Like Everyone Forgot

In the middle of the night last night, Sam came into our room.

"Mama! Papa! My tooth came out!" he announced.  He's been wiggling this loose tooth for what seems like ages.  It's only his third ever, so he's still pretty excited about it.

I barely twitched.  "Don't wake up Pascal; whisper!" I responded automatically from the depths of tired-mama-land, "put it somewhere safe and we'll look at it tomorrow."

"But it's got blood on it," he whispered.

"Wash it off and go back to bed," Patrick replied.

Sam tiptoed back out and closed our door, went to the bathroom and washed his tooth, tucked it inside the cupboard, and went back to bed.

Patrick and I both completely forgot.

Sam was in the middle of putting on his snowpants and talking a mile a minute this morning when I noticed his missing tooth and it all came rushing back.  His tooth!  We didn't even wake up and get excited with him, we didn't even help him, we didn't anything - just shushed him and sent him back to bed as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

And then forgot.

I can't help feeling like the same thing happened with the Christmas story.

There was this astonishing night, this star-spangled sky, angels singing, shepherds rushing away from flocks, a virgin giving birth in Bethlehem, prophets rejoicing in the temple ...

and then nothing.

It was like everyone forgot.  Everyone came down with the same middle-aged amnesia that Patrick and I have, where anything that happens before coffee is a blur.

And when He began to teach and do miracles, when He claimed to be the Son of God, I wonder ... did any shepherds nod and smile to themselves, having expected this all along?  Did any wise men direct the king to worship this man, whom they had bowed to in his infancy?

Or did they just all forget?

Do we forget?
Do we forget that God sent His Son, that He came to bear our sin, to offer full forgiveness?  Do we forget through the year that Heaven poured out its brightest gift for us on earth?

In the blur and busyness of everything we've got going on, I do.  I forget so much.
I forget my grocery list and the occasional appointment and a loose tooth and the incredible active kindness of God.

Christmas rolls around every year and reminds us:
He came! He came! He came!

Because we forget.  The ordinary blur is strong.  We need reminding.

Christmas.
God with us.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Fear Not

My favourite verse in scripture is Isaiah 41:10 -
     Fear not, for I am with you;
     be not dismayed, for I am your God;
     I will strengthen you, I will help you,
     I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

It's been my favourite since I first became a Christian.  It has comforted and guided me over the years - it walked with me through Ottawa's cold streets, carried me to the beauties of Zambia, and held my hand through the joys and sorrows of my life with Patrick.

I never noticed until tonight how stuffed it is with Christmas.

On that first Christmas night, when the angel announced Jesus' birth to the shepherds, he began with those words, "Fear not." Of course, there's the specific instance of them being frightened by the sudden appearance of an angel, which would make any of us afraid, but I think the angel's "fear not" is a lot bigger than that.  He doesn't say, "fear not, I'm an angel!" or "fear not, I won't hurt you!" He says, "fear not ... for unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord."  His words offer courage and joy against all their fears.

Lay your fears to rest, shepherds; God has come to us.
Settle your hearts, worriers; He is born unto you.
Take courage, dear ones: Jesus your Saviour is here.
Do not be afraid of the future; the Lord is come.

The angel's announcement that first Christmas night sounded a lot like Isaiah 41:10.  That last line of Isaiah 41:10 - I will uphold you with my righteous right hand - I think it was a little foreshadowing of Jesus himself.  He, of course, is at God's right hand (Hebrews chapter 8, verse 1).  He holds us.  He holds us.

And it's the most comforting thing we can cling to.  It isn't a promise that nothing is scary, it isn't a wish that everything is easy.  It is the outrageous unfurling of pure joy anyway in the face of fear, because Jesus is with us.

Courage, friends.  Courage at Christmas and all the year through.
Jesus is with us.
xo.

Like Family

My parents have been visiting this past week.  They will go home Wednesday, and we will miss them like crazy.  They watched our kids this weekend so we could have a little getaway, and all the other days we have spent with them and with my brother and sister in law.

There's no one like family.

They come over, and everyone helps in the kitchen.  Dad asks for a list of things that need fixing, and appoints himself chief dish washer.  The kids play and fight and take turns in time out.  Mom watches the kids so I can go to appointments and shop solo.  We try out new recipes and revisit old favourites.  When energy flags, someone has usually made a pot of coffee.  It's a comfort and a blessing, to be with family.

So I was really surprised to read the instructions in Leviticus for loving your brother.  Check this out: "If your brother becomes poor and cannot maintain himself with you, you shall support him as though he were a stranger and a sojourner, and he shall live with you." (chapter 5, verse 35)  Support him as though he were a stranger and sojourner - with the implication being that such a person would be well treated?! So then I had to look up instructions for welcoming strangers and sojourners.  Turns out ... "When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God."

I love that God requires us to be hospitable.  I love it because it means He is hospitable.  And yes, the psalmist begs God to care for him on the basis of his being God's sojourner, God's guest: "Hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear to my cry; hold not your peace at my tears! For I am a sojourner with you, a guest, like all my fathers." (Psalm chapter 39, verse 12.)

Especially at Christmas, this teaching boggles the mind.  At Christmas, when love for our family is easy and rich, when we make plans for one another's comfort and joy, when we rejoice to care for our brothers and sisters, our moms and dads - this is how we should care for strangers and travelers.  This is how we should care for the homeless.  This is how we should welcome people who aren't our family - and how we should welcome our family, too.

Because that's what Jesus did.  For us.

To love us as Himself.
To make us strangers, His brothers.
To stretch His arms wide in outrageous hospitality, and welcome all who come to Him.

He loves us as Himself.
Gave His life to swing the door wide open.
And we are loved and welcomed like family.

Merry Christmas, sisters.
Merry Christmas, brothers.
xo.

My Own Ugly Van

I had a panic attack this November.

I'd been outrageously busy, the kids had been sick, and I had a mounting to-do list that I couldn't touch while taking care of them.  The thought of my un-mailed thank you cards was gnawing away at me something fierce, but I couldn't mail them.  I needed to print off photos of Pascal to attach to the front of the cards. And they were so horribly overdue.

Sam and Vava finally went back to school.  It was the first morning in forever when I could actually get things done, and I'd had a gorgeously productive morning, so I thought - why not? Why not get it done now?

I found a picture I liked and tried to order prints from my phone but the Walmart site wasn't working so I turned on Patrick's desktop and it lumbered its way to life while the clock kept whirling and I started to reconsider.  I had a doctor's appointment scheduled for 130pm.  After his rotten behaviour at our last appointment, I didn't want to take Kachi without at least an hour's nap, and we had to leave by 115, so that meant I had to have him asleep by 1215.  So he needed to be eating lunch by 1130 at the latest.  And here we were, 1015 now - could I get it done?

I could feel the uncomfortable squirm of failure twisting at the base of my spine.

And so it began.
I can't even get out the door to pick up thank you cards. FAILURE!
I can't even order thank you cards. FAILURE!
After two and a half months. FAILURE!

But I gritted my teeth and determined that these cards would not be one day later than they already are.  NOT ONE!

After another fifteen minutes of wasting time, trying to figure out how to order prints and failing, I decide to put the kids in the car and go down in person to see if they could do instant prints from my phone.  Surely someone has figured out how to make that magic happen.  We were already dressed, so I just had to put Pascal in his carseat -

Pascal.  He had apparently spat up and I hadn't noticed.  He was soaked and globby from neck to navel, and starting to paw at his mouth.  Hungry and absolutely in need of a change.

And this is when I heard an animal groan come growling out of my mouth.  I felt like my body was being squeezed between what I had to do and what I had to do, my chest and back pressed tight. I felt like I couldn't expand large enough, couldn't reach in enough directions at once.

I heard myself panting, "I ... can't ... do ... it!" and the calm part of my brain observed the panic in my voice and told me to go make Pascal's bottle and find him fresh clothes.

Kachi played in the porch, already wearing his jacket, while I did.  FAILURE!  NO WONDER YOUR KIDS GET COLDS!
Pascal fussed and only took half of his bottle. FAILURE!  HE CAN SENSE YOUR STRESS!
I changed him as fast as I could and left his dirty clothes and used diaper on the floor. FAILURE!  IF YOU CAN'T BE PRETTY OR PROMPT YOU SHOULD AT LEAST BE A GOOD HOUSEKEEPER!
I plunked Kachi down more firmly than I intended on the bench by the door to put on his boots.  FAILURE!  YOU'RE MEAN TOO!
I buckled him into his carseat still wearing his winter jacket, instead of changing him into a safety-approved fleece for the 5-minute drive. FAILURE! SAFETY MATTERS!
I strapped Pascal's carseat into the truck and realized his blanket was dirty.  Obvious spit-up was crusted on the outside.  FAILURE! YOU DIRTY MOM!
'It won't matter,' I told myself, 'it won't matter.  It won't matter.'

But by the time I reached the end of our street the tears began because it DID matter and I knew it shouldn't matter and yet it, inescapably, did.

And then God sent me mercy in the form of a sleeping toddler.  Kachi had fallen asleep before we got to the store, in less than two minutes.  Just drive, God told me.  So I did, I drove and drove for an hour and listened to sad songs on the radio and got coffee in the drive through and the boys slept.  And naptime was taken care of and I cried out all my ragey, panicky tears and just drove.

The sun was warm through the car windows and the sky was cloudlessly blue.

And after an hour I parked back at home and Kachi woke up and asked if we could go to the store.  Pascal started to fuss again so I dashed inside and grabbed another bottle and a clean blanket (because it does matter) and we drove to Walmart and I fed him in the parking lot, sitting in the backseat next to Kachi.  Kachi pointed out all the things he saw and chattered away, happy as a clam, and thankfully oblivious to his mother's blotchy face.  And Pascal burped up all over his fresh blanket too and Kachi and I giggled.

And while we sat there, God sent me more grace.

A woman came through the parking lot, carrying a heavy lot of bags.  She was wearing an elegant black dress coat, and her blonde hair shone in the sun. She was slim and beautiful and she was parked beside us.

In a rusty mom-van.
And when its door slid open, I caught a glimpse of her life.

The middle row held two car seats, and I could see a booster in the back.  From where I sat I could see empty juice boxes and a timbit box and a skipping rope and a big rock that was obviously too irresistible for a toddler to just leave behind at the beach.  There were several single mittens and an empty coffee cup and I could not believe that this beautiful mom was, according to the evidence, an awful lot like me.

And it was okay.
It was okay to be like me.
Somebody slim and beautiful was like me.

And that was enough to help me get out of my head and out of my truck and into the store without even thinking once about Pascal's blanket.

She was just what I needed.  I needed to be reminded that not everyone has everything together, that there are other moms with messy vans and hard days and unmailed thank you cards and it is okay.

That glimpse into her van was a gift straight from God.

My thank you cards? Yeah, I still have a few undelivered. Or more than a few.
I still struggle to find balance with the clock.
I still fight against that harsh critical voice labeling everything as failure.
And my truck is almost always a mess.

But God keeps sending me gifts.  The perspective-shifting that comes from reading His Word.  The catharsis of writing.  You, friends, when you share your own inadequacies with me.  When you see me ugly-crying and pray for me, pray with me.  When you love me anyway.

I don't know where you are, what you're struggling with, but I wanted to share this giift at Christmas - a glimpse into my own ugly van.  Because maybe you need to be reminded that you're not the only one who struggles with panic or anxiety.  Maybe you need to take an hour to just drive.  Maybe you really do have it all together and need to remember to be gentle with those of us who don't.

And when you're out this week with your Christmas shopping, don't rush to close your doors.  Someone like me might just find relief in your cluttered car ;).

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Potted Plants

A friend of mine shared an article today, about potted-plant parenting. It talks about the way that our kids need us to be present, physically present in the background of their lives even when they're growing in independence and don't have anything to say to us or need anything from us.  We add value and security just by being there.

It's such a simple and beautiful analogy, and I remember when I was a teenager feeling exactly that way - feeling like things were right when my parents were puttering around in the house, but missing them and feeling a little lost when they were gone.

I'm old and have kids of my own now, but I still feel that way about mom and dad. They're comforting and beautiful and my life is better because they're in it.  Their conversation and presence is like oxygen.

I don't know about you, but I find myself daily humbled by my own children. I didn't know how much my parents loved me and cared for me and how much hard work they poured into my upbringing until I had kids of my own. 

When God sent Jesus, hope of the world, He planted Him right in the care of a mama and a papa who would keep Him safe, care for him, love him.  Jesus is His gift to the world, but Mary and Joseph were His gift to Jesus.

Mom and Dad: thank you for loving us so much. For visiting us. For taking care of us. For just being here. 

Merry Christmas, friends.
Phone your parents and tell them you love them.
Xo.

Because of the Manger

Sam told me a few weeks ago that he wants to be like God because God is nice and good.
I told him that was great, and went back to being busy.
What I should have told him is that he can be like Him ... because of Christmas. That Jesus became a Son of Man so that we can be called the children of God.  And in the same way that Sam resembles Patrick and I in his actions and attitudes, he can resemble his Heavenly Father too.  That he is creative, because God is the Creator.  That he loves baby Pascal because God is Love.  That all the good and glad things in his heart are there because God is good and glad.

I was saddened to learn of the passing of my friends' father this week.  He was one of the most deeply good men I have ever known.  He was bright and energetic and kind. He loved Jesus and his wife and his children actively and joyfully. His beautiful character was an echo of God's own heart in the world.  He was like Sam's wish - nice and good.

And this year, his family will mark Christmas without him, without that kind and joyful presence among them. But they will not grieve like many. They will grieve with hope.

Because of the manger.
Which led to the cross.
Which led to the grave.
Which led to the sky.
Where Jesus will bring many sons and daughters to glory.

If there are empty places around your table this Christmas, my dear friends, I pray that the manger will whisper its hope of a forever-Christmas to your heart, and give you comfort and peace.

Merry Christmas, friends.
Xo.

Something They Will Love

I haven't bought many presents yet.  Patrick and I haven't shopped for the kids yet.
I know, I know.  It's December fifteenth.  
It's not that I don't want to ... but moments to shop without kids are few and far between.

(It'll get done.)

We did the important presents a few weeks ago.  We took turns taking the kids to the store, and having them choose presents for each other.  They were so adorably excited to have mini dates with mama and papa.

When I took Vava into the toy store, she chose a gift for Sam really quickly.  It was a Doc McStuffins medical kit. I knelt down beside her and pointed to the present.
"Do you think Sam will like this?" I asked.
"Well, he can open it, and I can play with it," she replied.
"The point of a present is to choose something the other person will love," I told her, "try to think about what they like, and choose that."
Armed with that advice, she chose excellent gifts for Sam and Kachi.  I can't wait to watch them open each others' presents.

Sam and I were lying in his bed the other night, doing our little bedtime routine of stories, songs, prayers.  As always, I thanked God for giving us Sam, Vava, Kachi, and Pascal.
"You mean, thank my Tummy Mummy for me," Sam interrupted quietly.  So we thanked God for Sam's Tummy Mummy, who gave us Sam, our enormous and wonderful gift.
"Did she know you would love me?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"That's good," he concluded.

And as always, the beauty and ache of adoption slayed my heart and tears rolled down my cheeks in the dim light as my darling drifted off to sleep.

That selfless gift.  That beautiful gift.  That heart-wrenching gift.

That godly gift.

Because God, too, sent His Son.  Sent Him to be adopted into this world, that we might be adopted into His.

"When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.  And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, "Abba! Father! So you are no longer a slave, but a son, and if a son, than an heir through God."

The very best gifts can't be bought or sold.
We couldn't buy a babe in a starlit manger.
We couldn't buy a Saviour who came to make us heaven's sons.

The very best gifts must be wholly given, and wholly received; something the other person will love.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Christmas Fancy

Tonight was a pretty magical night.
Little Miss V had her first ever dance recital.

She was so terrified, going in.  She cried and begged us not to leave her, so we promised we would stay as close as we could.  Patrick and I walked her across the gym, packed with adoring parents and grandparents, to the fluttering cluster of youngest dancers.  "Hey, Vivian!  Come on over!  Don't be scared; this will be fun," her teacher greeted her, his kind eyes smiling right down into her own.  And she went.  Those little hands slipped quickly out of ours and she sat down beside her classmates, criss-cross-applesauce.  "We'll be in our seats," I said to the back of her head, unnecessarily.

She did great.  Their brief routine was precious.
And the whole way home she was rapturous with delight.

I remember Christmas concerts when I was a kid. It was always the fanciest feeling - hair curled and tied with ribbons, swishy dresses (so peculiar and out of place inside the school gym), waiting behind the long velvet curtains for our class' turn to perform.  Parents and neighbours sat eagerly in the audience, ready to applaud at every turn.  The whole world was dim and dark, except for the pool of light - our pool of light - onstage.  And after all the intoxicating thrill and shivery fear of performing, we received the reward that the fundraising committee knew our parents couldn't resist - little paper bags filled with fudge.

So fancy.  All the boys in button-down shirts and pants with creases, not a pair of velcro sneakers in sight.  Dress coats and mary janes and tights that never seemed to fit quite right.  Purses instead of backpacks.  I am sure it didn't seem terribly fancy to our parents, but for me no outing has topped that rich, elegant-for-an-evening feeling of my elementary school Christmas concerts.

That first Christmas?
Fancy.
Not in the garland-and-tinsel way, either.

Rich.  Holy.  Glorious.

Angels announcing.
A new star a-spangle.
Kings, gold-laden.
The One True King, arriving at last.

We keep Christmas pretty simply at our house, but my heart dances in the glory of this story like I'm princess Vava at a recital.  This is the kind of holy Christmas splendour we can sink into like deep velvet, that gleams with fadeless gold.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Not Forgotten

Today, a little kid on our street got off the bus and his mama wasn't there to meet him.

He could have gotten back on the bus.  The bus driver would have phoned his mama, would have taken him around the route, would have even returned him to the school if there was no answer.

But he looked up at me, face crumpling, eyes flooding with tears, and asked, "Can I come with you?"

Of course he could.

(I wouldn't have said yes if we were strangers, but I've watched him after school before, so I'm on the list to meet him at the bus. And I couldn't turn that pleading face away.)

We checked his house to see if there was anyone inside, and then just went home to have a snack and play with Sam and Vava. (It turns out a relative was supposed to meet him, but didn't have the correct time - anyway, all was well.)

"Can I come with you?"
Of course he could.

Because that feeling of being forgotten is the absolute worst.
Forgotten by your mom.
Forgotten by your friends.
Forgotten by your loves.

Forgotten stinks, whether you're a little kid or a big old grownup.

It doesn't get any better.  We might be older, less inclined to cry and ask a neighbour for help, but it's no better.

And that is why Jesus came.
That's why there is Christmas.
Why God sent His Son in the flesh.

He came to tell all humanity: we are not forgotten.
We are not abandoned.
We are not alone.

Immanuel.  God with us.

God with me.
God with you, sister.  God with you, brother.
He came to us.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Somewhere Still

I was attending a ladies' event at church tonight when I had to pop out to the car for something I'd forgotten.  I didn't bother grabbing my jacket, just snagged my keys and zipped out.

The moon was full and bright, and the world was covered in a good dusting of fresh snow. Even the air seemed to radiate, clouded only here or there by puffs of smoke from cozy homes.  The tap tap of my shoes echoed loud in the stillness.  Everything was silvery, luminous, snapping cold.

I'd forgotten about that peculiar solitary delight: the sweet crispness of stepping from a bright, warm, full place into the sudden silence and cold of a winter's night.  It's one of those rare feelings that can't be improved upon by sharing; it's at its absolute best in solitude.

I haven't had a lot of solitude the past few months years.
Sometimes I wake up early to find it - sitting with coffee and a pencil and my Bible, immersing my heart in the stillness, in the words and the Word.  Sometimes it steals down on me like a blanket of snow - the kids all fall asleep, my phone is out of reach, and the hush is wide and deep.  And sometimes I borrow it for a few sweet seconds when I forget something in the car, in the moonlight.

Just me ... and Him.

I hope your Christmas holds the gift of solitude, friend.  In the midst of making merry, giving generously, and receiving gratefully, I hope you find yourself somewhere still, taking a deep, gorgeous, solitary breath in His Presence.

Mmhmm.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

John, Too.

I'm reading in Numbers, where God tells Moses to gather a man from each of the twelve tribes of Israel to gather a census.
He calls them by name.

Elizur.
Shelumiel.
Nahshon.
Nethanel.
Eliab.
Elishama.
Gamaliel.
Abidan.
Ahiezer.
Pagiel.
Eliasaph.
Ahira.

God spoke their names.

I love it.  I can't help loving it.  He knows us.  He knows our names.

When I was pregnant with Pascal, Vava was incredibly curious about the development of babies in utero.  We watched these animated informational videos from Babycentre together, and learned a lot.  In the first one, the narrator describes sperm racing toward the ovum, which waits "like a mysterious star".   As soon as the egg is fertilized, the mother and father's genetic material merge to create one distinct new life, and the baby begins to grow.  Almost all of the baby's characteristics are determined at that moment.  That's nothing new, I know, something we all learned in school, but no matter how many times we watched the video, my heart burst with joy each time I saw that gorgeous glimpse of God's knitting.  It's like I could almost hear Him say, "let there be ... Sam!"  "Let there be ... Vava!" "Let there be ... Kachi!" And the baby blooms, wondrous, into life. "Let there be ... Pascal."  And there was Sam, and Vava, and Kachi, and Pascal, and God saw that it was good ;).

In the Christmas story, we read that He did just that with both John and Jesus, naming them Himself before conception.

John too.
John too.
It wasn't just the holy conception that He planned, chose, named.
John too.

Kerneled inside that Christmas story is the truth that each one of us is precious and known and named from the beginning, knit together for His purpose.

Jesus - best and dearest of all, Jesus.
But John, too.
But us, too.

Merry Christmas, friends!
xo.

What Kachi Knows

This afternoon, Pascal was coughing.  Kachi looked up from his play and said, "God bwess you, Pa'cal."

Then Pascal fussed a little bit, and Kachi rushed over.

"It okay, Pa'cal," he crooned, swiping his sturdy little toddler-hands across Pascal's head in a bumbling but good-hearted caress, "it me. It me.  I all here.  I all here."

Because even just-turned-two Kachi knows that the first comfort, the best comfort, is the assurance that we aren't alone.

And Christmas is this annual comfort, this sweet reminder that God reached out and came to us.

Immanuel.  God.  With us.
It's okay.  It's okay.  Jesus came.

God with us. 

God bless you, friends, and Merry Christmas.
xo.