, before the hurrying in of awestruck shepherds. Usually I see paintings of the Big Moments of that holy night. Angels announcing. Innkeepers refusing. Shepherds adoring. I tend to think about the moments that are recorded - and not the great homely gaps in between. 

But in my own life, the moments that are the sweetest, the deepest, the true ones that make a sort of glue that presses heart close to heart, they're not particularly noteworthy. They're not awards ceremonies or great achievements. They're just the ordinary goodness of the everyday. Sam holding Pascal's hand as he helps him to the swing set. Vava teaching Kachi how to draw a polar bear. The kids deciding to have a puppy lunch, eating from bowls on the floor. Playing Wii and watching YouTube.

I love that the artist shared a glimpse of the glorious ordinary in that first Christmas. Holy, beautiful, restful - and ordinary. 

This Christmas, in between the bright spots - the guests, the presents, the tree, the toasts - may the simple gift of your ordinary moments fill your hearts with peace, my friends. 

Merry Christmas.

Grownups are like Pascal!

We had a snow day today - or a rain day - a bad weather day, and Sam's little friend was with us for the day.

At lunch time, Vava non-sequitered, "If anyone is sad because they don't have a daddy, they can be happy because" - and here she paused, and pointed up.

"Because God's our father," finished Sam's friend.

"Even Mama's," Sam laughed, "And compared to God, Mama's a baby."

"Mama's like Pascal," Vava hooted, "and we're all one day old!"

"Grownups are like Pascal! The whole world is just babies!"  

And the table erupted with laughter and the conversation veered away, but it left me smiling because exactly.

Exactly.

We're all just babies and we need Him. Which is why Jesus came to us as one of us -

As an absolute baby.
Immanuel; God with us.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Risen with Healing in His Wings

I had a miserable morning. Woke up tired, Patrick was gone, everything just seemed sad.
I missed my old friends. Missed my family. Felt like a failure at everything.
Once the kids got on the bus, I brought Scally home and just cried.  I could have used one of Kachi's classic lines: I wish everything was nothing.
One of those days, you know?

My heart was a turtle flipped upside down, exposed and immobile and futile.
And I begged God for help, to come and turn it rightside up.

And He did a strange thing.

A simple and sort of silly thing.

He reminded me of that old Sunday school joke.  Teacher asks: what's grey, climbs trees, and stores nuts for the winter? Student puts up hand, replies: I want to say squirrel, but I'm gonna say ... Jesus?  (Because as every Sunday school kid knows, whatever the question, the answer is always Jesus.)

So if the answer is Jesus, I asked, where is He, in this miserable morning?  And he gave me that mundane and practical answer: at the end of your arms.

So I put on my jacket and packed up Pascal and we bought some people lunch and gave some Christmas presents and along the way I discovered what I had forgotten:

In God's upsidedown kingdom, fullness isn't found by gathering more for myself, but in pouring out.

Like He poured His love out on us, by coming to us.
Like He poured out His rightful glory and took on flesh.
Like He poured out His might and took on the helplessness of infancy, of poverty.

And brought salvation living and breathing into the world.

Yes. Even now, with two thousand years of well-worn Christmases, that old miracle still holds.  Giving does not make emptiness, but fullness.

Merry Christmas, friends.
Xo.

Joy: God with Us

My sister said it best.

Click here to hear her message about Advent Joy: God with us.

Dear To Us

Last year was our first year at the kids' new school.
Whenever I would go to the school, I would see other parents talking together, saying hello, asking after each other's families.
I didn't know anyone, so just stood awkwardly trying not to let my stroller be too much in anybody's way.

Today was concert day - kindergarten concert in the morning, and big kid concert in the afternoon. We decided to make a lazy morning of it, and sleep in a bit, have pancakes, and so I drove the kids to school instead of putting them on the bus.

I met friends at drop off, met friends at the kinder concert, met friends at the big kid concert, and met friends when I popped into the office to drop off Christmas presents for the teachers.  Bright spots all over the place, quick hellos and beautiful faces. Hugs and how's-it-goings. Friends.

When Mary was pregnant with Jesus, she went to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was pregnant with John (the forerunner, the baptizer, the one who would prepare repentant hearts to receive their king). When they drew near, John leapt for joy in Elizabeth's womb - rejoicing with that oneness in the Spirit, that deep, truest sort of friendship.

I love that God doesn't just give us eyes that remember each other - he gives us hearts that recognize one another, hearts that leap for joy, and spirits that resound with His.  He gives us this great gift in our wild and lonely world - not under our Christmas tree, but hopefully around it: friends.

I hope your Christmas season is warmed with the presence of those you love and know, dear friends.
Xo.

On Dressing -

I went to a Nordic spa this weekend for my friend's bachelorette party. Saunas, rock pools, salt scrubs, repeat. It was glorious.  The day was filled with laughs and good food and drink and genuine heart-healing love as we celebrated our friend's touch in all our lives.

The day before, though, I was stressing about having to spend a whole day in my bathing suit.

As usual, I turned to my siblings for help and my sister gave me some wonderful advice.
'The only person who will be worried about your body,' she said, 'is you.'

My sisters are pretty much always right but this was so mind-blowingly right (and obvious! Why didn't I think of this 30 years ago?), it just set me free.

And once I determined not to worry about my body in a bathing suit, I enjoyed myself completely.  The grand total of people worrying about my bathing suit body: 0.

If you can't find the right thing to wear this Christmas - parties, services, concerts, dinners, whatever - don't worry.  The One whose birthday we're celebrating was wrapped up in swaddling clothes.

And he doesn't look on our outward appearance, but on the hearts He came to redeem and fill and make lovely.

Merry Christmas, friends.
Xo.

The Neighbourhood

We were so blessed with our neighbours in Thunder Bay.

When we first moved to Heron St, people were like "eep! Not that neighbourhood!"  We were warned of violence, hookers, theft.

Guys.

It was an amazing neighbourhood.
We had neighbours all around us who loved us, cared for us, blessed us, watched out for us, baked for us, and spent time with us.

There were front porch conversations and back-fence plate-passings.  There were secret snow-shovelings and help with putting out the garbage.  One neighbour saw us struggling with a dying battery in our truck, and he brought us an amazing battery (it's still going strong in our lumbering beast of a truck).  There were special treats for our kids at birthdays, Hallowe'en, Christmas, Easter. I didn't make my own cakes the entire time we lived there, thanks to our sweet Ywetta. No, I can't imagine ever having neighbours as lovely as the ones we had on Heron St.

I don't think you can know a neighbourhood until you live in it.  What seemed like a rough part of town was actually a warm and loving street full of kindness and care.  And sometimes a quiet, upscale neighbourhood can be the coldest place in the world.

So when I read the very brief Christmas story in John's gospel in the Message, I just loved it so much.

The Word became flesh and blood, 

and moved into the neighbourhood. 

We saw the glory with our own eyes, 

the one-of-a-kind glory, 

like Father, like Son, 

generous inside and out, 

true from start to finish. 

(John chapter 1, verse 14)

Jesus moved into the neighbourhood.  He moved right in. Right here.  Got to know us. Became one of us.  Knows our hurts, our struggles, our lives from the inside out.

God sent His own lovely Son into our neighbourhood.
To know us.
To show us love.
To teach us wisdom.
To forgive our sins.
And to reveal God to us, up close and personal.

Merry Christmas, dear friends - to you and your neighbours :).
xo.

Wait With Us

This morning, like every morning this month, my kids fly downstairs as soon as they wake up. "Is it Christmas yet?" And they consult their Advent calendars. The little door flaps open, offering a chocolate to count their waiting. One day closer. One day closer.

Today we were driving through Ottawa and went past a church with a message board on its outside wall.

"Wait with us through the Advent season," it read.

Waiting isn't a terribly popular activity.
We want to get to the thing. We like doing, we like achieving, we like a clear and tidy ending.

When Jesus was born, Mary and Joseph took him to the temple on the 8th day.

There they met Simeon and Anna, two righteous and devout worshipers who were waiting for the Messiah.  They had been waiting their whole lives - and they were what Sam would call "very elderly."

They waited.
And waited.
And waited.

And when the fullness of time had come, on this particular day, they finally received their Christ.

All of that waiting, wondering "is this the day? Is this the day? Maybe this will be the day?"

And Jesus came.
Precious baby, Holy Messiah, light for all the world.

They had been waiting for him like my kids count down til Christmas. Their hearts were looking for him, their hopes were pinned on seeing him.

And every year I count through my own Advent, waiting for him. Looking for him.  "You will find me," he said, "when you seek me with all your heart."

And in the slowing of myself to wait for Advent to move through the calendar, I find stillness.  I find space. I find depth. And I find hope in waiting for the truest Christmas - when I, like Anna and Simeon, will see the Lord's Christ.

Merry Christmas friends.
Xo.

In Case We Missed it the First Time

I was hunting through my blog for a certain post I wrote a while ago, and came across some old Christmas posts. I read one where I had written about the angel telling Joseph not to be afraid.  So tonight, when I was reading through Luke 1 and 2, that was in the back of my mind, and I noticed something.

Guys.

I have been writing these posts for years.
I have been reading the Christmas story all Advent long for years.
And somehow I missed it.

There are four times angels appear in the Christmas story.
To Zechariah.
To Mary.
To Joseph.
To the shepherds.

And at every single appearance, they start by saying the same thing.
(Every single one!)

Do not be afraid.
Do not be afraid.
Do not fear.
Fear not.

That is why God sent Jesus.
To sing, to shout, to declare, to whisper: fear not.  I will save my people from their sins.

And fear can choke out freedom. Fear can smother and inhibit and stunt our hearts from loving, seeing, trusting.  Fear can send us reeling with doubt, and, like Zechariah, we could hear God's declaration of new life and still look an angel in the face and, fearful, say "Do you expect me to believe this?"  Fear has kept us hiding since the day Adam and Eve took cover in Eden. Long lay the world, in sin and error pining - 

And God sent Jesus.
And God said

Fear not.
Do not fear.
Do not be afraid.
Do not be afraid.

For behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.  And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

What Child is This?

At bedtime tonight, Pascal picked this really simple little Bible story book.  He wanted to see fishes, so we read about Jonah, and then turned to this page.

"Who's that?" I asked him, pointing to the baby, before reading anything.
He smiled, "Christmas."

Ohh baby, you don't know how right you are.

God's Christ, given for all the world.

This, this is Christmas.

xo.

(PS check out this spectacular version of What Child Is This.)

A Thrill of Hope

It is so nice outside right now - Pascal and I are playing at the beach and there's a whole flock of birds having a bath in the river and while the air is cold, the sun is shining warm. We played tag under evergreens and birches, threw rocks and sticks into the water, and Pascal is currently jumping off of a big flat rock onto snow-dusted grass. It feels like a promise, a thrill of hope that there's still summer in the world, and at some point it will come back to us. 

Four little freckles have just appeared on Pascal's nose and I'm dying over the cuteness of it. I hadn't expected him to be freckly, and it's adorable. 

Wishing you a Christmas as easy and merry and bright as this day, lovely friends. 
Xo.

A Can of Worms

At bedtime tonight, I was snuggled up with Vava in the dark, saying her prayers.  Across the room, Pascal was whispering her words to himself.  "Dear God," he echoed, "thank you for my fun day at school." And Vava giggled quietly.  "I love my little brother; he's so cute!" she sighed.  "Do you remember when you were so angry because God sent you a brother instead of a little sister?" I asked (unwisely - I try not to open cans of worms at bedtime).  "I really really really really want one still," she cried, "please can I have a little sister?"  I reminded her that we can't have any more babies, and she said, "we can adopt one!"  And I tried to appeal to her selfish side with, "but then I won't be able to have a favourite daughter."  And she triumphed with a fierce "you can have TWO!"

Vava's heart, like God's heart, has lots of room for loving.

That's why He sent Jesus to this world, that manger, that starry night in Bethlehem - to bring us home, adopted, sons and daughters in His family.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Pebbles

Today, Scally and I bundled up in our snow gear and went for a walk. We saw chickadees and squirrels, woodpeckers and seagulls.  This past fall, we spent most of our time throwing pebbles in a gorgeous little brook.  We haven't gone down that path much since the snow came, but it was mostly clear today, so we ventured down.  There was a little crust of ice and snow at the bank, but the water burbled toward us, down a little waterfall, to the culvert where we stood.  Pascal grabbed a handful of pebbles with his mittens, and threw them - and they slid across the top of the water.  It astonished us both, and I laughed.

Ice had formed, obviously, but was so utterly clear it was indistinguishable from the water beneath.

Scally's curiosity was piqued, so we sat down by the culvert and threw pebbles for a while.

It was really fascinating - in some places, the pebbles looked as if they were hovering; in others, they slipped and plipped down through the water and landed on the riverbed, but from where we sat there was no clue, no giveaway as to what patch of water would hold the pebbles up, and which would splash.

After throwing lots and lots of pebbles, we were able to better see where the ice had formed, and differentiate it from the water.  Every time a stone punctured the ice and air bubbles were trapped under the ice, it grew slightly more opaque. 

But the frozen / not frozen water reminded me of grief.

Sorrow can look so much like normal sometimes that it's almost impossible to see.
And then one day someone throws a pebble and you can't even bear it, some small thing that would just pass right through an ordinary heart stops and lays on you.  You can't let one more thing in.  It's frozen here.

And I think it hurts most at the happy times; the celebrations and festivities that once brought joy stab more sharply in contrast.  After loss.  In grief.  In mourning.

My Nana, she passed along this trait to my mom, who shared it with my sisters and I: whenever something particularly heart-stabbing occurs, we instantly get red noses. This is a warning light that tears are about to flow. 

So if you see me Rudolphing it up, know that the dam is about to break.
Because at Christmas, I get a little overflowy.

Maybe especially on this, my first Christmas where I won't hear my Nana's voice.
Every year when I sing Christmas carols I can hear her singing too, see her head back and her eyes a-twinkle, hand tapping along on her armrest, and always that heart-picture has given me joy but this year it hurts, too -

So yeah.
I'll be red-nosed and blubbering my way through Walmart if O Holy Night comes on.

And if you are grieving too, as a person who has wept my way through many a candlelit carol, let me put my arms around you and squeeze you tight and tell you I need you.

I need to see you in your grief, so I can know I'm not alone in mine.
I need to learn how to love and be loved in all sorts of emotional seasons, frozen or slushy or clear as brook water.

Especially at this pebbly time of year.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Fasting, Feasting

I have amazing aunts.  When I am around them, I feel loved, and known, and understood, and special.  (And this is important for everyone, I think, but particularly for a fourth sister who has three very spectacular older sisters to live up to, and doesn't often feel special at all.)

But most of all, we laugh.
We laugh and laugh and cry and laugh some more.

One of my aunts posted this hilarious meme today:

And I died laughing because same and all year long.

But it also made me happy because it's true.
Having food in my cupboard is a gift.
There's a feast in there at any given time, and this amazes me.

When Patrick and I were newlywed students, we lived on the leftovers we brought home from working our jobs at a restaurant. Our cupboards were leaner then, and sometimes I shake my head when I realize how completely cared for we have always been.

And at this time of year, when the temperatures plunge and some people have to choose between paying for heating or eating, we're challenged by the One who became poor for our sake.  Whether our cupboards look like we're fasting or feasting, this is the standard to which christians are called:

Is not this the fast that I choose:

 to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
   and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
    and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?

(Isaiah 58:6-7)

This is the fast He chooses. 

Because He wants to make us like Himself.  

Jesus came to loose the bonds of wickedness, to set us free from enslavement to sin. He sets us free from oppression and burdens that others place upon us. He is the bread of life, welcoming us into His house to feast in His presence, and He covers us in His glory. 

So.

(Always, but especially at Christmas:)

Because He is bread, we share our bread.

Because He is freedom, we pursue freedom for those who cannot set themselves free.

Because He covers us, we shelter others.

Because He came to us, we must go to meet others in need.

And that last bit - not to hide yourself from your own flesh?  Get thee to a family reunion ... and maybe, if you're lucky, you'll have an aunt or two like mine ;).

In fasting, and in feasting - Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.

Ready for Christmas

Our tree is up, and lights are twinkling around the door.
I have purchased a grand total of one present.
I do not yet know what our menu on Christmas day will be.

So I shouldn't exactly have said yes when our neighbour asked me if I was ready for Christmas.

But guys.

I am ready for Christmas.

I am ready for relaxing in my pjs.
I am ready to listen to happy music.
I am ready to eat chocolate and drink wine with good friends.
I am ready to watch the snow dance.
I am ready to help my kids pick out presents for each other.
I am ready to sing carols.
I am ready for Patrick to have a few extra days off.
I am ready to play boardgames and watch movies.
I am ready to laugh and listen to stories.
I am ready to thank God for sending Jesus.

I am SO ready for all of this.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

My Parents Play Nerf with Me

One of Sam's friends came over today, and after snack they asked if I would play Nerf War with them.

You guys, I have two life hacks that are my absolute favourite.  (The first one is The Sacrificial Chip: tossing a naked chip on top of a pan full of loaded nachos, so it can burn and alert your nose that the nachos are ready without ruining the whole panful of deliciousness. Yum.)  The second is filling up my kids' hearts by putting aside my busy-ness and playing like a crazy 7-year-old.

When we first moved here, I noticed a shift in Sam. He was missing his friends, especially his little neighbour buddy who used to come over to play almost every day. He just seemed a little withdrawn, a little lost inside himself.  He wasn't really interested in our stroller-paced walks to the park, or drawing with Vava, or in building Lego by himself.

So Patrick ordered a huge box of Nerf bullets and we told Sam it was game on. (Our house rule is no shooting anyone unless they have a gun, so the little kids were safe.)  We ran upstairs and down, hid in corners and under tables and grabbed pillows for shields.  We yelled and laughed, shot and were shot, and played ourselves out all over the house. And when it was over, Sam's eyes were glowing and his heart was filled.  Yeah - what that homesick little boy needed wasn't anything expensive or difficult to find - he wanted to be played with.  We needed to speak love to Sam by playing the things he loves with him - not just letting him enjoy them alone.  And it was amazing.

 And when he finally made friends and invited a buddy over to our house, they were making plans for spending their time. And I heard him say, "my parents play Nerf with me."

And I held my breath because I thought they might think that wasn't so cool - parents, after all.  But his friend's eyes lit up and he said, "do you think they will play with us?"

And you guys, every single kid who comes over has the same reaction.  They LOVE it. They get to be a team, they get to battle grown-ups, and never want it to end.  For me, too, even though my aim stinks and I get hit way more than I hit - I love it.  It's just fun.  They love being played with at their level - not being sent off to play together, which is fine, but what they truly delight in is when I put down my chores and enjoy doing their fun stuff along with them.

And I can hear that same proud delight in the gospel of John, when he introduces Jesus: "The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish." (John 1:14, MSG)

He came to us.
Right here, became flesh like us, moved into the neighbourhood and dwelt among us.

And when we see Him, our hearts glow.  God with us.  (With us!!!)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Kind of an Ugly Gap

There's a gap - kind of an ugly gap - in our Christmas tree.  I think it's the spot where the straps held it tight to our roof on the drive home. The branches hang lower, and a patch of brown needles gapes, unbeautifully.

And it was bugging me all day, but the tree just kept standing there all twinkly, wearing its collection of lights and homemade ornaments, staring rather impudently at my own flawed exterior whenever I sighed about that gap.

And it's so silly, because of course I could spin it around and show the full side, the rich side, the lovelier side, and leave the gap at the back where it won't be seen.

But God didn't send his Son at Christmas to make things look better.
He sent a Redeemer, to transform the way things are.

And the last thing I need for my own gaps - ugliness of character, my selfishness and sin - is an image consultant.  I don't need to look better, don't need to spin from view to hide the ugliness.  I need wholeness. Healing. Redemption.  Our whole aching world does.

And that's Christmas, right? That's why God gave Jesus - to meet us where we are, right here in our sin. To redeem us. To make us whole. Healed. And lovely.

So instead of hiding that gap, I filled it. And once I started shuffling things around, I found that that gap is just the right place for ornaments that are too large for ordinary branches.  They hang down from the branches above and dance in that space as if it's what I intended all along.

They redeem it.
And make it lovely.




Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Not Even a Mouse

God's love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic, 

His purpose titanic, his verdicts oceanic. 

Yet in his largeness nothing gets lost; 

Not a man, not a mouse, slips through the cracks.

Psalm 36:5-6 MSG

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

xo.

A Christmas Preposition

While the grandparents were here, I moved Vava into Pascal's room - slid her dresser down the hall, and put her duvet on the spare bed in his room. This left V's room (with the big double bed) free for our parents.

Now, every morning, Pascal wakes up early and calls to Vava.  She wakes up and crawls into his crib or lifts him out to cuddle with her before they come to our room and find us.  She's really not a huge fan of waking up on the wrong side of 6am, so this morning I asked her if she wanted me to help her move back to her room.

She thought it over for a minute and then shook her head, reluctantly. "No," she answered, "Pascal needs me." 

"He'll be fine," I assured her, "he was fine before you moved in, and he'll be fine when you move back."

"No," she stood firm, "he's scared without me. He told me. He wants me to stay with him."

(Oh, that precious four-letter preposition is the Christmasiest one of all: with.)

Just like us, aching for a Saviour, longing for a God-with-us.

He moved into our room, wrapped up in what my kids call "waddling clothes," and meets us where we are. His presence comforts us when we cry out in the dark, and in the end, He holds our hand and takes us to our Father.

He loves us so much, God-with-us.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

I Forgive You

I'm a day late with my favourite Christmas tradition - counting through Advent with 24 days of posts. It might need to be pared back a bit this year, because I'm still so weak from my tonsillectomy on Nov 20. I know that sounds ridiculous, unless you've had one as an adult ... in which case I don't need to explain a thing.

For eight days I laid in my bed, while my parents and then Patrick's parents took care of me and my kids. On the ninth day I got up for part of the day, and on the tenth, for most of the day. I'm on the mend, but - whew - I'm still shaky and weak.

In the foggy blur of recovery, I had a few precious moments with my kids. Kachi came up and snuggled me for a few minutes every night before bed. Pascal played on my bed with his dinosaurs in the mornings. Sam gave me little kisses.  And each afternoon, Vava came up and told me about her day after school.

One day she was bouncing around, chirping about her friends and things she had drawn and suddenly she stopped, horrified, as she remembered something.  "I drew an OWL!" she wailed, "The word was renard! I was supposed to make a fox!"  And she threw herself down on the nest (the  bed on our floor where the kids curl up if they have bad dreams), and raged. "I can't fix it! It's too late. I already gave it to the teacher! And it's WRONG!"

And I think if I had been healthy and well, busy putting away lunchboxes and hanging up snowsuits, I would have told her to calm down or forget about it or some other unhelpful thing. But because I was lying there with literally nothing else to do, I was able to see the heart of the matter.

"If one of your friends had made this mistake on her work," I asked her, "would you be yelling at her now? Would you be angry with her?"

"No," she replied, calming down.

"Did you try your best today?" I asked her, knowing without a doubt she had.

"Yes."

"Then I think you should go over to the mirror and smile at that very sad girl inside and tell her you love her and forgive her."

She stood in front of the mirror, but couldn't quite manage.

"Try to say 'I forgive you, sweet friend'," I prompted.

She still couldn't smile, but squeaked out the words: "I forgive you, sweet friend." And then the smile came, glowing like sunlight all over her face, and she leapt into bed with me and told me about the rest of her day.

After she left, I cried.

Because forgiving ourselves for falling short of our own expectations is really really hard.

And at Christmas - at Christmas, God sent Jesus to be with us, one of us, to die for our forgiveness, and rise again to bring us to God.

And - I'm asking this of you, only because I asked it of myself last week after Vava left - if He came all this way and went through all that to offer you full forgiveness, isn't it a good idea to forgive yourself?

For whatever lump in your heart is angry or bitter or regretful about being weak, or inadequate, or selfish, or for drawing an hibou instead of a renard ...

There's nothing righteous or good or true in holding onto it. Let yourself remember why He sent that baby:

To whisper to all waiting and aching hearts, I forgive you, sweet friend.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

So Full

Now that cold weather is here, getting everyone ready in the mornings seems like a Herculean task.  They dig in their heels from wake-up to bus-time because none of my kids wants to go outside.  They hate that it takes an extra ten minutes to get into snowpants and boots, jackets, and hats and mittens. They hate the struggle of looping their backpacks over puffy sleeves and bulky shoulders.  So all morning long they dawdle and whine and moan and refuse to cooperate.

It's not my favourite.

Yesterday was particularly hard, and after we all made it to the bus stop, three children were sobbing. (The fourth was teetering on the brink.)  I briefly considered quitting.  "What would they do all day," I wondered, "If I just stayed in bed?"  But I know they'd soon be fighting in my room and who would teach them how to get along? You know it.

The other day I was walking by my mirror and idly thinking "ugh you're ugly" and God reminded me to take every thought captive so I stood there and tried to deliberately compliment my body.

"You're strong," I said, and then a verse I had read that morning echoed in my mind. "I'm singing at the top of my lungs, I'm so full of answered prayers." (Psalm 13:6, the Message).

And suddenly I realized that these stretched-out muscles that look like another baby on the way are the result of the babies that God sent to answer my prayers.  And my hair is greying because I'm getting older - because God answers my prayers for yet another day with my family.  And I'm standing here in my big warm house with more than I need - so full of answered prayers.

I'm so full of answered prayers.

And God reminded me of that again today when I straggled home from the bus stop, worn out from the morning battle.

I didn't lose my temper - maybe the biggest answered prayer of all. We didn't miss the bus.  Patrick had a safe drive to work. Everyone's lunch bag was packed full of good nutrition.  Everyone was wrapped up cozy in their snowsuits.

Yes.
Even bedraggled from wrestling a four year old into three layers of clothes. (My darling four year old!) So full of answered prayers.

And thinking on that lifted up my weary heart.
So I thought I would share, in case yours needs a lift too.  In case you have a long list of yet-to-be-answereds.  In case your battle feels more like a sludge through the mud instead of a bound over a mountain top.

We are so full of answered prayers.

Of Course It Is

Earlier this week, Patrick and I were cuddling down for a movie. I made myself a cup of tea, trying not to snack. "Ugh," I groaned, sitting down, "I just wish I could lose weight."  He looked over at me, surprised, "Is that bothering you lately?" 
And I didn't know how to answer because

1. Yes
and
2. Isn't it supposed to?
and
3. Of course it is
and
4. Every second
    Of every day
    Since I was nine
and
7. Doesn't everyone feel like this?

And then I realized his surprise was genuine.  He was just hanging out, enjoying a cup of tea, surprised to hear I was feeling down on myself for my weight.  This was the innocent question of a person who hadn't thought about his own weight today, this week, maybe this whole month.

I keep mulling it over.  It's been a weird few days.  But I feel like Patrick's question was straight from God.

Because I'm having a really hard time imagining a single hour where I don't feel bad for looking like I do, let alone a day or two, let alone "lately." Not a day goes by when I don't tell myself I need to try harder to lose weight, do better, be better.

(Since I was nine or ten, there have been maybe 3 times when I was happy with my size. And I spent most of those times worrying about how I would feel when the number inevitably changed.  I felt less embarrassed about cameras, and loved buying clothes, but I didn't relax or rest in it.)

And that's a whole lot of gross.  That's so gross.  It makes me so angry that something so STUPID has eaten up so much of my mental and emotional energy.

I love the people I love because of their character. Their personalities. Their kindness, warmth, intelligence, gentleness, humour, compassion.  Never once have I thought about them "um, you're okay and everything, but I'd really love you if you only lost fifty pounds." Because when it comes to other people's true beauty, I very easily realize they are a soul, within a body.

But I get it mixed up for myself every damn day.

I haven't blogged in a long time, and I kind of feel like this is too personal to share, but I also want to hold up the mirror in case there is someone else who is doing the same thing to their precious self. 

You don't deserve a constant diet of hatred. 
No matter what size you are.

So maybe I won't worry so much about putting down the chips, and I'll worry a little more about putting down the criticism.  Maybe I won't worry about the size of my clothes as much as the size of my compassion. And maybe someday I'll get to the point where I'm as surprised as Patrick when someone mentions worrying about their weight.

Because that's the person I'd really love to see in the mirror.

Boom (Vava's Method)

"I ate a rock once. And here I am, still alive. Boom."  She dropped her line matter-of-factly and then spun off across the beach in a swirl of celebration.

After I stopped laughing, my heart purred a bit.

She's got it, you know. She hasn't yet forgotten the secret that all babies know: that celebrating our own victories is the way to win.

Pascal recently mastered the 2-feet jump.  He claps every time.

And me? I'm over here comparing myself like crazy, mentally standing beside one of you after another, and almost always coming up short.

It's a doozy for the old mental health.

But Vava's method?

"I ate a rock once. And here I am, still alive. Boom."

Yeah. I can do that. I can victory-dance over my own small successes.

I got sucked through a dam once.  And here I am, still alive. Boom.

I lost a baby. And here I am, still alive. Boom.

I take care of four kids every day. And here I am, still alive. Boom.

And here we are, still alive.

Boom.

First Spring in Smiths Falls

And it's spring,
so we put on our boots and go squelching through the backyard, out the gate, into the woods
A big little boy on my right,
A small little boy on my left.

A blue jay startles and swoops up overhead.
A rabbit leaps over a tiny stream, and tries to hide its enormous softness
behind a few bare branches.
Robins squeak and flirt and hop.
"Hi!" Pascal calls, waving eagerly, "hi!"
And there is nothing in the world to match the wonder on his face.

Through the bare branches, I can see a run-down hotel.
A yard full of boats, still wearing their winter covers.
The grass is still brown, still lying down from the weight of recent snow.
The rumble of traffic echoes across the river.
We are solidly in the center of town
and, yes - here, in the smallish and ugly backside of things,
Spring is bursting beautiful to life.

So far we've seen a turtle,
Maybe twenty snails, and one school of fish.
Geese overhead, and mourning doves on the telephone wire;
Robins, jays, grackles, crows.
Bunnies playing a fierce game of tag.
Dogs, on leashes.
And a raccoon, twenty-five feet in the air, clinging to a bare tree.

We spend the morning throwing rocks into the river
(one of those activities that grows more absorbing the longer you do it)
And at noon we scramble half-wild up the bank
Noses dripping and hair a-frizz, ravenous for lunch;
Startling pedestrians, who haven't yet succumbed
To the sweet messy earthy song
Of spring.

Ancient Hebrew Soldiers, on Parenting

I don't often look up from these short minutes.

Wake time runs into
Breakfast time runs into
Bus time runs into
Cleaning time runs into
Playtime runs into
Snack time runs into
Reading time runs into
Playtime runs into
Lunchtime runs into
Naptime runs into
Bus time runs into
Snack time runs into
Playtime runs into
Homework time runs into
Chores time runs into
Suppertime runs into
Bath time runs into
Cozing time runs into
Bedtime runs into
Cleaning time runs into
TV time runs into
Packing lunchbox time runs into
Bedtime runs into
Wake time.

And the liminal space is filled with diapers and dirty socks and Band-Aids and making sure to connect with each little soul on the deep and happy and true place where they live and washing hands with soap please.
And diapers.

The days are mashed together like a package of stuck liquorice and I just pry off
one
piece
after
another
after
another.

So when I read today in the book of Joshua about tribes building an altar to remind their children's children about the covenant between them, it made me look twice.
In the middle of their journey home from war, they thought about their children's children.
And they stopped.
And they built a monument to remind the future generation of their story.

It might seem like this to them, they thought, we must make sure they know it was like that.

Their bigger story was important to them.
Their multi generational story mattered.

And tonight when Kachi threw up and threw off suppertime at the end of a challenging day, my stuck-liquorice heart threatened to wring its hands at the delay.  But the long view whispered of bigger things and I'm not on a sprint here. I don't get medals for serving supper at precisely 6.

They built their monument in the middle of their journey. On their way. They stopped.

There are children's children to think of.

And I want those kids to be raised by gentle hands and tender hearts. By happy parents who know and are known. By parents who make room and practice patience and go slow.

By parents who weren't rushed and sighed at when they were sick.

(Hideously obvious now that I'm writing it! But when I've got the short view, I'm just thinking of the next thing, instead of the important thing.)

And I found that the long view is a good view in the middle of these short minutes.

PS bedtime was late, but awesome. Complete with slow cuddles and belly laughs and Kachi thanking God for mama.

Seven

Sam is almost seven. Seven!

I've always been daunted by seven. One of my favourite authors says a person's character is more or less set by age seven.

I don't feel at all like I've done enough or prayed enough or led by example enough to build in him a strong character in these brief and precious years.

And every now and then I worry a bit. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings, he'd rather learn from watching another kid than listening to an adult, and does he really know, deep down in his soul, how much I love him?

Yesterday, his friend, E, came over to play.  At lunchtime, Patrick asked him if he plays any sports.
E said, "hockey and sockey."
Having heard E struggle with the "er" sound before, I knew he meant soccer.
Patrick, not noticing my frantic eyebrow-signals, asked, "is sockey an indoor hockey game?"

E squirmed, unsure of what to say.

And Sam spoke up matter-of-factly, "E has trouble with saying "er." He plays soccer."

And the conversation rolled on.

I was so proud of my boy.
So proud.

He was kind and forthright. He didn't tease, and didn't ignore the confusion, but he set it right and moved on.

I love my Sam.

Through

My two best friends in the whole entire world moved away this week.

My heart is sore and tired and afraid.

Life has been so good with them close. They love so comfortably, so easily. They don't demand or expect. They help. They laugh. They give.

They're fun and kind and without a single shred of pretension.

They're amazing.

And now they're gone.

And the yawning emptiness they leave behind makes my heart tremble.

I know I'm a wimp. I just can't picture  life without them.

In church this morning, we were reminded not to be afraid.

Not because our troubles are small.
Not because they don't matter.

No, Jesus never trivializes our pain, our fear.  But He tells us not to fear because He is with us. He does not leave us. He walks with us, all the way through it.

I needed that today. 
And maybe you need it too - the reminder that whatever you're going through, whatever makes your heart ache, whatever leaves you in tears - He is with you.

All the way through.