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Saturday, December 24, 2022

Bless the world on Christmas night

Hope was born one wild night
Beneath a star and angel-light
He stretched and shivered with delight
And darker forces flexed their might.
His mother wrapped him warm and tight
And shepherds worshiped at the sight.

On being here, he'd set his sight
He'd planned and dreamed about this night
When he'd be held, and holding tight
Heaven's gift by candlelight
Awash in pain, with human might
But forward-looking with delight.

The prophets hailed him with delight
And wept and sang out at the sight;
The wise men spoke of Herod's might
Angels warned his dad by night
They fled to Egypt, traveling light,
And his mother held him tight.

He kept his secret sealed up tight
Until his mother in delight
Brought his holy gift to light
Water to wine, with none in sight
How many lips drank deep that night
A cup of bliss, and well they might!

Pharisees fought with all their might
Gatekeepers tried to hold on tight
But the day star dawned, goodbye good night
From tears came joy, from sorrow, delight
The mourners cheered, the blind found sight
And Jesus said, Follow - his yoke is light.

So every year we string up lights
And give - and give - in case we might
Turn back the dark, and offer sight
And hold our loves, like Mary, tight,
And lift a cup that cheers, delights -
And bless the world on Christmas night.

If your hopes are out of sight, hold tight -
He came that we might know delight;
May his light be born in you tonight.



Friday, December 23, 2022

Give

Jesus wasn't rich. 

Right? We know this. He was born a poor baby to a pair of poor parents, from a poor town.

But He said -  Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.

He didn't just say this to the rich. 

He preached it to His followers, He lived it out, and He celebrated generosity.

There's an older lady who lives in my neighbourhood. By any objective standard, she is poor. But she regularly shuttles our car-less neighbours to and from the grocery store, doctors appointments, the pharmacy. When any of them end up in hospital for an overnight stay or longer, she cares for their pets. A neighbour's mom recently passed away, and this lady took in her cats. 

She's a poor woman from a poor town, and I know she feels the pinch as prices rise. But still she gives.  She isn't a religious person, but she loves like Jesus, and our neighbourhood is better for her presence in it. 

May we know people like this.
May we be them.
For Jesus' sake.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo.

Thursday, December 22, 2022

A Birch Wood

When I was younger, I had a dream that I met with the Lord in a forest of birches. We sat on a bench and talked, and I was filled with the most expansive peace.

For a long time after having that dream, whenever I would pray or pause to be in His presence, I pictured meeting Him in that grove.

It's been a long time since I thought of it, but the other morning when I woke up, it was on my mind. I paused to pray for the day, but for the life of me, I could not picture the forest, the bench, the green canopy of leaves. There was just - nothing.

No imaginary chapel in the birches, and no Jesus.

"Where did you go?" I asked, "Why can't I find you?"

But there was just silence.

The kids began to stir and I was catapulted into my day, ready or not.

I can't remember what happened - I was in the kitchen, and probably listening to music or maybe a podcast - and something made my heart soar upward. And suddenly I was very aware of Jesus' presence, He was right there - right in my busy morning, in my unfinished kitchen, with spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling. 

Immanuel. God with us. 

Not God with us in church.

Not God with us in our quietest moments.

Not God with us in our best clothes.

Not God with us when we Stop To Pray.

God with us.

"I am with you always," He said. No birches required.

 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo


Wednesday, December 21, 2022

Ode to my Favourite Heart Surgeon

He has been a heart surgeon for years
Carefully slicing into students and
Clearing the calcifying facade of apathy from their veins,
Jumpstarting their imaginations,
Restoring the link from pulse to ink.

He reads aloud like a
Pacemaker, steady and rhythmic,
And says the voice inside his head reads the same way.

His instruments are precise and sharp -
He is both expert and empathic, for
He knows whereof he speaks:
He, too, wrestles ideas down like alligators
And pins them to the page.

At the end of the school year
He scrawls post-operating instructions on every final packet.

WRITE! He wrote on mine,
Or I will hunt you down like a ghost across the misty chasm of time!
WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!

And the doctor's advice
Has stood me in good stead.
My heart beats, and I write.

💓

Thankful for Mr. McKay, who came through heart surgery of his own this week. 
Merry Christmas.


Tuesday, December 20, 2022

On creating and loving

 Undignified
(with apologies, and thanks, to Rachel, for pointing it out.)

Have you ever seen a daddy
Playing good guys versus baddies
Getting caught by little boys
With imaginary ropes?

Have you ever seen a papa
Play charades and making up
A bunch of crazy words and scenes
To pull gleeful from a hat?

Have you ever seen a dad
Tell his kids it's not so bad,
Check their closets, pray for good,
Before he sends them off to bed?

Have you ever heard your pops
When he showers, maybe mops,
Sing a silly song or rhyme
Because his heart is full of joy?

Have you ever seen an artist
Or a baker or the smartest
Person in your class intent
On unraveling their craft?

D'you think God, when making rainbows,
Or giraffes, or frosted windows
Keeps his face all prunes-and-prisms
 - or when He sings, is it with glee?

I can see Him with his tongue out
As He shakes a sheet of rain out
So that one drop - just right there -
Slides on your cheek from off that tree -

When you love you dive in face-first
Watch the light of joy like grace burst
When your mind is racing busy
When you're all wrapped up love -

There's nothing dignified in love
It's silly; you can shove
That word straight out the window -
There's nothing dignified in love.

WWF (weekend wrestling family)

 

Inspired by the playful and loving dad who parents our kids, and by my friend Rachel's characterization of God in Zephaniah 3:17 -
For the Lord your God is living among you.
    He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
    With his love, he will calm all your fears.
    He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.



Monday, December 19, 2022

Family Heirlooms

When I was little, my sisters and I would read for hours
Sharing a sleeve of saltines and well-worn paperbacks.

When my aunts were small, they would cuddle back to back
Dipping into the crinkly sleeve with one hand and turning pages with another.

Today, my kids leapt on the Premium Plus box with joy
And hied themselves couchward, post-haste.

Nobody passed this on intentionally.
There was never a ceremony of handing over the salty reins.

And yet, I am certain that in some glossy Christmas future,
I will find my grandkids curled around a sleeve of saltines, reading.

(Some of you might have a watch, a war medal, an immigration record
But I wouldn't trade my heritage of saltines and stories for anything.)



Sunday, December 18, 2022

Today I Unpacked a Dish

Two and a half years ago, we packed up our kitchen for a 2-month reno. It all went terribly wrong (see old posts for more context and whining). 

Now our cupboards are almost all installed, so we've put our temporary dishes in them, but I haven't been able to unpack our boxes full of all our true kitchen dishes because -
Well, because I had packed them up in a whirl of hope. I had imagined unpacking them, starry-eyed and grateful, tucking them all into their crisp fresh homes. 

I haven't been able to unpack them because the world they were supposed to live in doesn't exist yet.

Today Vava and I did a little baking, and suddenly realized I didn't have the baking dish we needed (I've been really really good at making do for years - but we needed this one). We were halfway through the recipe. 

I knew that dish was packed up in the porch. I asked Patrick for help, and he cleared off the most easily accessible box, then opened it up.

My heart stood still. They had waited for me. They were all right there, dishes and tea towels, pots and pans and lids.

Vava asked me why I was crying as I washed the dish. "Is it special to you?" she asked, and she sounded incredulous.
"It IS me," I shrugged, laughing.

And I think it's actually all of us.

I know that on one hand you haven't been in limbo with a reno that maybe will never get finished, but on the other, I think maybe you have. I think we packed our usual lives up when Covid came, full of hope and eagerness to stop the spread. We genuinely thought an end date would come. But Covid turned out to be a really shifty contractor, making promises and taking money and delivering less and less. And we didn't ask for this and we didn't want this and it took way more from us than we imagined and we still don't have the world we'd bargained for and we still have Covid. 

How do we move forward? How do we unpack ourselves into a world we didn't pack ourselves up for?

Maybe you, like me, will do it with tears. Maybe, like Patrick, with gentleness. Maybe, like Vava, with open-hearted nonchalance. And maybe you won't even do it yet - not yet. (It's okay. There's no deadline on unpacking your own stuff.)

Because the life you packed away - the routines and plans and clothes and work you pressed pause on - that person is being unboxed into a different world than the one they dreamed about.  And I think that's a big deal.

It's not the one we hoped for.
But it's the one we've got. 

And so maybe, when you're ready - and you know you need to - 
Take a deep breath and open that box.

I hope that your unpacking will bring more joy than sorrow. I hope you will find treasures you didn't realize you cherished. And I hope you will find peace as you unpack.

Merry Christmas, friends.
❤️

Saturday, December 17, 2022

All is Calm, All is Bright

There's something of the magic
In the stillness of the night
When snow has been fast-falling
And the world is drenched in white.
When the air is soft and muffled,
And the cold feels almost warm
And every set of tracks and prints
Buried by the storm.
Nothing out there's moving
And I could see it if it was -
The brightness glows from flake to flake
A billion lacy stars.
He wove it all, with weather
With stormy clouds and air just right -
God Himself lays down this blanket,
God Himself sings silent night.


Friday, December 16, 2022

De Sterrenacht

My favourite painting is De Sterrenacht (The Starry Night), by Vincent van Gogh. I'd never read van Gogh's life story, although I could identify his Sunflowers, and his self-portrait with a bandage over the ear that I'd heard he cut off himself in a fit of madness. (But after all, aren't all artists a bit mad? This is what they say.)

Today I saw a collection of stills from a Dr. Who episode about van Gogh, which left a rumbling curiosity behind. Mostly because I was fresh out of something to watch on Netflix, but also because I love The Starry Night, I decided to satisfy the rumble. (I poked around on a few places on the internet, but my biggest source was Britannica - click here to read their comprehensive entry.)

Van Gogh was born into a Protestant family. He was a quiet kid who liked the outdoors. At age 16 he began to work with his uncle, an art dealer. 

At age 19, he suffered a heartbreak, being rejected by his love.

The encyclopedia doesn't say why, but he moved to England and worked as a teacher and lay preacher. I am pretty certain he was trying to get as far away from his pain as possible. He wanted to share the gospel, and ended up doing missionary work in southern Belgium, where he gave away everything he owned to the poor.

Upon learning he did that, the church told him he was interpreting the scriptures too literally, and dismissed him from his missionary post.

Rejected by his love, and rejected by the church that he loved, van Gogh gathered up his twice-broken heart and began to dedicate himself to painting, not to wallow in despair, but wanting to "bring consolation to humanity through art." 

“I want to give the wretched a brotherly message,” he explained to his brother Theo. “When I sign [my paintings] ‘Vincent,’ it is as one of them.”

He painted - a lot - for ten years. 

Then came the madness of the ear-episode. This is what we know.

On Christmas Eve, 1888, van Gogh and Gaugin had an argument. Britannica says "van Gogh snapped." The original story was that van Gogh chased Gaugin with a razor and then cut off the bottom half of his own ear. Then he took the severed earlobe to a brothel and asked the women there to guard it carefully.

Two art historians in 2008, however, published a work called Van Gogh's ear: Paul Gaugin and the Pact of Silence. They claim that Gaugin cut off van Gogh's ear with a sword, but the two men made a pact of silence and van Gogh took the blame for it. (I feel like this action is a lot more likely and in keeping with the character of his life so far than that he chased Gaugin down only to cut off his own ear.)

Anyway, after this he was checked into an asylum, and once he was released, checked himself back in in order to be under medical supervision. It was there he painted De Sterrenacht. He continued to experience periods of calm and despair.

He painted. He wrote long, detailed letters to friends. He wrote about seeing the steady luminous morning star, which he included in The Starry Night. He worked and he trembled with loneliness.

Eventually, the despair loomed larger than he could bear, and he shot himself. He died 2 days later.  

I did not expect to find that the now-famous painter had once been a passionate preacher. I did not imagine that the theme of despair and consolation, which see-saws so heavily in my own life, was also the see-saw in his.

I did not expect to cry over an Encyclopedia Britannica entry.

But here we are.

And apparently I'm not the only one his life has spoken to. He is now considered one of the most widely influential artists of all time.

(ps if you want to cry over a song, here's one.)

And here's a screen-grab of the stills I saw that started me down this rabbit hole:

The thing about stars is, you can only see them at night. You can only really see them when everything around you is really dark. 

And hope shines steady through the starry night. 

(Did we miss it? We did not. God splashed the metaphor all over Bethlehem's night sky. The gift of the darkness is this: hope shines on.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.


Thursday, December 15, 2022

On missing the Christmas concert

I shivered in bed
Three friends sent me videos
Looks like love to me


Thanks, friends. xo.

Tuesday, December 13, 2022

A star and a lump in the throat

 A hope, a wish, a dream,
A baby
A cat and a saucer of cream,
A baby
A longing, a hunger,
A thousand years late
A light and a shepherd
A loaf, a gate
A prophet is sighing
A fig tree is dying
The soldier is stoic
But his wife won't stop crying
A fish and a boat
A lamb and a goat
A star and a lump in the throat
A baby



Monday, December 12, 2022

If a snowflake falls down slow

If

A snowflake falls down slow
And gentle to a spot down low
And snow piles up on top of snow

And

Sunlight shafts through curtains pulled
From far-off star to distant world
And light falls down without a word

And

Wind whips wild a kilometer high
And paints her sails across the sky
Yet skims your earth-bound laundry-line

Then
(I think)

Gravity likes holding things
Close to her breast, a treasuring
(And even, once, a holy king).



Sunday, December 11, 2022

Never once did I ever walk alone -

Last night, we made our kids put on their boots and jackets and walk to the corner to watch the Santa Claus parade. After a week inside fighting the flu, they were pretty low on energy. Two of them gave up and walked home, and two stayed til the bitter end. (And it was bitter! The wind had bite.)


Near the end of the parade, a young mom with a teeny tiny baby joined us. "Better late than never," she laughed self-consciously.

And just - that little baby all bundled up, that young mama with her unzipped jacket and breathless evidence of hurrying - it took me right back to when Sam was a baby and I didn't yet know how to juggle my needs and his needs and if I showed up to anything at all I was usually late, underdressed, and flustered. 

I smiled at her and told her how cute her little baby was. "It's his first parade," she beamed, "he's three months old."  He was looking around so alert, so bright - the flashing lights and Christmas music a thing of wonder.

"Do you have your phone?" I asked her, "can I take a picture of you guys at his first parade for you?"

She directed me to take the phone out of her purse, and teared up a little bit. "His dad's at work, and I didn't want him to miss it," she said, "could you take a little video too, so he can see it? Thank you so so much!"

"Moms have to have each others backs," I laughed, "no problem."

And she told me how hard it was to be raising him away from her family, wishing she could be closer to her mom, especially during Christmas. And I told her I knew that feeling too, raising four kids with my own mom far away. 

And today I was thinking about that, and I was thinking about all the ways other moms have stepped in and had my back. I haven't had my own little mama, with her readiness to laugh and play and just relax into a moment - but I have not been momming alone.

All the women who showered me with gifts when Sam was born and we couldn't afford a thing. The neighbours who made birthday cakes and passed treats over the fence as they watched the kids grow. The playgroup moms who offered a breath of fresh air.  The ladies from church who brought meals for two weeks after the birth of each child. The dinner club moms who shared their stories and prayers, hopes and fears. The bus stop moms who shared a chat on both ends of the day. The Sunday School moms who took turns teaching the kids Bible stories and songs. Online moms who have cheered my kids on through the screen. The park moms who became friends. Neighbour moms who let the kids play together in fun backyards. The teachers and staff at school who loved my kids like their own. The beach moms who shared sunscreen and shovels and floaties. The friends-with-older-kids whose advice is worth its weight in rubies. The kidless friends who bent their schedules around our kids' bedtime routine to make game night happen.  

Never once did I ever walk alone. God sent me so many moms.

I have been loved and held by all the people who have had my back - who have cheered me on, laughed with me, passed me extra baby wipes when I didn't pack enough. 

And friends who have taken my picture when my hands were full of babies.

Thank you, friends - you are treasures, one and all.

Merry Christmas. xo.


(*I also need to say, Patrick is an incredible dad, and I have never felt like I am raising the kids alone. He is hands-on, patient, funny, and so so loving. He works hard all day at work and comes home and jumps right in. I could not ask for a better partner in all of this.)

Saturday, December 10, 2022

It sure is nice

Sam is tall and quiet, with a goofy sense of humour that comes pouring out when he's around his favourite friends. He loves funny YouTube videos, he loves to read, he loves to play with figurines and set up epic battles. 
When he got out of bed this morning, he just happened to come out of his room when everyone else had converged in the hallway. 
I was stepping into the bathroom so I called good morning, and the others all hugged him hello.
When we met in the kitchen a few minutes later, he was grinning.
"You look happy today," I said.
"It sure is nice to start your day with a bunch of people who love you," he said.

A gift like that can warm your heart all year long.

Wishing you a moment of knowing that the people you love loved to be loved by you - 

Merry Christmas friends ❤️
Xo.

Known



Mary said to the angel: how will this be, since I am a virgin? (literally, I do not know a man) (Luke 1:34)

Mary had never known a man. I love that old-school phrase, because it carries in within it an acknowledgement of the togetherness that is kerneled up in oneness: knowing, and being known.

God knows us.
He knows us.
We are not alone.
He came to us.

Immanuel, God with us.
Merry Christmas friends. Xo.

Thursday, December 8, 2022

Common Grace

If you find yourself some freedom,
With ability, and time,
And this freedom coincides
With a moonlit night like mine -
Take your dog and take your leash
Slip your arms into your coat
Stuff your feet into your boots
Zip your zip up to your throat.
Walk or skip or run as sprightly
As your boots and bones allow
To the closest wildish place
And - if your dog stands still somehow -
Tip your head up to the sky
Let the wind caress your face
Drink the beauty and the stillness
As you bathe in common grace.



It's a beautiful night out there :) 

Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.


Wednesday, December 7, 2022

$50 000

I was blown away this week when I read that a local business donated $50 000 to three local food banks during the Christmas food drive. They could have put it in their own pockets -

And since I was already mulling over the idea of Jubilee and Sabbath years, it tangled together in my head and I realized - I've never really thought about what Jubilee would be like from the perspective of a wealthy person.

When I read "all debts are forgiven" and "anyone with extra food opens their storehouses so no one goes hungry," I unconsciously imagine myself as the person whose debt is forgiven, the person who can fill up a waning cupboard again. 

And Jubilee blew my mind all over again, because it obviously blesses both the poor and the wealthy.

The poor? Their prayers are answered, food is available, and their debt is erased. They can start working forward again - building their future with joy and reaping the reward of their work. This seems like the obvious benefit of Jubilee to me - to feed and clothe and offer respite to the poor.

But the wealthy? What do they get out of Jubilee? They have to open their storehouses and share any abundance. They have to let the land rest from its constant cycle of planting and harvesting. They have to let the labourers rest too. So their stockpiles ebb, maybe entirely away. Their next few years will be leaner. 

I think this gives them the blessing of community, and sets them free from being envied. (When you know your landlord will open the silo and share the grain with you, you celebrate their success.) And it releases both the poor and the wealthy from worshiping money as the road to freedom or esteem, and sets them free as co-recipients of common grace. They can both rejoice when the crop succeeds, when the business booms, when resources pile up - because they will not be ground down by it. There will be sharing, and rest. And they can both be free from temptation to despair - because the highs will be made lower and the valleys will not be as steep. 

Jubilee reminds us that all blessing comes from God and is not God. It reminds us that we're stewards of the blessings we have received, and reminds us to freely give, as we have freely received. Jubilee resets our focus to remember to love God and love our neighbour.

And clearly, I'm not an ancient Israelite. I'm Canadian.

Jubilee isn't Canadian law. It has no legal claim on me, on us.

But His law is love, and His gospel is peace. God opened His heart and shared His Son with us. He gave his best and loved His little neighbours as Himself. And at Christmas, especially, I get a frisson of delight every time I see a snapshot of Jubilee. 

Throw open the storehouse doors! Forgive debts, feed the hungry, rescue the oppressed. Donate to the food banks, volunteer at a shelter, welcome refugees. Because our Jubilee - Jesus - has come. 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.


Tuesday, December 6, 2022

Shmita, Yovel

I've been reading about the Jewish Shmita, the sabbatical year, when the land and produce and debts and indentured servants should all be forgiven, and given rest and release.  I wanted to know if Jesus could have been born during a Shmita year, or maybe even Yovel - the year of Jubilee, a mega-sabbath, which was supposed to be observed (after? in lieu of?) every seventh Shmita.

It turns out there's a bit of argument about what year is a Shmita year, and even more argument about Yovel years - should Jubilee be marked every 49th year, as the seventh seven? Or on the 50th year, as the year after the year of Shmita. I read theories about Jesus being born in April, and theories of him being born in September. Some speculate he was born on what we now count as 1 AD (or CE), some think it was year 3, others say year 6-7. But nothing conclusive about him being born during a Shmita or Yovel or plain old ordinary year.

To me, it doesn't matter. I was just curious because Jesus seems so Jubilee-y to me.

 Maybe my favourite and most-chewed-over passages of scripture is the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus teaches his followers to offer forgiveness and renewal and freedom to others, just like the Hebrews were commanded for the year of Jubilee. Forgive debts. Feed the hungry. Welcome strangers. Live graciously and generously toward others, the way God lives toward you.

Our culture does this most at Christmas, I think. Just today I saw two notices about free Holiday meals for any and all, and sign-up sheets for donations for Christmas gifts for the needy have made their rounds from the school.  It's a mini Jubilee to celebrate His birthday.

During Jesus' first recorded sermon, He read this from the Isaiah scroll in the synagogue in Nazareth:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.

And then he told everyone, "today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing."

What's the year of the Lord's favour? Yep, you guessed it: Jubilee 😊. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

xo.

Monday, December 5, 2022

Who are dear to us

Today Kachi was bored. 

The kids are all sick again, just ten days after getting over fevers. Kachi, who'd been the most sick last time, is the least sick this time. He's got a cough and less energy, but no fever.  So while the other kids have been drifting in and out of naps on the couch, Kachi hasn't had a lot to do.

So, instead, he has spent a lot of time and diligence writing books. They are heavy on stick-figure illustrations with lots of action and weapons, and a few words. 


His fourth book was about himself and his best friend. He illustrated as many playdates as he could remember, one after another. After he'd finished, he climbed upstairs to find me and threw himself at me with a deep sigh. 

"I'm feeling so emotional now," he explained, eyes a little full, "Just from thinking about my best friend."  

And part of me wanted to laugh. (I did not. I hugged him tight and told him I was so glad he had such a wonderful friend.)

And then I wondered why - why did I want to laugh? Did I think it was silly, that an 8 year old should feel the weight, the magnitude of examining his closest, dearest friendship? Has it been so long since I did the same? 

Just last night, I teared up over friends who decorated their lawn stump.

I, too, sit down and write stories about mine.

Jesus, too, teared up over his friends.

Jesus, too, told stories about them. 

God, too, filled the universe with pictures and wonder and mysteries and people that make him - yes, a good word choice - emotional.

And at Christmas we sing and retell. We bring gifts and retell. We reenact the story of love given and feel the weight of it, year after year.

I kissed the top of Kachi's head.
"Same, little apple," said the tree.

 

Merry Christmas, dear, dear friends. xo.

Sunday, December 4, 2022

The Festive Stump (with apologies and thanks, to P&A)

My friends posted a picture of their house and yard all aglow with Christmas lights. And right down at the corner where the yard meets the street and driveway, there's a squat mass all wrapped up and glorious in a tangle of brilliant colours.

Guys.
They have a Festive Stump.
They wrap it in lights like a favourite tree. No matter that it's short and branchless.
No matter.

Thirteen years ago, in one terrible summer, Patrick and I lost our jobs, lost our apartment, and miscarried our baby. On moving day our family was busy, but these friends showed up at our door. 

We had packed up most of our things, but I hadn't been able to deal with the room full of unused and unusable baby things.

They came in and started helping. My friend gently and kindly helped me choose the special things I wanted to keep, while her husband and Patrick moved the furniture. They were so helpful and spacious and ready to laugh and ready to cry with us.

Truly, my heart was not prepared for happiness that day. But the thing that stands out the most was after we had worked and sweated and worked some more, we sat down on the floor in the empty apartment and scavenged snacks from the mostly empty fridge. We ate pepperettes and drank ciders and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

That day echoes with joy, because they were with us.

They've got a history of wrapping heartache in beauty. 

It looks like a Festive Stump.

It looks like love.

Tomorrow I'm going to find the ugliest part of my house and put some lights on it. I'm going to make like Peter and Angela, and make it special. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 
Xo.

Saturday, December 3, 2022

It might feel scary


My friend recently shared her testimony at church. The service was on YouTube, and she sent me a link so I could hear her speak.

After I'd finished listening to her piece, the link stayed active in my YouTube library, and when I was searching for music to listen to while I worked on my kitchen, I saw the video and decided to listen to the rest of the service.

I was mixing up waterproof concrete, working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. (I do not want to be working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. But I am. We paid for a full kitchen 3 years ago, and our contractor lost our money in his addictions. So we have been living in this unfinished state and it has been breaking my heart away in chunks. Our brief renovation has turned into a massive part of our lives - a full half of Pascal's existence - and the things we have completed since then keep breaking down too. New stove. New sink. The van. Even my foot has decided to break down.  Anyway, I'm not telling you this because I want to dwell on grief, but because I want you to know the frustration and resentment that was colouring my mental space when I was listening to this message. I was not feeling hopeful or glad.)

Suddenly this sentence sliced through my fog.
 
It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.  

I backed it up and listened to the message again. The preacher was speaking about hope. 

Before Jesus was born, the Hebrew people had been waiting to hear from God for over 400 years. This God, the one who spoke the world into existence, who spoke in storms and stillness, spoke through prophets and donkeys and little slave girls, spoke to kings and judges and embittered concubines ... This God of theirs who speaks and speaks and speaks hadn't spoken to them collectively for over 
Four
Hundred
Years.

Fear not, the angel told Zechariah, the angel told Mary, the angel told Joseph, the angels told the shepherds; He is with us.

They needed to be reminded - and I need to be reminded - not to fear the believing. Because it's scary to believe, and it's especially scary to believe after hope deferred. (Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12. That's exactly how it feels. Heartsick.)

It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

And these people who had waited and waited and waited for a word from God? They got their word.  The very Word they had longed for came into the world and cried and loved and spoke -- spoke to priests and prostitutes, fishermen and widows, people of all types, rich and poor and eager and reluctant and fearful and brave.  And those who believed were filled with joy.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12, but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life.

It is scary to dare to hope - it is scary, and hard, to stand in the middle of broken dreams and fruitless work and choose to hope, anyway. It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

Merry, brave Christmas, dear ones.
Xo.

Friday, December 2, 2022

Candles in the window

My parents had these candles when I was little. Every year when we'd start bugging them about putting up Christmas lights, they'd drag them out of some box somewhere and plug them in, setting them in the windows.


I remember - oh, maybe back in grade 7 or 8 - walking home in the gathering dark after play practice, looking at all the different lights in all the different houses. I didn't have music to listen to, and this was at least a decade before phones, and it was too dark to walk and read - so I'd just walk, and think, as the stars winked on overhead.

Not every house had Christmas lights, but many did. My favourite were always white lights - not the bluey white lights, which made my eyes hurt, but warm white, which felt a little more like candles. 

And it always felt like something special, coming up the street and seeing the candles flickering in the windows. The very world felt alight, holding back the dark in ways both literal and metaphorical. 

I spied on it all, walking through the still blue evening, listening to my backpack scritch against my winter jacket, wind purring against my face.

Anyway. I mentioned to my parents last year that I missed the plastic candles from my childhood, and this summer they brought them to me. When my kids started asking when we were going to decorate for Christmas, I heaved a sigh. (I hurt my foot in November, and climbing stairs is extra sore). But I went up into the attic and dragged down two boxes full of decorations. We plugged these candles in and -
Instant Christmas magic.

For a few moments, I felt that giddy wave flash over me - the excitement and freedom of being young, walking home alone in the dark, looking at Christmas lights. 

I hope you feel it too.

Merry Christmas, friends. 
Xo.

Thursday, December 1, 2022

I don't know why it's a swimming metaphor either, sorry

The waves haven't stopped crashing
And I am finding it harder and harder to swim.

But tonight, a raft:
A gangly dog heard my tears
And climbed up onto my couch,
And insisted on being right on top of me.
She wrapped her forelegs tight around my neck
And pressed her whiskered cheek against my hair.
She hugged, and hugged, and hugged.

May many rafts, furry or otherwise,
Make their way to you when you need them
As you row, or paddle,
Or swim through many waters.


(If you are a new reader, welcome. I keep my own little advent calendar here on this blog, by opening up doors and peering inside and sharing what I see. Today is Dec 1, and the first post in my 24-day series.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.


The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined. - Isaiah 9:2, and Matthew 4:16