A Can of Worms

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Pebbles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially at this pebbly time of year.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Fasting, Feasting

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

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

One of my aunts posted this hilarious meme today:

And I died laughing because same and all year long.

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

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

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

Is not this the fast that I choose:

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

(Isaiah 58:6-7)

This is the fast He chooses. 

Because He wants to make us like Himself.  

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

So.

(Always, but especially at Christmas:)

Because He is bread, we share our bread.

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

Because He covers us, we shelter others.

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

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

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

xo.

Ready for Christmas

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

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

But guys.

I am ready for Christmas.

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

I am SO ready for all of this.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

My Parents Play Nerf with Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Kind of an Ugly Gap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They redeem it.
And make it lovely.




Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Not Even a Mouse

God's love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic, 

His purpose titanic, his verdicts oceanic. 

Yet in his largeness nothing gets lost; 

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

Psalm 36:5-6 MSG

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

xo.

A Christmas Preposition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Forgive You

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," she replied, calming down.

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

After she left, I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

So Full

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

It's not my favourite.

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

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

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

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

I'm so full of answered prayers.

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

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

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

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

We are so full of answered prayers.

Of Course It Is

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boom (Vava's Method)

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

After I stopped laughing, my heart purred a bit.

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

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

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

It's a doozy for the old mental health.

But Vava's method?

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

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

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

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

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

And here we are, still alive.

Boom.