For A Weird Christmas

I stepped outside early this morning to put out the garbage. I was utterly surprised to see a rainbow.

There was no rain; hadn't been any yet this morning. 

The rain came a few minutes later, and it poured all day. A warm and weird Christmas Eve.

A friend with a paint sprayer came over this morning. Our space, which was bare drywall this morning, was transformed by this evening.

And yes, I bought the very last Christmas tree.

We'd all been so worried. "I can't believe I'm sitting beside our tree tonight," Vava sighed before bed. 

"I thought it was a No, but God said Yes," Sam replied.

Yeah.

He does that sometimes.

Keeps us waiting.

Keeps us looking up.

And fills our lives with a dizzying array of contrasts.

I think God puts contrast all over the place, and probably for the same reason all authors do - to make us look twice, pay attention, see more clearly.

A rainbow before the rain.

An empty room, filled.

A usually full house, empty.

A king in a manger.

Poor shepherds and wealthy wise men.

The prince of peace to a weary world.

Lights shine in the dark, windows glow warm against the chill, wet night.

It's a beautiful story. A story that has rolled on and on through the ages. My story. Your story. A story that has maybe had a few sadder twists, lonelier spots this year than we're used to.

A story the author entered that first Christmas night. I imagine the loneliness and difficulties he encountered were quite a bit different than what he was used to.

Wishing you a peaceful night and a joyous morning, friends. And good reading, wherever you are.

xo.

A Little Peace

I got an early Christmas present today. 

The workers finally finished sanding my future kitchen.  A friend is willing to come paint tomorrow. I had a few hours between the workers leaving and my evening shift beginning, and I wanted to shop vac and clean out the space so we can get right to work in the morning. 

But it was the witching hour - that tired, bored, crankish time of day right before supper. It's when my kids all want attention, separately, and don't have a lot of patience or focus.

I left them playing nicely, determined to get as much done as I could until they called for me.

I moved all the equipment and tools to the hallway.

Nobody called.

I vacuumed the window sills and outlets.

Nobody called.

I vacuumed the edges and corners.

Nobody called.

I finished vacuuming the entire floor.

Nobody called.

I went back past the plastic sheeting and into the land of the living. Sam had cleared the table, made himself a snack, and was watching a movie. Kachi and Pascal were playing cars on the stairs. Vava was reading in her room. 

It was the quiet hum of a happy, contented family.

I washed up quickly, and laid down beside Vava. Kachi joined us, then Pascal and Sam. We ended up in a giggly heap and just laid there together while I ordered a quick pizza for supper. 

Sheer gift.

Kachi stayed snuggled up with me the longest, and afterward he made me this.

Peace in the whirlwind, peace. I opened my heart and breathed it in, that little echo of Immanuel.

Wishing you moments of stillness in the busyness, contentment and peace in all the upheaval this Christmas, friends. 

Because Jesus. 

xo.

In the Fullness of Time

Due to a summer reno gone woefully awry, we don't yet have a Christmas tree up. It's so late it hurts. 

Five rooms' worth of furniture and appliances are jammed into two rooms. We're living on top of each other and have been for months. There's nowhere for a tree to go.

I love Christmas trees. I love the warm glow of twinkle lights, the fragrance of fir, the special ornaments the kids have made. I love the way it sets a celebratory tone regardless of what's going on around it.

But right now we're more than a little low on celebratory tones. There's more plaster dust than Christmas sparkle. Presents are stashed in the attic. We've got a string of newly made ornaments dangling in front of the mirror, awaiting a branch where they can make their debut. 

We're so achingly ready to celebrate. 

But we have no room for a tree.

We've been hoping the reno would reach a usable pausing stage, so we could set up our future kitchen as a temporary living room, with plenty of space for the Christmas tree. 

But things keep going wrong and wrong and every day our plans get pushed back and back. Now we've got two days left til Christmas and if we're going to put up a tree on Christmas Eve it will take a miracle.

I know that Christmas isn't in the tree. I know it. It will be Christmas whether or not we have that particular decoration.

But the waiting, and hoping, and waiting, and hoping - 

It's exhausting. 

Logically I know that every day brings us closer to the space being ready. It must. It does. 

But somehow, every day of delays and setbacks makes me feel like the opposite is true. It makes me feel like we're further from finishing than we were when it started. It's a lie that feels really true.

It's my own little glimpse of the weary world, awaiting the Messiah. Awaiting deliverance. Awaiting salvation. Longing for the promised God-with-us. And every day before He comes makes it feel like he's further away.

But he's not.

Each day adds up, each day fills up, until the days are complete and God-with-us.

And now we're all waiting. Waiting for Covid to end. Waiting for restrictions to ease, for hugs and visits and borders to open. Waiting maybe for that heartbreak to stop aching, waiting for that unanswered prayer to finally be answered, waiting for surgery and healing, waiting for your baby to come home. Waiting for peace, waiting for love, waiting for relief and comfort and rest. 

In the fullness of time, God sent forth his Son.

It will take a miracle for Christmas at our house this year.

But then, it's always taken a miracle for Christmas.

xo.

What We Remember

I keep seeing that post on Facebook about how your kids won't remember what presents they got for Christmas this year; they'll remember the feelings and delight and joy of it all.

Tonight I asked Sam what is his favourite Christmas memory of all time. 

"Last year," he said confidently. 

"What happened?" I asked.

"I forget," he replied. 

😅❤😅

Turns out, it wasn't any one particular thing - just having his cousins here, and having Ash sleep in his top bunk. She's the eldest, and he adores her.

My earliest Christmas memory is from the house we lived in before I turned 5. I remember the tree, set up in the basement (I think?!), lit with coloured lights, and decorated with red and green and gold and silver balls and bells. And I was allowed, oh bliss of bliss, to sleep by the Christmas tree with my big sisters. We nudged our air mattresses all up against each others', and I think we used Dad's thick hunting sleeping bag to turn them into one big bed. Together and warm and cozy under a those magical twinkling lights - mmm yeah. It radiated Christmas magic.

That thing going around on Facebook speaks truth.

We don't remember the presents, we remember the love that gave them.

We don't remember how things look, apart from how they made us feel.

We remember togetherness and specialness and lights in the dark.

The traditions we cling to and the celebrations we create and recreate every year matter to us because they sing to our hearts the song of heaven: love.

Love came down at Christmas.

And everything that carries an echo of His peace and joy and generosity and light holds that Christmas magic.

Wishing you a good one, friends.

xo.

Great Love

Two weeks ago at work I noticed a sudden shift away from door delivery to doorbell delivery - almost everyone was requesting me to place their order on the step, ring the bell, and leave.

The first day I thought it was just a funny coincidence, but the next day it continued and I finally turned on the radio and realized what had happened. The number of Covid cases in our area had begun to spike, and people were responding with increased distancing. 

And even though I miss seeing happy faces in doorways, it made my heart glad to see such an immediate response. This is how we love our neighbours. 

Do I want to be social distancing? Heck no. I wish there was no pandemic.

I miss my family.

I miss my parents.

I miss my nieces, who we're usually picking up from the airport right about now.

I wish we were able to get together and laugh and play boardgames and sing and cook together. But we can love each other, love our communities by laying down our Christmas traditions and preferences. 

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. (John 15:13)

I might paraphrase it:Greater love has no hugger than this: to choose not to hug for one's friends. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Miss you.

the Untied way

Have you ever seen Inside Out? You know how Riley's memory bank workers occasionally send an unrelated memory up the chute to dance on repeat in her head? Well, when I was a kid, I heard a clip on the radio about The Untied Way. Nope, that's not a typo, not the United way, but the Untied Way. And every now and then, the Untied way clip plays in my brain.

The Untied way is a philosophy that promotes giving freely (no strings attached, no expectations) and generously ("charity should hurt a little bit") to people around you. It's a stop-gap support, a drop of kindness to the people who have fallen through the cracks between cracks.

I googled it today to see if anyone else has thought about it since the 90s, and found an oldish article - Click here if you want to read it.

I think it really resonated with me and stuck in my head because it seemed like a Jesus sort of generosity. No bureaucracy. No demands. No rewards or tax receipts or strings*. Just - as you can, do. 

When He told the story of the good Samaritan, Jesus asked "who was the neighbour to the beat-up guy on the road?" And the answer was: the one who cared for him.

It wasn't the priest.

It wasn't the deacon.

(It wasn't organized religion.)

It was the stranger who stopped, and helped, and carried him to bed.

That's how we love, and that's how we put our arms around the world at Christmas time and anytime: love our neighbours as ourselves. 

We stop when we see a need.

And we help.

However we can.

Untied. Freely.

It's the joyfullest part of Christmas.

Xo.

(*please know I'm not bashing organizations or tax receipts! They enable us to give even more. I just mean that sometimes people need help, people right in front of us, and not on the other end of an organization.)

The Real Treasure

I found this in the kitchen today.

Vava had repurposed a pizza box into a gift box. She wrapped it with construction paper, created a Santa-themed card, and filled it with presents she made herself (three magic wands, a purse, and a notebook). 

Not because someone told her to, not because she felt obliged, but because she loves.

Her love flows out of her in creativity, in colour and tape and paper.  And in generosity, because love gives freely, gladly, happily, eagerly. And here's the secret: love itself is the light that illuminates any present. Whether it's a store-bought gift or a construction paper masterpiece, the real treasure isn't the thing you unwrap... the real treasure is the love.

And it's so so beautiful. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

Surely He Taught Us to Love One Another

Today was super busy. Right after dropoff, I went Christmas shopping. Then work started fast and furious at 11 and I didn't stop for anything until my shift ended at 3. I squeezed in a bit more shopping before 330 pickup.

So by the time Pascal and I met on the sidewalk, we were both as worn out as a 4yo at the end of a long day.

Sam joined us after a minute, and he was wiping his eyes. He's not one to cry easily, so my heart lurched. "It's okay mama," he explained before I could ask, "my friend accidentally hit me with the gate in the neck. He didn't mean to," he assured me. And there, along his collarbone, was an ugly red gash. He'd been smoked really hard. I was so proud of him for not blaming his friend, for not reacting in anger, for seeing my worry and meeting it. I kissed the top of his head and he leaned against me. 

When Vava joined us, I collected Scally and Kachi's backpacks and we headed to the van.

Pascal decided he'd had enough. 

"Carry me," he huffed, slumping over onto the frozen grass. 

I stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out if I could juggle both backpacks and Pascal.

And that suddenly grown-up Sam picked up Pascal and carried him for a block, halfway to the van.

He has such a beautiful heart.

This Sam is a gift. 

Born on a snowy March night, placed in our arms with more love and sacrifice and beauty and heartache than we knew - than we could know.

So much like Jesus. Sent with love. Costly. Precious. 

Defending his friends. Father, forgive them. They don't know what they do.

Carrying his brother, bearing our griefs and sorrows. 

Like a brother does.

God-with-us: a gift, placed right into humanity's arms.

Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.

Love covers a multitude of sins

I have to attend council meetings (virtually) and report on them for our local newspaper. It's a pretty cool thing to be part of - sometimes, yes, extremely dull but also really revealing. I read all the council members' bios and platforms 2 years ago when they were up for reelection, but seeing them in action makes me want to adjust my vote next time. I can see who is passionate about what, who refers to townspeople as fellow citizens and who sees us as voters (a small but significant difference, I think). And I can see how they act under pressure, when something unexpected pops up, when they're put on the spot.

I'm glad for virtual meetings. I attend on my computer which has no mic or camera, and I never have to worry about being heard or seen. Other reporters for other publications attend too, and sometimes ask questions or clarify a murky point. Often, visitors present complaints/reports/awards virtually too, and I always like getting a glimpse of people in their own setting.

This week, a guest was presenting a report when suddenly someone else's mic was turned on. There was the sound of a squalling child in a busy home, obviously clamoring for a distracted parent's attention. And then the exasperated parent's voice could be heard, telling them not to hit the computer again, and then the gasp of realization that their mic had been turned on. 

The presenter smiled kindly and murmured "these things sometimes happen with zoom, don't they," and then, unruffled, continued the presentation. 

The absolute grace and kindness of his comment shone in the dull meeting like a Christmas star. 

I could just feel the interrupter cringing as they realized what had happened. The flush of embarrassment and panic, the horror as they replayed their snappish voice in their head. And then the relief as the meeting flowed on, the brief interruption barely a ripple.

Love covers a multitude of sins. 

[To be very clear, I'm not talking about covering up abuse (which is a crime, and makes you party to the crime if you cover it up). Report that ruthlessly, and so protect the vulnerable.] 

Love covers failures and flaws and gaps and insufficiencies.

I have a friend who has been through some really tough times, and she has this breathtakingly gracious response when someone is disregulated.

'Hey,' she asks, 'how can I support you right now?'

And just reading it like that, it might sound formulaic and academic, but hearing it? Hearing it when you're losing your temper or coming unraveled over something? 

It's sweet balm. 

There isn't any judgment. No 'get it together, you horrible person!' and no 'how can you act that way?' (Which is already ringing in the background when I'm overwhelmed anyway.)

Just mercy.

Just care.

I remember one night we had a bunch of friends over, and one friend, noticing the state of my fan, blurted out, "whoa, you have a lot of cobwebs!" Cringe. I definitely should have dusted long before then. But another friend asked me about one of the dishes at the table, and the conversation moved on.

Kindness. Love. 

It's so beautiful in action. 

Love covers. 

Like soothing balm on sore skin, like warm blankets on a cold night, like a plush-lined hat over wind-nipped ears.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

May we see it, and cherish it, and extend it - all year long, but especially at Christmas.

xo.

Big Toe Adventures

 My friend's daughter called her over tonight and said, "Mommy look at this big toe and take a picture! Do you know it's been on many adventures?!" 

And after I stopped laughing my smile just stretched wider and wider.

This kid is awesome; she's always saying the most unexpected things. Her perspective is unique and wonder-filled and hilarious. Last week she watched a movie upside down, balanced against a couch. She sings and draws and makes her mama laugh and just seems to exist in a world of joy - her heart is bent on delight.

I think Mary must have been like that as a kid. You know? Open to wonder. Seeing ordinary things in astonishing ways and then, naturally, seeing astonishing things as not so out of the ordinary. 

Because when the angel came, after her initial confusion, she believed.

She believed.

She believed that she would bring the Hope of the world into the world.
She believed that God would make all this impossible glory unfold right there in her own body.
She believed the extraodinary words from the astonishing angel right there in her own ratty little town of Nazareth.

I think she must have been an awful lot like my friend's little girl.

And oh, the adventures that she and her big toe got up to. Bearing the Messiah. Receiving the Magi. Being hunted by Herod. Escaping to Egypt. Drinking water made wine. Witnessing miracles and death defeated. The cross. The resurrection. Jesus. Glory, glory, glory.

Blessed is she who believed.

That brave girl. That little mama. With a full heart bent on delight.
And you. I wonder what adventures you and your big toe have gotten up to? 

I bet your story is amazing.

Blessed are you who believe.
xo.

A Monday kinda day

The weekend was a mash of hilarious notes from Kachi and my first ever love note from Pascal.

But today, ugh, it's Meanday.

Maybe everybody finds it hard to get back to work on Mondays, or maybe it's just a case of me seeing what I expect to see, but Mondays tend to be the days I have the most rude customers and stressed out servers.

Today one guy was so nonchalantly mean in our brief exchange that I kept weeping for practically an hour. And I'm pretty sure at that point I was no longer crying for the meanness of the moment but for all the meanness, each unfairness and heavy blow that has ever crashed against my heart (which is less than many have experienced, I know, but enough to swamp me).

In The Great Divorce, CS Lewis talks about the way grief stains backward - when we're grieving, it hurts to look back at old memories, because the current sorrow paints them dark.  He posits that joy stains backward too, and all the burdens we know on earth will seem insignificant and barely remarkable when we look back on them from the doorway of heaven.

I very much look forward to joy staining backward over 2020, with all of its small indignities and great sorrows. 

Perhaps next Christmas will be sweeter because of the contrast of this year. Or maybe it will be harder, lonelier.  But it will still be Christmas, with Jesus, God with us. 

Even when people are unkind.

Even when there's no joy to stain forward or backward at all.

Even when I make disckusting food. 

 

Always, Jesus, God-with-us.

Merry Christmas. 

xo.

Bottles of milk

The other day we were driving home from Patrick's work, and Sam asked "how many bottles of milk do you think it is between here and home?"

"Can you repeat that?" I asked, "it sounded to me like you wanted to know how many bottles of milk it is between here and home."

"I did," he said in all seriousness, "if we start at 99 will we be done before we get home?"

And then it dawned on me that he wanted to sing the song. (Turns out there are approximately 144 bottles of milk on the wall between home and work.)

Unlike Sam, I usually prefer to count distance by podcasts or coffee stops.

I noticed in the book of Matthew that the writer likes to count too: there are 42 generations from Abraham to Jesus.

42 generations of distance. 

And we can count from Jesus til now but I'd rather count from Jesus to me and it's less than a heartbeat. 

Because he came to be with us.

No waiting.

No silent years.

Just that silent night and God with us.

Zero bottles of milk on the wall between me and that long-awaited Jesus.

Merry Christmas. 

xo.

On the first day of Christmas

Today we went for a walk.  There isn't any snow, but the wind was sharp and it was definitely winter.

We saw squirrels and wild swans and wild Swan boys acting squirrely. 

After a nice walk along the well-kept walking path, we wound up in our favourite spot: a little patch of woods behind our house. A stream runs through it, and in the summer it's so overgrown with leaves and ferns and vines that we have complete privacy. Now, though, it's bare and the mostly-frozen water just slides slowly over thin moss and dead leaves. We were hunting for owl pellets (which we didn't find) and I loved the way the earth dipped and sprang under my feet. 

When I was a kid, there was a little patch of woods behind our house. It ran between my friends' backyard and ours, diagonally. The ground was uneven and soft with pine needles, roots jutting out to make fantastic jumping spots, and the trees oozed golden blobs of sap.  We had no end of fun in the woods and today, standing among the trees with the laughter of children ringing in my ears and the earth soft under my boots, I felt ten years old again.

The kids climbed and wrestled and played and once, when the fallen tree across the stream got slippery, they quickly asked for a calming song to help them cross without falling.

And just before we went in, they found a heron, carved.

It felt joyful, magical. 

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me

A heron carving in an old tree.

A friend told me once that in Ojibway culture, seeing a heron is a symbol you're on the right path. I don't know as much about Ojibway tradition as I want to know, but that has nestled in my heart and I always feel God smiling on me when he sends me a heron.

It was a good day. Fresh air, health and strength to enjoy it, and a heart winging upward. 

God bless you with unexpected gifts in ordinary places, friends.

Xo.

Liquorice

One of my neighbours phoned me yesterday. She was super sad because she had just found out that she's allergic to liquorice. 

"I really love liquorice," she said slowly. 

"I bet you'll miss AllSorts this Christmas," I sympathized.

"I'll miss everything this Christmas," she said. 

When Jesus was here, someone asked him what was the most important commandment. He told them this: love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and love your neighbour as yourself.  

Especially this Christmas, when gathering together for church suppers isn't safe, let's deliver supper instead. When we can't stand shoulder to shoulder and sing, let's be the church that stands ear-to-phone, and weeps. When we can't love in the ways we're used to, let's find new ways to connect to one another, to hold each others' stories in our hearts, to let each other in.

Because it's Christmas.

xo.

Charcuterie, Penguins, and Wobbly Trees

Vava made our Elf on the shelf last year; Elfa. I didn't want one, but the kids are so excited about it. They love it.

Every night we move her while they're asleep, and then I try to make an after-school snack based on where she's hiding.

Sometimes it turns out well - yesterday they found her on the knife block, so after school they had a charcuterie board snack.

Today, she was hiding in the penguin carafe, so I tried to make penguin snacks.

I worked all day and only had a few minutes before pickup, so I quickly assembled the penguins.

When I saw them all together, I almost died laughing.

My kids' after school snack today: the face of despair.

A friend of mine recently set up her Christmas tree. It's so beautiful it took my breath away. A dazzling 7-foot prelit tree, decorated solely with ornaments that hold sentimental value. It's gorgeous. It's beautiful. But when she told me about it, she pointed out its wobbly base and the way it tips to one side.

I know for certain her kids won't notice the tips and wobbles. They'll feel the magic of twinkly lights, they'll see the ornaments they glued and painted in kindergarten placed so tenderly in the place of honour. They'll remember the love and the carefulness it took to make it look just so, and the way their home felt warm and glowy and hopeful.

If your tree wobbles or your penguin snacks look like horrified Minecraft villagers or something doesn't look the way you want it to, take heart. 

The way things look is really really really unimportant. Our culture tries to tell us otherwise but deep down we know.

We know it because each of us thinks our mother is the most beautiful mother in the world.

And our babies? Every other newborn baby is basically a squashed tomato,  but we think ours are exquisite. 

And usually I feel like a penguin-gone-wrong but here's the thing:

God loves me so much he sent His own son to be a squished tomato. And that - that is the beauty of Christmas. That's the golden, twinkly lights-in-the-dark feeling. That's the magic of hunting for an elf every morning like wise men sought Jesus. 

That Christmas feeling is love. It isn't perfection and it isn't prettiness or even beauty.

It's love.

xo.

Luggage

Like everyone in 2020, I've had a hard go this year.  

This week, I just gave up on one of the things that have been weighing me down. I was all out of hope and expectation and couldn't even drum up the desire to see it through.

I was chatting on the phone with my sister and she asked about it. I told her I didn't have the strength to pray about it anymore.

"We'll pray it through for you," she said, "we'll carry you. It's okay."

So I just left it.

And I don't think I've ever felt that way about anything. I don't run out of words very often, and I love to talk things over with God. But I didn't have any oomph left.

And you know what? The next day, something changed in that situation. 

And the next day, more change.

My sister is praying.

She's right in here with me, bearing that burden. From a thousand miles away, she's lugging it to God. 

Like Mary lugged the hope of all the world to Bethlehem to be born. 

The rest of the world just waited. Longed for the Messiah, for redemption and new birth. Ached in the silence. Chafed under slavery and illness and misery.

But Mary left her home and carried that belly full of promise to Bethlehem. 

Oh my friends, I wish you all a sister, a friend, a Mary, who will carry hope for you when you can't carry it alone any longer. 

Merry Christmas.

xo.

Glitter

I made my very first ever wreath today. 

When the kids came home from school, the table was a mess - covered in needles and branches, pins and ribbons. We cleared enough room for snack, and Pascal unraveled a package of glittery ribbon in the process. The glitter that fell out ended up everywhere. 

Through a busy and time-crunchy evening, I kept hearing his delight every time he came across a sparkle: 

'I found another beautiful!' 

'Can I take this to school?'

'I have to tell Kachi the good news!'

And it was sweet but it didn't really filter through. I didn't get the message until the house was quiet and I was sweeping up.

In the middle of work: beauty.

In the middle of mess: beauty.

In the middle of busyness: beauty.

Sometimes it just looks like more work. More mess. More busyness. But for Pascal it was pure delight.

Maybe especially for parents, that's kind of like the trappings of Christmas. It's a lot of work, and mess, and busyness. But it's shot through with beauty and delight. And our kids give us eyes to see it.

Merry Christmas to you and your kin, my friends.

Xo.

Great with Child

I was reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever today, and there's a cute little side conversation between 2 characters about the way the Bible says Mary is "great with child."  

'Anybody could be pregnant. "Great with child" sounded better for Mary.' (chapter 4)

But the crazy beautiful wonder of the whole thing is how ordinary it all was. Mary and Joseph's path was not royal. Jesus didn't float down from heaven on angels' wings to land clean and sweet on a fluffy bed. Heavenly hosts didn't slay Herod or any of Israel's enemies. 

Mary and Joseph trudged with that 9-months-pregnant belly all the way to Bethlehem. Jesus squeezed and squirmed out into the world like all of us. And before he was old enough to talk, Jesus was a  refugee. 

The son of God lived this life, just like ours.

Common. Mundane. Uncomfortable. 

And yeah, sometimes the tongue of King James makes us forget that. 

But -

Mary was pregnant. 

Joseph was a blue-collar worker.

Israel was restless under Roman rule.

Elizabeth -

Hah! Elizabeth was old.

But God moved through it all.

And He still does.

He moves through the world in your hands and your feet as you drop off food for a neighbour, as you make a phone call to connect with that person. He moves through your home as you cuddle your kids and settle them in safe for the night. He moves through your city as you pay taxes, build hospitals, defend justice. He moves through your heart and your song and your words as you go about your

Very

Ordinary

Life.

He still does.

The Great

God told us His name is

I Am;

Not

You Should;

Not 

I Might;

Not 

I Will If.

I Am.

We need a Saviour:

I Am

We need a Redeemer:

I Am

We need a God who understands:

I Am.

Immanuel. 

God with us.

I Am.

A Sword

"He is a light to reveal God to the nations, and he is the glory of your people Israel!” Jesus’ parents were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them, and he said to Mary, the baby’s mother, “This child is destined to cause many in Israel to fall, and many others to rise. He has been sent as a sign from God, but many will oppose him. As a result, the deepest thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your very soul.”

Luke 2:31‭-‬35 NLT

When Jesus was 8 days old, Mary and Joseph took him to the temple to dedicate him to God. Simeon and Anna, two prophets, saw him and knew- this was the Messiah. 

But Simeon knew something else. He saw the sorrow coming too. I used to always read this and think Simeon was talking about Jesus dying on the cross but I think it was maybe something sooner.  Check out this tragedy:

Herod was furious when he realized that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, based on the wise men’s report of the star’s first appearance.

Matthew 2:16 NLT

God warned Joseph and Mary to take their baby and flee to Egypt, far from Herod who was scared of losing his power, and killing innocent children to hang on to it.

I can imagine how crushed Mary would be, knowing her son had been kept safe, but that these babies had died. A sword would pierce her very soul.

But her baby would die.

He would grow up so kind and loving, generous and thoughtful and not bound by the mincing convention of religion. 

And he would die.

To bring us - every one of us someone's baby - life.

Instead of killing to hold on to power, he laid down his life to give it up.

It's Christmas because it's a gift.

Beautiful.

Costly. 

And soul-piercing.

xo.

Sweetness

Because this year didn't look the way I expected it to, I found myself really bored every day when the kids were at school. I wanted to write, I tried to write, but I ended up just kind of staring at the computer screen in a fog and then suddenly the day would be over.

I wanted flexibility and could only work for a few hours a day, so I got a job delivering food over the lunch rush around town.

It's awesome.

It's not hard, and it has a bunch of little wins built right in.  I love to drive, love to give people food, and love to race a clock. The purchases are all done online so I don't have to deal with money at all: I just snag the food from the restaurants and drop it off at the customer's door. And I can set my own schedule so I'm still free on the days I need to write or edit, or when the kids have a PA day.  I love it.

Today I got into a bit of a snag because one of my customers didn't answer the door, didn't answer her phone, didn't answer when I texted. I was delivering to her at work, a public place, and she hadn't authorized me to leave it with anyone so I couldn't just give it to a coworker. I had orders backing up, so I popped her food back into my thermal bag and delivered the next one. I went back and tried again, getting it to her successfully this time.

However, this meant that my next three deliveries were all increasingly delayed.

I figured I would probably get a bad review or 3 but I knew I couldn't have done anything differently so I tried not to worry about it - easier said than done, though. I finished my last delivery and pulled into the driveway. I logged in to see my reviews ... and there was one.  I braced myself.

It was from the lady who I'd gone back for, and she had written me a glowing review.

Instead of the bitterness I expected, I received something sweet.

Kind of like my job, that I'm constantly surprised to love.

Kind of like this weird, hard, strange, but not giftless year.

Kind of like Joseph. You know? His betrothed shows up pregnant, and it isn't his. He's heartbroken. Doesn't want her shamed, doesn't want to hurt her, is prepared to just quietly divorce and let her go. His hopes shatter; this is not his favourite year.

But God shows up and speaks to him in a dream. "This baby? It's mine. Take care of him. Take care of Mary. Get married. It's all good."

Sometimes God's gifts look an awful lot like disappointment.

But there's sweetness in them.

There's gospel in them.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Get-to

It feels like I am always counting. Can you get into your boots before I get to ten? Counting groceries and pairs of socks and just how many bowls are squirreled away in bedrooms at any given moment. How many minutes are left before we're late for school and how many plates to set out for after-school snack and how many days left until Christmas. 

Tonight when I was settling Kachi into bed, I scooted in beside him for a kiss. He climbed on top of me. "You can't leave," he said.

"How about a hundred-second hug?" I asked. And I wrapped my arms around him and began counting to one hundred.

His head burrowed into my neck and he held me tight. My counting, which had begun at a good clip, started to slow.

He just wanted to be in my arms. Just wanted to be held. Not managed, not directed, not parented ... just held. 

And while my evening to-do list hung paused and waiting, the weight of it shifted. It ebbed. Faded. 

That hundred seconds was the most full and beautiful and restful of my day.

Kids are not great at getting things done on time and they are not amazing at shaving seconds off a schedule but they are very good at connecting and they are very good at stuffing joy into the little cracks and spaces of their day.

This morning I was getting everyone ready and out the door for school but Pascal was dilly-dallying so I sent the big kids outside to play while I got him ready. When we joined them in the fresh air, they called me over, laughing. "We built a snowman!" they crowed. There was not a lot of snow on the ground and they'd only had a few minutes but they had made this hilarious little snow man, complete with buttcheeks.

I, bona fide adult, don't tend to jam joy into every minute. I do the things I have to, and pat myself on the back if I do them more quickly than I'd expected. 

Left to their own devices, my kids create. They build. Write. Strategize. Draw. Sing. Invent a game. Make rhymes. Find patterns. Laugh at butts.  And they do this in the space between leaving the house and leaving the yard. Between leaving the yard and arriving at school. Between assignments. In between all the must-dos they jam a whole lot of get-tos. 

And sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be squished in with that list, a get-to. Get to hug mama for 100 seconds. Get to lie with mama while I fall asleep. Get to draw with mama, get to read with mama, get to make up silly songs and wash dishes with mama.

I hope this Christmas offers you a whole lot of chances to enjoy your get-tos. I hope you get to make a snowman while you wait and play on a frozen puddle when you pass it. I hope you get to press pause for one hundred heartbeats with your arms around someone you love. 

Jesus came because you're His get-to. ❤

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

A Gentle alarm bell

 A friend of mine is a life coach. She's got a lot of wisdom and joy to share, and early this fall she suggested I pause a few times a day to give thanks. "Don't just rhyme off a list of things you know you should be thankful for," she added, "take time to be still and listen to your feelings. What are you feeling thankful for? Soak in that for a minute. You can feel many things in a short time, but you can only feel one thing at a time. So put your other feelings on pause and just soak up all the good ones while you're giving thanks."

So I set an alarm on my phone.  I made it different from my typical alarm - I chose a soft instrumental instead of an urgent ring, because I wanted it to prompt me into a good place, no matter how frazzled or rushed or discontent I might be feeling.

It's been a solid exercise.

I think I'm generally a pretty reactive person, but twice a day this prompts me to act, instead of react - to choose what to focus on, to celebrate or evaluate. And to give thanks.

When the kids hear the gratitude alarm, they never want me to turn it off. It plays for ten minutes and they all kind of hum along to it while they draw or build with lego or whatever they're doing. 

It's a really nice song, of course, but I think what they're getting is the feeling of it. The respite. The stillness. The joy.

And at Christmas (as with any other time) I tend to zoom around with a poorly planned checklist and a million mental to-dos. I remember to buy the kids presents and gift cards for the teachers, set up the tree and put some lights in the windows. I bulk-buy nuts and nacho chips, oranges and potatoes and jalapeno poppers. I pop my change in the Salvation Army kettle and drop some non-perishables off at the food bank

But

Jesus came without any of that stuff. He could have rescued us without coming as a baby, I think. He could have popped into the world, gone to the cross, and died for our sins. He could have. 

He came and dwelt. Holy, beautiful gift: God with us. With us.

So the thing is - 

To celebrate Christmas in the mode of Christmas means taking time to dwell with one another. To be with. And this year with all the Covid restrictions that's extra hard - but also, maybe, not so hard at all.

Maybe when we can't spend our time getting together with our usual jolly crowd, maybe we can take more time to look into the faces at our own table. Ask them some still and personal questions. Take time to hear their answers. Connect more truly and love more slowly - and truly dwell together.  We can cultivate that feeling, choose it, act in ways that nourish it. We can even set an alarm if we need to ;)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Boom da da boom

A story for Vava.

There once was a little boy who lived long ago. Like you, he was curious about God, and like you, he loved snuggles and stories before bed. Every night, when his parents snuggled down with him in bed, they would tell him a story from the Torah. Noah. Deborah. The ax-head that swam.  Jonah. Jael. Balaam's donkey.

"Do miracles like that still happen, mama?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," she would whisper, "but maybe they will when the Messiah comes."

"Does God still talk to prophets, papa?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," he would reply, "but maybe He will when the Messiah comes."

And every night those words would beat like a little drum in his heart. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes.  

Sometimes he was cold, and sometimes he was hungry. His family did not have a lot of money. But he was rich with hope, because the Messiah was coming.

He went to Torah school and learned all the stories from the priests. After every lesson, he would say goodbye to his teacher. "Goodbye, rabbi. Maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come." The rabbi would smile.

One day, the priest seemed different. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were red.  "Goodbye, rabbi," said the little boy when the lesson was over, "maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come."

"He will come," the rabbi gasped, "He will come! And soon."

The boy stood still.

"I am an old man," said the priest, "but God spoke to me. He told me I will not die until I see the Messiah."

The boy's heart leaped.

"God spoke to you?" he whispered.

"He spoke to me," the rabbi replied, and tears slid over his wrinkled cheeks. He could not stop smiling. God spoke to him.

The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come! The boy's heart drummed along very fast as he ran home and told his mama and papa what the priest had said.

One night, the boy woke up. He could hear hooves and soft bleating; a flock of sheep was passing by. The moon was full and bright and the night was warm and inviting. The little boy crept out of bed and followed the flock.

The shepherds stopped the sheep on a grassy hillside, and stretched out on the ground. The boy sat down between two lambs and stroked their soft fleece.  The night was still and silent, but underneath it all he could feel the bright drumbeat singing in his heart. The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come!

Suddenly, the darkness burst with gold light. An angel appeared and the shepherds yelped in fear.

"Do not be afraid," the joyful angel beamed, "there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign: you will find him lying in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes."

And then a choir of angels appeared, like backup singers, praising God.  The boy's eyes were as big as saucers. Was he still awake? Was he asleep?

Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come!  Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. His heart pounded.

And as suddenly as they had come, the angels were gone. The boy's eyes swam in the moonlight, which seemed now so dim.  There was something in his hand, something firm and round and hollow - a little drum.

"AHHHHHHHH!" yelled the shepherds, "AHHHHHH!" And they leapt up and raced down the hill toward Bethlehem.  

The boy ran after them, as fast as his legs could whirl.

They peered into all the stables in town. All was still. They could smell the pungent odour of cattle. Sheep. Goats. Cows. There were no babies here.  They tiptoed through the sleeping town.

Really, had it all been a dream?

Until they came to one stable with a light inside. The air was expansive. Laughter and delight rang out. The boy heard a little mewling cry. A baby!  THE baby!

The shepherds walked in without invitation, eagerness precluding manners. The boy followed them.

"We've come to see the Messiah," a shepherd explained. The baby's parents looked at one another, eyes shining. "He's here," they replied. And there he was, lying in the manger ("what a funny place, God," thought the boy). 

The shepherds knelt, the boy knelt.

The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The boy's heart drummed. He picked up the little tambourine that was in his hands and drummed along softly. Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. The baby smiled. His mother smiled. His father smiled. The shepherds smiled. 

When the sun began to rise, the boy ran home.  

"God even speaks to shepherds," he told his parents, "and the Messiah is come."  And he played for them. 

On his drum.