Comfort and Joy

Today, we were driving down the road and Sam peered ahead through the front window.  He stared intently into the distance, then finally concluded, "that's either a flashlight, or a bear with two thirsty dogs."

I don't even know.  I can't wrap my head around the mental processes that come up with that kind of result.  But I love it.  I laughed so hard I cried.  

I've been feeling a little soul-frayed.  Just tired.  Every day seems to steamroll from one hour to the next, and tomorrow morning begins before I realize that today's ended.  You know?  Just a blur.

I'm so glad for my silly kids.  I'm so glad for Sam making me laugh, because goodness knows I wouldn't stop to do it without his irresistible prompting. 

This morning, Sam and Vava were anxiously awaiting sunrise.  They wanted to go to playgroup, but I told them we wouldn't go until it was light out.  When breakfast was over, Sam suddenly realized it was daylight.  "Oh look!" he exclaimed in genuine surprise, "Thank you, God, for making the sun shine!"  His gratitude took my breath away.  I think, this morning, God sent the sunrise just for him - and glory shone from His glad heart.

I'm trying to let every scrap of joy shine straight into my bleary, tired heart.  Soak up the laughter, luxuriate in delight - gratefully, gladly unwrapping every gift He sends me.  

Thank you, God, for sunrise ... and for flashlights and bears and two thirsty dogs.

xo.

Love Has a Way

Like most women, I suppose, I have a bad habit of standing before the mirror and criticizing everything I can find.  This morning, I unintentionally made an exception.  I saw, unmistakably present up high on my forehead, an age spot.  An age spot.  And my heart thrilled.
I laughed when I realized the absurdity of my response, but there it was, as evident as my age spot - what I was feeling was happiness, plain and simple.
You see, when I was young, my heart was knit tight into the heart of a very kind, very loving, impossibly dear old man.  He was thin and had a hookish nose, and yes - his hands and face were generously covered in age spots.
I can't see him as anything other than beautiful.  So when I see myself starting to look like him, even a little bit, I'm glad.

It's love ... love makes all the difference.  Love has this way of making everything beautiful.

I pulled out my photo album and tried to see if my Grampie was actually a handsome man - if perhaps those age spots were distinguished, well-placed, artistic.  I couldn't tell.  I couldn't see anything but how wonderful he was.  But I suspect that someone who didn't know him might not think his photos to be anything extraordinary.

I think the traditions of Christmas are kind of like a photo album.

To someone looking on, someone who doesn't know Jesus, the whole thing must seem a bit silly.  Excessive, even.  A month of counting down, to a day that likely wasn't the actual day of His birth, with candles and nativity scenes?  Sunday school plays and the same boring hymns, year after year?

But for those of us who know His love, Christmas is warmer and brighter than sun-soaked August.  We love to turn back the pages, again and again, to see His face.

The Christmas story? We don't just see a poor family with a baby sleeping in a manger.  We see glorious God, making Himself humble, coming to take our place.  We see love ... and love has a way of making everything beautiful.

Like Us.

This morning, all three kids were in the tub together.  Sam was playing pretty vigorously and I warned him not to splash on Kachi's face. 

"Or Jesus will cry?" he asked, "Little Jesus?"

"Jesus wants us to be kind to each other, yes - but He's not a baby anymore," I explained.

"Is He a big boy like me?" Sam asked.

"No, He grew all the way up," I answered, "but He was a boy like you. He was a baby, and a kid, and a grown-up." 

"Like Baby Kachi?  Like me and Vava? Like you and Papa?" Sam asked.

"Yes ... like all of us."

Like all of us. :)  That's the reason for all the comfort and joy, for everyone telling you to be of good cheer, for the thrill of hope ... He became one of us. That first Christmas day dawned a day of grace, God with us, Jesus, Son of man!

Like you, friend :).
xo.

Advent(ure)

Vava woke up from her nap yesterday, and said, in her soft voice and ordinary way,

"I'm feeling brave.  Let's do something awesome."

 I love this kid.  I wanted to pack our suitcases and hop on a plane to Zambia.  Because I love it there, and going there - alone, without knowing a soul before I arrived - is probably the bravest, awesomest thing I've done.  

I went because God asked me.  He gave me that restless stirring in my soul that wouldn't settle until I went.  When I told Him yes, I felt the wildest flare of adventure, and the deepest sense of rest.  The boldest sort of peace. 

“There is no way to peace along the way of safety. For peace must be dared. It is itself the great venture and can never be safe. Peace is the opposite of security." - Deitrich Bonhoeffer.

I want to teach my kids to follow that voice. Not to follow the safe paths, the ducks-in-a-row paths, but to chase hard after the voice of God and settle for nothing less than the peace of being true to Him.  (Even if they have a deep-down horror of snakes and He tells them to go live where they will see snakes, maybe even touch them.  Even then.)

When Mary turned up pregnant, Joseph was prepared to do the good thing.  He supposed she had slept with someone else, and prepared to quietly divorce her, instead of exacting his legal rights against her.  It was a gentle, safe course.  But an angel came to him in a dream and brought a message from God - marry her.  This child is the Son of God, she hasn't sinned against you. And this babe will save His people from their sins.

It's all kinds of crazy.  It takes all kinds of bravery to do something this awesome.  To trust against logic.  To step into God's will when He's asking you to do something outside of your comfort zone.  To acknowledge the restlessness and dare to seek His peace.  

I think Joseph woke up from his dream feeling wild and sure.  I think he looked at his betrothed and said,

"I'm feeling brave.  Let's do something awesome."

Wishing you that extraordinary peace, friends.   
xo.

O Come O Come Emmanuel

In 2009, after we'd miscarried again, I couldn't seem to stop crying.  Any time my heart was touched, I overflowed. Everything lovely - and certainly everything sad - gave me pain. 

My mom had tickets to a ladies' event at the Full Gospel church, and she invited me to come.  It was in their beautiful new building, with soft lighting and pleasant seating.  The worship music and prayer were deep and sincere and - yes - made me cry. 

I'm not a pretty cry-er.  My eyes get fiercely, horror-movie red, and my nose runs.  It's pretty embarrassing, and the last thing I want is someone noticing me.  It was right at this sob-tacular time that an old friend of my mom's recognized her, and came over for a hug.  My mom quietly explained my sore heart, and I found myself wrapped in kind arms and a tender voice began to pray for me. 

Before we left that day, she told me she was going to keep on regularly praying for me, that God would bless me with children.  Five years later, with three wonderful kids and my hours full to bursting (and my heart), I am so so glad for her prayers. 

The precious thing is, we haven't been in touch.  All this time, she's been praying for me, not knowing that her prayers have long been richly answered.  And recently my mom spoke with her again, and told her the good news -

It made me think of all those who were praying for the Messiah, before Jesus came.  They weren't all informed of His birth.  The Shepherds knew, the Magi knew, Anna and Simeon knew ... but most of them?  They just kept right on praying. And waiting. And waiting. In hope.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel has come to you, O Israel.

The Saviour has come.  The prayers have been heard.  The baby is born.

He hears.  He's here.  Our God is with us.

Love Is Worth

We watched Twelve Years A Slave tonight. It was so hard, so gut-wrenching I had to keep turning away. There was one horrifying part where a mother and her children were sold to separate buyers. There are no words ...

I thought about my own kids and their personalities. If we were separated, how would they fare? Would Sam continue to be the buoyant, determined little scrapper I love? Would Vava be tender and kind, in an abrasive, abusive setting?

I want them to be stone-strong, impervious to the injury and violence of the world. I half wish I could barricade their souls against threat or attack. My heart constricts at the thought of what life might bring their way.

The prophet Simeon told Mary about this feeling when she & Joseph took Jesus to be presented in the temple. Knowing what would happen to that sweet babe, Simeon warned her that a sword would pierce her soul also ...

That's a pretty good description of the weight we bear for those we love. A sword piercing the soul. 

But who would trade it in? Would I give up loving these children so as to not suffer pain? Never.

Love is worth the sword in the soul.

Ask Mary as she bows and says "I am the servant of the Lord." Ask Joseph as he worships the babe his virgin wife brought into the world. Ask the Magi who left all, to bow before this crownless King. Ask Jesus, as he leaves glory and radiant splendour for a hateful world.

Yes. It will hurt.

But ... Christmas shows us the truth, God's glorious heart laid bare in the manger:

Love is worth the sword in the soul.

Too

[Official Video] Little Drummer Boy - Pentatonix: http://youtu.be/qJ_MGWio-vc

I love this song.

It's so simple, but it's about me, about us, and the way we're all poor and emptyhanded when we come to worship our Redeemer.

I used to listen to this on the radio, sitting in the backseat of our car while my parents drove through December rain.

I always thought that the too in "I am a poor boy too" was referring to previous description of the drummer boy ... these wise men brought me suddenly, I didn't know what to bring you, and on top of that I'm poor.

But of course the really astonishing beauty is that Jesus came as a poor boy.  The blessed Messiah, Emmanuel, really really came to be with us. Not just walk among us, but became one of us - too.

I AM, a poor boy too ...

The best gift that Christmas wasn't gold, frankincense, myrrh ... or even a song. It was the tiny poor boy - named Jesus. :)  

xo.

If Only In My Dreams

This afternoon, Sam came upstairs with me to wake Vava from her nap.  She wakes up so gorgeously - her eyes flutter, she stretches, closes her eyes, lies still.  Then she opens up those deep blue eyes, wide awake all at once, puts out her arms for a hug and asks (always the same question): "Sam?"

It just gets me.  It's clear that she can't imagine a moment without him.

There's something about siblings that can't be replicated.  It's the togetheriest togetherness I know. 

I miss my sisters and brother so much.  Living so far apart is really hard.  I can't believe my brother has a son I've never met - and I have a son none of my siblings have met.  I'm so grateful we can keep in touch online and share pictures and stories, but my heart hungers for the day when I can sit next to them and introduce them to my kids and we can all love each others' people in person.

That's one of the craziest things about Mary's journey to Bethlehem.  As far as we know, she went alone with Joseph.  No mother, no sisters to hold her hand and bring her fresh towels and comfort her through the whirlwind of pain as she delivered.  No father or big brother to smile down on that precious brand new darling, to hold him in their big hands and make him seem even more impossibly small. 

(Because that's how we are. God builds into us little reflections of His character - His three-in-one-ness echoes in the way we thrive in community, in family, in intimacy.  We crave closeness because it's part of His character.) 

She must have ached, that silent night, for a their voices, their experience, their presence as she bore this perfect Baby. 

(And that baby, God incarnate, separated Himself from Heaven and crossed the chasm to humankind. He came to bring a Heaven full of siblings home ... but that's a story for another day ;).)

When the distance stings this time of year, and your dreams are filled with home and family, and you can barely keep from reaching out for them when you wake: take comfort.  This longing?  This love that aches and stretches across the wide earth and does not diminish?  This, this is the heart of Christmas.

xo.

Merry and Bright

Late afternoon is our tough hour.  The kids and I have been around each other all day, and all the tasks seem to need (re)doing at once - making supper, feeding the baby, and tidying up.

Today, just around 5, I was feeding Kachi while Sam and Vava were supposed to be picking up their toys.  They spent most of this time wrestling and yelling, interspersed with the occasional crying spell.  The one exception? After a visit to the potty, Sam decided not to put his pants back on, but crouched down and pulled his sweater over his knees.  He waddled around the living room making silly noises, crowing "wook-a-me!"  I started to scowl.  I really did.  I felt my eyebrows draw together and I almost barked  "you're supposed to be picking up toys!" But it was so funny and silly, and a welcome change from the tired & wired scrapping ... so I relented, and let it in.  I let that happiness right in, and laughed along with them.  Vava was thrilled with her short, chubby brother, and Sam was impressed with his own skill at squat-walking, and their laughter was irresistible. 

It's easy, in the Christmas rush at the end of the year, to be focused on work and the crush of demands.  To think about my have-to-do list instead of my get-to-do life.  Of course God used my kids to remind me that the One who came to us as a child welcomed the interruption of children ...welcomed them right in, and declared that "of such is the kingdom of Heaven".

Ahh I need the reminder every day.  I tend to Scrooge when I get my head stuck in my own schedule, my gaze focused on my own plans.  I guess that's probably why He sent me these exasperating, interrupting, hilarious kids ... curious arrows, who keep pointing me out of myself and straight to the expansive joy found in the welcoming heart of God.

May your hearts be merry and bright, friends.
xo.

Love Actually Is All Around

I had to text Patrick earlier this week and apologize for my attitude lately.  I've been a bear.  I think the glossy happiness of Kachi's arrival had worn off sometime between weeks 5 and 6, and the excitement had turned into plain old hard work and sleep deprivation.  I expected it, the hard work, but somewhere along the way it's all I started to see.  And that's the thing about my heart - I find it much easier to see the gloomy things than the good things, even when they're both present.  Someone must have been praying for me this week, though, because God knocked on my heart and reminded me to keep my eyes open ... there is so much good.  At the risk of sounding like a Christmas cliché, love actually is all around.

The thing is, I need to set my eyes on seeing it, instead of seeing the misery.

This blog post rolled around my facebook newsfeed a while ago.  I skipped over it until it was probably the last thing left to read.

Maybe I had a hunch it would be as convicting as it was.

The author states that the most overlooked characteristic in seeking a spouse is whether or not they suffer well.  I knew before I'd half finished that I have a lot to work on. 

I think I'm actually pretty good in a crisis.  When something goes wrong that's dramatic and sudden, I'm your woman.  Need to rig up an emergency survival kit with a used kleenex, bent nail, and soggy receipts?  I can do that.  (Okay, not that exactly, but I'm fairly resourceful.)  Need to feed an unexpected crowd with scant groceries?  No problem.  Even in the pinchiest pinch, I can manage well. But suffer well?

I stink at it.

I chafe in long term endurance.  It takes me a realllllllly long time to accept suffering as being out of my control.  I'm not good at holding my peace, resting, trusting in the midst of suffering.  I stew about it.  I brood.  I think about the way I wish things were, I think about ways to end it all, I desperately scrounge for any other way but the suffering way.

And I'm miserable in it.  I'm not like one of those people in a movie montage, striving against suffering with their chin up and eyes fixed on some mystic horizon.  I'm just a grouch.  And oh, if anyone on this earth deserves more in their spouse, it's Patrick.  He suffers well.  He endures with hope. (Ha! He gets lots of practice, enduring me ;) )

I think that my response would have been less like Mary's, and more like Zachariah's.  When hearing that God had chosen me to bear the Son, to bear the disbelief, to bear the shame - I would have been scrambling for a way to make it work on my own terms.  To rig up some sort of in-a-pinch fix to hide the pregnancy until marriage.  Begging God for proof against gossip and criticism, some heavenly sign that I hadn't done anything wrong to show the world.

But Mary?  She didn't trust in her own contrivance, but believed God.  I am the servant of the Lord, she said, Let it be to me according to your word.  That was her hope - His Word. 

As I count down these days to Christmas, waiting, like Mary, and walking in hope, I want to cling to her example.  To believe God that His Word is enough.  To say - I am your servant.  Let it be. 

And suffer well, with my eyes on all the good that surrounds me, til the delivery of joy.

Gloria

We took the kids to see the Holiday Train tonight.  It's all lit up for Christmas, chugging across the country, stopping in towns and putting on a Christmas show to raise money and collect donations for local food banks. It was awesome - freezing, and way too late for our early-to-bed babes, but awesome. 

The bliss-moment that made both Patrick and I grin came at the end of the first song.  The crowd had been singing along with the band, kids dancing and glow-sticks whirling - and as the drums boomed the song to a close, the whole crowd burst into cheers and applause, and both Sam and Vava joined in - shrieking with delight and clapping their mittened hands as hard as they could.  Their eyes shone like stars.  I don't think I could feel my toes at that point, but it didn't matter.  That great gorgeous feeling - a big communal joy - flowed through the crowd in a riot of glory.

I think the night when the angels came and announced Jesus' birth to the shepherds must have been kind of like that.

I miss it, quiet in my room, reading sedate words on the page.  An angel appears and announces Jesus' birth  ... it just reads a lot more sedately than it must have been.  But seeing the kids glowing with wonder gave me a bit of a glimpse -

I think it was a lot more like that shivery joy, that big wave of bliss.  An angel appears, and a spotlight shafts through the velvet night.  His voice must have boomed like it was carried on amplifiers as he pronounced that This Is THE NIGHT - The Saviour Is Born This Day!  And the astonishing words hovered, briefly, in the stillness ... then the accompanying host stepped out of the wings and began to sing.  And I'm not picturing it as a cluster of two or three demure angels either, because the Scriptures say it was "a multitude of the heavenly host."  A multitude!  I'm seeing a crowd, happiness mounting as they look from one to another, singing with everything they had - harmonies and hands clapping (and maybe a little beatboxing?) and joy resonating from heart to heart.

There's something in me that wants to worship God alone, in the quiet and stillness of my own heart.  But there's something in me, too, that wants to worship Him in a huge and glad crowd, lost in that swell of community and gladness.  It's what makes me love flash mobs and concerts and the whole congregation standing to sing in church. 

Gloria in excelsis deo, from a thousand lips.

I hope you find yourself in a happy crowd this Christmas, friends!
xo :)

It Begins, Of Course, with a Baby

This Sunday, a woman stood in front of the congregation and shared her salvation-story.  It began, like many of my favourites, with adoption. (I love a good adoption story.  The classic themes touch my heart - family, redemption, love, happily ever after.  The correlation with Jesus' journey here to bring us back home makes me crack wide open.)  But this one was a little different.  It wasn't a baby that God was bringing to her, but that God brought her to himself, through her baby.

She was adopting a child, and while she waited for her to arrive, was struck with her own inadequacy to raise a child.  She knew she needed more, something better, someOne bigger, to help her.  So she went looking, and found a gospel church where she was led to the best help - the Saviour.

As Advent begins, we're already thinking about Christmas - the birth of the baby who came to bring us to God.  And to think that God still sends babies to bring us to Him? Ahh, a deep breath of wonder.

My own life is crazy these days.  Full of the mixed-up stress of juggling and loving three needy littles.  Filling them up with goodness because every minute counts.  Staying up half the night, lolling half-awake on the couch half the day because the tyranny of every moment counting has to collapse somewhere.  It doesn't look a lot like the gospel, really.  But Jesus must matter whenever there's need - because that's what the gospel is.  Good news for the broken.  And in my broken exhaustion, how does the gospel heal?  How does the Bethlehem Babe matter?

He came right into the mess, didn't He? He didn't shimmer down through angel wings and a stream of gold to a pristine cradle.  He came into the world in a glut of mother-pain and was welcomed into the everyday messiness of a stable.  And angels sent shepherds right on in, right there, to worship.  They didn't wait til He had grown up and made order from the mess.  They came and saw and bowed, in awe at the strange and staggering glory of Emmanuel - God, with us.

So here, in my own mess?  He uses, of course, my children, to point me to Him.  Their quick forgiveness.  Their delight in loving.  Their sheer miraculous existence.  He's here - changing my stubborn heart, working and reworking my character to make me holy.  Prying the self-idol out of my grasp.  Laughing with me at my absurd expectations of this messy world.  He's right here in my stable and I -

What can I do?  I can look at the unsatisfactory stable, or I can see the One who makes the mess irrelevant.  I can see a manger, or my Saviour.  Here in my own not-enough-room.  Here on my own journey far from home.  Here in my not-what-I-planned life.  He meets me in my mess, and His holiness stills my heart.  I bow and worship, babe in a manger, Son of God, Son of man.  Right here, bone-tired and flecked with spit-up, I worship.

Have a blessed advent, friends.
xo.