Advent Day 6 - A Guest Post by Patrick

Anticipation.

"Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace,according to your word;for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel." (Luke 2:25-32).

I always wondered what it must have been like to be Simeon. To know that in my time, the Messiah will come! He spent his entire life waiting for the coming Messiah. He probably lived his whole life with a kind of holy expectancy; every day waking and thinking, Will it be today?

I wonder if he knew what he was waiting for. Did he know that the Messiah would come as a baby? I bet he didn't. I bet that all he knew was that one day he would see the Messiah, and he would know Who it was when he saw Him.

Simeon is a kind of microcosm of the Nation of Israel. For all of their history, ever since God spoke hope into Eve's shattered heart--hope of a coming Saviour who will make all evil become untrue--Israel has been waiting for the Messiah. And here he is at last and Simeon takes the Child into his arms and relief and joy flood over him as he recognizes this at last is who I've been waiting for.

I think this is symbolized in our tradition of Christmas gifts. We buy gifts for our loved ones and set them out under the Christmas tree and they sit there and we don't open them, we wait, expecting that one day soon we will open our gifts. We can see them, but we don't know what they are, so we wait. This tradition re-creates for us the kind of waiting that characterized Simeon, that characterized the Old Testament saints who lived with holy expectancy, waiting forward, looking for the coming of the Promised Messiah, not knowing what exactly they were waiting for, but knowing that they would know it when they saw it. "These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar," (Hebrews 11:13).

We don't practice our Christmas traditions for their own sake, rather, they serve as reminders to our hearts of what kind of people we are. We are people who wait forwardly with holy expectancy. 1 John 3:2-3 describes our situation like this, and I just love this so much:

"Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure."

We wait with holy expectancy for His return, our Messiah. Will it be today? Tonight?

-- Merry Christmas friends!
xo.

Advent Day 5

My kids have been sick all week.

This means my days have been pretty packed with not going anywhere and not doing anything but replenishing stale cups and washing a whole lotta laundry.
I needed a few minutes of fresh air and space, so I stepped outside before suppertime and stripped off our (old, dusty and disgustingly dead-buggy) everyday string lights from around the door, and hung a gleaming string of fat Christmas bulbs in their place.  And since I wasn't yet ready to stop, I pulled the lanterns off the patio umbrella and brought them inside to string in the living room.

no dead bugs on these babies!

I can't quite get enough of gentle light.

The other day Patrick and I were lying in bed. We sleep in the attic, and the switch for our overhead light is at the bottom of the attic stairs. On his way up to see us, Kachi flicked the switch and we both squawked and squeezed our eyes shut and yelled at him to turn it off.  The overhead light glaring right into our eyes was horrible.

I don't want hundred watt bulbs. I don't want bright blue LEDs stabbing me in the eyeballs. But soft, warm light? It brings the cozy like nothing else.

 

I love cozy. I love thick, soft socks in sturdy snow boots. I love warm mittens against cold, fluffy snow. I love getting into bed and nestling my cold feet against Patrick's warm legs (sorry babe!).

But I think that's why God introduces Himself to us as a baby.
His glory is so bright. So overwhelming. Because when you're not used to it, too much light hurts. To eyes that are unprepared, it's glaring. Blinding.

But he came to us soft. A gentle light in the darkness, to help us see God.

May your Christmas be so truly cozy, friends.
xo.

Advent Day 4

A few months ago I had a super busy day at work. I popped into the office with Pascal for half an hour and ended up staying for closer to three (while he played on my phone and ate allllllll the backup snacks in my purse.)  I'd planned on heading to Costco before the kids came home from school, and I didn't haaaave to, but I knew I could squeeze the trip in if I hustled; so as soon as we were done, I buckled Pascal into his seat and headed toward the highway.
I stopped on the outskirts of town for a quick pee break and my phone buzzed. It was Patrick.
Babe, can you go home? There's a parcel on our front step.
Ugh! Quick reply: I'm just heading out of town; can it wait?
Then back to me: Not really. I'd really appreciate it if you could go put it inside. 
Oh my goodness.
This day.
Whatever.
You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day! I texted, like a jerk.
He just texted back a string of hearts.

So with bad grace I put Pascal back into his seat and headed back across town back through the snarl of lunchtime traffic to pop Patrick's books in the house.

Because I had places to go, people! Food to buy to feed my hungry family! And a sugar-rushy longsuffering three year old whose napping window was rapidly closing!  Gah!

I get that feeling a lot. It's like - THIS THING I'M DOING IS SO HUGE AND I'M BUSY AND YOU GUYS KEEP GETTING IN MY WAY AND I'M TRYING REALLY HARD HERE AND EVERYTHING WILL FALL APART AGHHH! (Ridiculous? Childish? Selfish? entirely.)

And I got home and there, on our step, was not the package of books I was expecting. (Because it's always books.)
No.
There was a huge rectangular box, marked Endy: a beautiful brand new mattress secretly purchased to help with the back pain I'd been enduring lately.

It was for me.

Generously, enormously, lavishly, lovingly for me!

And after I drag/lugged that hulking box over the doorstep, I hugged it and cried. The ungracious text I'd sent washed over me. You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day!

And I do the same thing at Christmas, I do.
I toss a few bucks in the Salvation Army kettle, or drop off some boxes at the food bank, and I think to God You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy season.

And he just thinks back a string of hearts.

And then a line from a carol will catch my heart in just the right way and I'm flooded with tears, because Christmas -

It was for me. 

He sent that baby, that gift, that bridge of salvation all for me. And I hustle around thinking I'm making time for him, making room for him, squeezing a kindness to Him into my Very Important Life.

And He's just like -
💝💝💝💝💝.

It's all for us.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Pouring Out

I had a panic attack this morning. I feel weird telling you that - I don't have them often, and I'm not sure how I feel about defining myself that way, but I told you about one a few Christmases ago, and got so many comforting "you're not alone" messages that I'm pretty sure you understand.

(I was listening to a podcast about attachment and the different effects kids bear through their lives because of the ways their parents respond / don't respond to their needs in early childhood. And while I had learned all this before, I had learned it vaguely and out of context - I mean, it was before I had kids, so I didn't really understand. Hearing it while the effects of my parenting are walking around the house is a whole new kettle of fish.) The weight of all the things I might have messed up / inevitably will continue to mess up felt heavy, emotionally, and suddenly I was fighting the worst heartburn. Nothing made it go away.  And then I realized - this isn't heartburn, not THAT kind of heartburn. My body was feeling the pressure of my feelings and freaking out.

And God sent me relief, in the form of a knock at the door.  It was my neighbour, popping over for coffee.
As I measured out the grounds, poured water into the reservoir, scooped sugar, added cream, my body calmed. I asked about her weekend, and talked through a dilemma she was facing. The heartburn-tightness ebbed away, and after the door closed behind her I was able to consider and pray through my fears more rationally and without physical pain.

I think He sent her to remind me of the backward beauty of Christmas -
To love my neighbour.
To give.
To pour out.
Because loving others brings strength to me; blessing another blesses myself -

Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.(Proverbs 11:25)

Love poured out strengthens the pourer.

Happy pouring, dear friends.
xo.

O Come, O Come Immanuel

I could hear him crying "Mommyyyyyyyyyyy." 
Pascal usually calls me Mama, so when that last aaa warps into a yyy, I know there are tears in there.
I was sorting through all the toys today, puttering around the house, upstairs, downstairs, and Pascal was more or less playing alongside me while I worked.  He's usually really content to do that, and doesn't get upset if I head downstairs while he's upstairs, or vice versa. He joins me when he wants to, and plays happily if he doesn't.
We had been upstairs together, and now I was down. When I heard him call for me, I called back a few times. "I'm down here, bud. Come to Mama." But he didn't. He called a few more times until it turned into crying.
So I ran upstairs and found him sitting on the top step, tears rolling down his cheeks, clutching two stuffies and a blankie.
"Babe!" I exclaimed, "why didn't you come to me?"

"I couldn't!" he sniffled, leaning his hot forehead against me.  I kissed it, and knew he was sick.


My poor little lamb. He was too weak to bring himself to me. He could only cry out.
That teary little cry just broke my heart.
He needed me, and he was crying out for me.

You know what we sang last Sunday?
It was the first Sunday of Advent, so maybe you sang it too - O Come, O Come Immanuel.
It's a song of longing; a minor-key cry.
It dwells in that needy space between pain and resolution.
It's a song to sing in the waiting.
It's the song we sing, sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching our stuffies with tears on our cheeks, "Come!"

But why is there any need for waiting? Any need for discomfort, for longing, for rescue? Didn't I just write about it yesterday - He is with us already. That's the whole point of Christmas - the arrival of Immanuel, God with us. So why the longing? Why the ache? How come we struggle along in the minor key?

Jesus friends asked the same thing of him (John chapter 11).
Their brother had died, and they had sent for Jesus to come heal him of his illness. But Jesus didn't come. He didn't come, and their brother died.
And Mary and Martha knew he could have, knew he could have saved their brother.  And their hearts broke, and Jesus cried with them, and went to the tomb with them.

And then (I love this part), Jesus prays. But it's such a funny prayer.
He says, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me," and then he adds - and forgive me, but I can hear a little bit of teacherly exasperation in this aside - "I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me."

For Him, the gap between spiritual and physical doesn't exist. He was born of the Spirit and the flesh, God is as evident and present to Him as the screen you're reading this on. But like the people standing around him, we only see the physical. We're born of flesh. We miss the glory, the surety of hope, the dazzling presence of God that He could see.

And then He keeps it simple and just speaks to the dead man, who was buried four days ago: "Lazarus, come out."

And Lazarus does.

And I don't know about you, but I bet Mary and Martha were Christmas-morning excited. I picture them unwrapping that undead brother faster than anything.  The hope they hadn't dared to hope for was here - life, where death had been.  Jesus had all the power to heal, even from death.

So, why had Jesus not come when they called? Why had he let them sit in their ache, in their longing and grief?

The answer is in verse 5 and 6. Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

Wait, what? He loved them, so he stayed away and let Lazarus die?

Yeah, he did.

He had more in mind than their temporary comfort.
He was going to give them the deepest surest proof that He was God.
He was going to undo death for them.

We're waiting too.
Waiting for Christmas, and waiting for Jesus.
And people are like - umm, if He loved you and has the power to, wouldn't He have come for you by now? Wouldn't He have saved you from all the suffering you're enduring?

The truth of Christmas holds fast.  Jesus isn't a distracted mother, ignoring us in busyness while we cry out for Him.
He has a purpose.
He's coming.
And he's coming to undo death for us.
And he waits ... because He loves us.

So.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Another Advent Post

December first!  Advent!
Ahhhhhh.
I've waited all year for this.

Gotta tell you though: nothing has changed.
This year, like last, you will find me clinging to the hope and promise of Christmas because I believe that if the gospel matters in anything it matters in everything.  I need this so much. Regularly, I forget about truth and define myself by the fact that I'm still overweight, struggling with my mental health, and trying hard to try hard.  So I need to take this time every year to focus my heart, my mind, my soul, my strength on what matters.

What matters is the glorious gospel of Christ; distilled into the heartbeat gift of the Baby in the Manger: Immanuel, God with us.

He didn't come for me because of my looks or lack thereof. He didn't come for me because I'm eager or hopeful or despondent or depressed. He didn't come for me because I try hard or because I give up, usually both. He didn't even come for me because I need Him need Him need Him (oh God, how I need you!).

No.

He came into the world because that's who He is.

That's who He is.
Immanuel.
God with us.

Oh sing, my soul, and breathe free, breathe deeply of this truth.
Eyes up and off of me, He came to us.
And that's all that really matters.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Of Course He Sees It That Way

I've always loved the Bible story of Naaman (in chapter 5 of 2 Kings). Like most of us, he's not the kind of person you'd expect to go to God for healing. He's a commander in the Syrian army, he's rich and powerful, and he has a captive Israelite slave working in his household. 
But he's got leprosy. And this slave has pity on him, and says "oh, if only he could go to the prophet in my land and be healed!" 

So Naaman, this guy who moves in mighty political circles, asks the king for permission to go to Israel. And the king encourages him to go, and sends him with a letter of introduction and a request for healing to the king of Israel (because of course, wouldn't it be the king who has power to heal?). Naaman sets out with a fancy cavalcade, bringing heaps of gold and silver and fine clothes to try to pay for this impossible request.

And the king of Israel warily receives this commander with all his pomp and reads the letter and he looks at Naaman and he's like "whaaaat?! Syria's king is picking a fight with me! Nobody can heal leprosy but God!"  Er - what's the politically correct way to tell your powerful neighbour's commander he's nuts?

But God's prophet Elisha sends word to the king that he, Elisha, is actually the one Naaman should come see. 

So Naaman takes his opulent treasure and leaves the palace and winds his horses and chariots down through the common streets and stands at Elisha's door.
 And Elisha sends a messenger, who tells him, "go wash in the Jordan River seven times, and be clean."

And you can totally see it - this Naaman, who is used to strategizing and political reasoning is utterly incensed.  First, he was sent away from the king, down to this house where he isn't even received. He doesn't get a fancy show of power from this prophet, no incense or hand-waving or magic; not even so much as a how-do-you-do. He gets a messenger, who tells him quite literally to go soak his head -- and in an Israelite river, at that! Is Elisha trying to tell him Israel's rivers are better than Syria's? How dare he!?

From a political standpoint, he's been rebuffed and belittled and given the runaround.
And of course he sees it that way, that's the only standpoint he has, you know?
That's his life.

But his servants have a different perspective.
When he starts to storm away, unhealed and completely enraged, raving about the superiority of Syria's rivers, they come after him and speak gently to him.
"Hey," they point out, "wouldn't you do anything to be healed? Anything at all? He's not telling you to do anything hard: just wash and be clean."
And their perspective adjustment is just what he needs.
So he goes into the water and dips seven times, and bam, his leprosy is gone and his skin is fresh and new and this God is real and this God is amazing and this God is who he will adore forever.




Ahhh. Elisha wasn't trying to cast aspersions on any rivers. The King hadn't dismissed him out of hand. They had led him to God for healing.

But he needed the perspective adjustment from his servants in order to receive it.

I love how the people who direct Naaman to healing are, at all three points of the story, servants. They don't have a lot of power, but what they have (their faith, knowledge, and perspective), they use for good. God loves to hide his treasure in powerless packages. In captives. In messengers. In servants. 
And through them, he blesses Naaman and brings him to know and love Himself.

Sometimes I'm like Naaman. I need help, but instead of getting it, I find myself knocking at the wrong door, getting bent out of shape and tied up in knots over imagined slights to my precious dignity.  I need people to speak gently to me, to share their faith, share their messages, to adjust my perspective and lend me theirs.

Yeah.
We can hear more when we listen with another's ears.
We can see more when we see with another's eyes.


We need community.  We need each other.  No matter how foreign or powerful or captive or free we are. 

Thanks for being my community, guys.
xo.

Ambush of the Mouth

I'm reading in the book of Kings, 1 Kings 17, where God sent Elijah to Zarephath, a town whose name means Ambush of the Mouth.

Ambush of the Mouth. And like most Bible names, it holds a story inside it.

In Zarephath, there lived a widow with her son, and they were dying of starvation due to a drought. They had enough oil and flour to cook one last meal and that was it - they were preparing to die.

They were ambushed with hunger.

But when God sent Elijah, he also sent a miracle: their ordinary almost-empty jars turned into always-full jars of flour and oil.  And so Elijah settled in with them and they lived together happily for many days. But then tragedy struck and the widow's son fell ill. The Scriptures describe it like this ...And his illness was so severe that there was no breath left in him (verse 17).

No breath left in him. Talk about Ambush of the Mouth!  Avoiding starvation by nothing but a blatant miracle of God only to die of suffocation?!

Ambush. I can just imagine the widow's heartbreak and bitter thoughts. Why would God have bothered to keep them alive for this?

But God wasn't done being awesome. 

Elijah prayed, and God chose to give the breath of life back to the son. Breathed into his mouth the breath of life.

And in the end? The widow testified:

And the woman said to Elijah, "Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth." (verse 24)

It's like she was worried, all that time. Like she couldn't rest in the miracle. This unusual abundance must fade sometime. 

But now - finally, now, she knew.

There was Elijah speaking the word of the Lord, raining abundance and restoration.  Truth.

I picture her throwing up arms of surrender as she gave in to the delight and relief of it all. Ambushed by love and miraculous restoration. ❤️

Thankful

Vava and Kachi both have birthdays on Thanksgiving weekend, so the holiday kind of gets lost in the bustle. 

We don't live near family, so we don't have any special Thanksgiving traditions or meals to attend (which is probably a good thing with all the partying going on over here).

. 

Every year, a chip truck in town does a fundraiser for the food bank. In exchange for 2 non-perishables, or a cash donation, they give a plate of fresh-from-the-farm turkey dinner, complete with a pumpkin tart for dessert.  So, in the middle of our busy weekend, without lifting a pot or chopping a single vegetable, we just swing by Bakers Fries and get to sit down to a gorgeous turkey dinner.

It wasn't planned. (If I was going to plant a family ritual around Thanksgiving, it probably would have been something involving way more work for me and with considerably less awesome results.) Sam and I just stumbled across it while walking home from church on our first Smiths Falls Thanksgiving. It's a good gift.

For this, along with a life full of visible and hidden blessings, I am truly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Xo.

Get Out / Of The Way

A while ago, I read an article subtitled "Why We Should Take Kids Outside and Get Out of Their Way". It probably resonated with me because that's my favourite thing to do. I wish I could attribute this to my excellent parenting but it's pretty much because they love playing outside and I love being lazy.
We go to the beach almost every day, and some days it's harder than others to get out of their way.  Other people warn me that Pascal is standing next to the water, as if this is something I should correct. They tell their kids that frog hunting is not allowed, and then glower while mine catch and release every frog they can find.
Today, there's another mom at the beach and I love her.
She hasn't once suggested things for her kids to do.
No performance parenting.
No "come eat your organic quartered grapes to recharge your energy, honey."
No extra loud reminders.
She's reading on her phone and her kids are playing in the water. (They're currently mermaids, beset by pirates; earlier they were making castles and then destroying them like dinosaurs.)
This mom, this chill mom who is raising happy and polite kids with great imaginations, is amazing.
Take 'em outside and get out of their way.

Leftovers

I don't know about you guys, but for me, sometimes it's way too easy to feel purposeless. 
Usually I feel like all I do is reclean and recook and refold and reteach, day after day.
And I look around and I see some people living these magnificent lives, impactful and meaningful and productive. And I kind of feel like ... leftovers. Scraps. Not adding any value.
And this morning - I know, it's silly, but bear with me - I set a batch of sourdough to rise to make bagels. Mixed it, kneaded it (bliss!), and then when it was soft and springy and perfectly smooth, rolled it in a ball to rest, while I scraped out the bowl where it would sit and slowly rise. 
I found a surprising amount of dough in the bowl, maybe a quarter cup, and I was about to toss it out when I suddenly felt bad for the scrapings. They had done all the work of fermentation, had been mixed and scraped and mixed and scraped again, and now - nothing. Garbage can.
So although I laughed at myself for feeling sorry for a handful of leftover scrapings, I took it over to my smooth, springy ball of dough and worked it through. Fold, press, turn. Fold press turn. And God sang to my heart about His heart. He wasn't laughing at me for feeling sentimental over the scrapings.
He feels the same way.
How do I know? Well - you know the miracle of the loaves and fishes, where Jesus fed five thousand people from one lunch of bread and fish? Guess what he did with the leftovers?
He gathered them up. Gathered them, and counted them; twelve baskets full.  Every basket proclaims his glory, his abundance, his more-than-enoughness.
Maybe there was one basket for each disciple, to teach them this truth: in Christ, there are no scraps.
No leftovers.
No garbage.
We matter.
I matter.
You matter.

Every one of us, gathered up and counted.

Our Own Stack of Blocks

This week I was watching Boss Baby with the kids. Have you seen that one? It's about a boy whose parents tell him that a new baby is coming home, and then it's his journey through the fears and insecurities of what that all means. It's funny and my kids love it, but there's one part that was stressing them out.
The boy, Tim, is afraid that when the baby comes, there will be less love for him. He pictures love as a finite resource, like a stack of blocks that he will have to share: his deep fear is that there will be less love for him.

When the movie got to this part, I paused it and tried to unpack it a bit for my kids. I had seen a few worried expressions flash across their faces, and I wanted to assure them.

"That's a big fear for many of us," I explained, "that we won't be loved. We're afraid there's not enough love to go around.  But every one of us comes into the world with our own stack of blocks - our own big pile of love.  It never runs out. Because no matter who else loves us or doesn't love us, the One who made us loves us.  We are all already loved. And not just loved: so loved.  SO LOVED."

And one of the kids piped up, "except bad guys."

And I shook my head.  "Nope. Nuh-uh. Jesus told us who God loves. God so loved the world (hear it? sooooooo loved the world) that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.  Everybody. We're all bad guys, all sinners. And He loves us - He gives us all our own big stack of blocks."

And we turned the movie back on and they dove back into the story, but the truth I got to share with them has been ringing through my heart all week.

I don't know about you, but I say the meanest things to myself in my head.
"You're a bad mom," I think, after losing my temper in an exasperating moment. Or "You should go on a diet." Or "How long has it been since you mopped that floor?"

And the Lord has been interrupting me and saying "so loved" in place of those sharp words.

"You're a so-loved mom. You are so loved. How long has it been since you remembered you were so loved?"

Dear friends, I wanted to share this gospel truth with you.
You are so loved.
It's the reason He sent Jesus.
It's the reason Jesus died and rose again.
It's why the Holy Spirit came.
It's the sure foundation from which we can read the Scriptures, learn from Him, and know Him.
God so loved the world.