Liquorice

One of my neighbours phoned me yesterday. She was super sad because she had just found out that she's allergic to liquorice. 

"I really love liquorice," she said slowly. 

"I bet you'll miss AllSorts this Christmas," I sympathized.

"I'll miss everything this Christmas," she said. 

When Jesus was here, someone asked him what was the most important commandment. He told them this: love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and love your neighbour as yourself.  

Especially this Christmas, when gathering together for church suppers isn't safe, let's deliver supper instead. When we can't stand shoulder to shoulder and sing, let's be the church that stands ear-to-phone, and weeps. When we can't love in the ways we're used to, let's find new ways to connect to one another, to hold each others' stories in our hearts, to let each other in.

Because it's Christmas.

xo.

Charcuterie, Penguins, and Wobbly Trees

Vava made our Elf on the shelf last year; Elfa. I didn't want one, but the kids are so excited about it. They love it.

Every night we move her while they're asleep, and then I try to make an after-school snack based on where she's hiding.

Sometimes it turns out well - yesterday they found her on the knife block, so after school they had a charcuterie board snack.

Today, she was hiding in the penguin carafe, so I tried to make penguin snacks.

I worked all day and only had a few minutes before pickup, so I quickly assembled the penguins.

When I saw them all together, I almost died laughing.

My kids' after school snack today: the face of despair.

A friend of mine recently set up her Christmas tree. It's so beautiful it took my breath away. A dazzling 7-foot prelit tree, decorated solely with ornaments that hold sentimental value. It's gorgeous. It's beautiful. But when she told me about it, she pointed out its wobbly base and the way it tips to one side.

I know for certain her kids won't notice the tips and wobbles. They'll feel the magic of twinkly lights, they'll see the ornaments they glued and painted in kindergarten placed so tenderly in the place of honour. They'll remember the love and the carefulness it took to make it look just so, and the way their home felt warm and glowy and hopeful.

If your tree wobbles or your penguin snacks look like horrified Minecraft villagers or something doesn't look the way you want it to, take heart. 

The way things look is really really really unimportant. Our culture tries to tell us otherwise but deep down we know.

We know it because each of us thinks our mother is the most beautiful mother in the world.

And our babies? Every other newborn baby is basically a squashed tomato,  but we think ours are exquisite. 

And usually I feel like a penguin-gone-wrong but here's the thing:

God loves me so much he sent His own son to be a squished tomato. And that - that is the beauty of Christmas. That's the golden, twinkly lights-in-the-dark feeling. That's the magic of hunting for an elf every morning like wise men sought Jesus. 

That Christmas feeling is love. It isn't perfection and it isn't prettiness or even beauty.

It's love.

xo.

Luggage

Like everyone in 2020, I've had a hard go this year.  

This week, I just gave up on one of the things that have been weighing me down. I was all out of hope and expectation and couldn't even drum up the desire to see it through.

I was chatting on the phone with my sister and she asked about it. I told her I didn't have the strength to pray about it anymore.

"We'll pray it through for you," she said, "we'll carry you. It's okay."

So I just left it.

And I don't think I've ever felt that way about anything. I don't run out of words very often, and I love to talk things over with God. But I didn't have any oomph left.

And you know what? The next day, something changed in that situation. 

And the next day, more change.

My sister is praying.

She's right in here with me, bearing that burden. From a thousand miles away, she's lugging it to God. 

Like Mary lugged the hope of all the world to Bethlehem to be born. 

The rest of the world just waited. Longed for the Messiah, for redemption and new birth. Ached in the silence. Chafed under slavery and illness and misery.

But Mary left her home and carried that belly full of promise to Bethlehem. 

Oh my friends, I wish you all a sister, a friend, a Mary, who will carry hope for you when you can't carry it alone any longer. 

Merry Christmas.

xo.

Glitter

I made my very first ever wreath today. 

When the kids came home from school, the table was a mess - covered in needles and branches, pins and ribbons. We cleared enough room for snack, and Pascal unraveled a package of glittery ribbon in the process. The glitter that fell out ended up everywhere. 

Through a busy and time-crunchy evening, I kept hearing his delight every time he came across a sparkle: 

'I found another beautiful!' 

'Can I take this to school?'

'I have to tell Kachi the good news!'

And it was sweet but it didn't really filter through. I didn't get the message until the house was quiet and I was sweeping up.

In the middle of work: beauty.

In the middle of mess: beauty.

In the middle of busyness: beauty.

Sometimes it just looks like more work. More mess. More busyness. But for Pascal it was pure delight.

Maybe especially for parents, that's kind of like the trappings of Christmas. It's a lot of work, and mess, and busyness. But it's shot through with beauty and delight. And our kids give us eyes to see it.

Merry Christmas to you and your kin, my friends.

Xo.

Great with Child

I was reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever today, and there's a cute little side conversation between 2 characters about the way the Bible says Mary is "great with child."  

'Anybody could be pregnant. "Great with child" sounded better for Mary.' (chapter 4)

But the crazy beautiful wonder of the whole thing is how ordinary it all was. Mary and Joseph's path was not royal. Jesus didn't float down from heaven on angels' wings to land clean and sweet on a fluffy bed. Heavenly hosts didn't slay Herod or any of Israel's enemies. 

Mary and Joseph trudged with that 9-months-pregnant belly all the way to Bethlehem. Jesus squeezed and squirmed out into the world like all of us. And before he was old enough to talk, Jesus was a  refugee. 

The son of God lived this life, just like ours.

Common. Mundane. Uncomfortable. 

And yeah, sometimes the tongue of King James makes us forget that. 

But -

Mary was pregnant. 

Joseph was a blue-collar worker.

Israel was restless under Roman rule.

Elizabeth -

Hah! Elizabeth was old.

But God moved through it all.

And He still does.

He moves through the world in your hands and your feet as you drop off food for a neighbour, as you make a phone call to connect with that person. He moves through your home as you cuddle your kids and settle them in safe for the night. He moves through your city as you pay taxes, build hospitals, defend justice. He moves through your heart and your song and your words as you go about your

Very

Ordinary

Life.

He still does.

The Great

God told us His name is

I Am;

Not

You Should;

Not 

I Might;

Not 

I Will If.

I Am.

We need a Saviour:

I Am

We need a Redeemer:

I Am

We need a God who understands:

I Am.

Immanuel. 

God with us.

I Am.

A Sword

"He is a light to reveal God to the nations, and he is the glory of your people Israel!” Jesus’ parents were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them, and he said to Mary, the baby’s mother, “This child is destined to cause many in Israel to fall, and many others to rise. He has been sent as a sign from God, but many will oppose him. As a result, the deepest thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your very soul.”

Luke 2:31‭-‬35 NLT

When Jesus was 8 days old, Mary and Joseph took him to the temple to dedicate him to God. Simeon and Anna, two prophets, saw him and knew- this was the Messiah. 

But Simeon knew something else. He saw the sorrow coming too. I used to always read this and think Simeon was talking about Jesus dying on the cross but I think it was maybe something sooner.  Check out this tragedy:

Herod was furious when he realized that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, based on the wise men’s report of the star’s first appearance.

Matthew 2:16 NLT

God warned Joseph and Mary to take their baby and flee to Egypt, far from Herod who was scared of losing his power, and killing innocent children to hang on to it.

I can imagine how crushed Mary would be, knowing her son had been kept safe, but that these babies had died. A sword would pierce her very soul.

But her baby would die.

He would grow up so kind and loving, generous and thoughtful and not bound by the mincing convention of religion. 

And he would die.

To bring us - every one of us someone's baby - life.

Instead of killing to hold on to power, he laid down his life to give it up.

It's Christmas because it's a gift.

Beautiful.

Costly. 

And soul-piercing.

xo.

Sweetness

Because this year didn't look the way I expected it to, I found myself really bored every day when the kids were at school. I wanted to write, I tried to write, but I ended up just kind of staring at the computer screen in a fog and then suddenly the day would be over.

I wanted flexibility and could only work for a few hours a day, so I got a job delivering food over the lunch rush around town.

It's awesome.

It's not hard, and it has a bunch of little wins built right in.  I love to drive, love to give people food, and love to race a clock. The purchases are all done online so I don't have to deal with money at all: I just snag the food from the restaurants and drop it off at the customer's door. And I can set my own schedule so I'm still free on the days I need to write or edit, or when the kids have a PA day.  I love it.

Today I got into a bit of a snag because one of my customers didn't answer the door, didn't answer her phone, didn't answer when I texted. I was delivering to her at work, a public place, and she hadn't authorized me to leave it with anyone so I couldn't just give it to a coworker. I had orders backing up, so I popped her food back into my thermal bag and delivered the next one. I went back and tried again, getting it to her successfully this time.

However, this meant that my next three deliveries were all increasingly delayed.

I figured I would probably get a bad review or 3 but I knew I couldn't have done anything differently so I tried not to worry about it - easier said than done, though. I finished my last delivery and pulled into the driveway. I logged in to see my reviews ... and there was one.  I braced myself.

It was from the lady who I'd gone back for, and she had written me a glowing review.

Instead of the bitterness I expected, I received something sweet.

Kind of like my job, that I'm constantly surprised to love.

Kind of like this weird, hard, strange, but not giftless year.

Kind of like Joseph. You know? His betrothed shows up pregnant, and it isn't his. He's heartbroken. Doesn't want her shamed, doesn't want to hurt her, is prepared to just quietly divorce and let her go. His hopes shatter; this is not his favourite year.

But God shows up and speaks to him in a dream. "This baby? It's mine. Take care of him. Take care of Mary. Get married. It's all good."

Sometimes God's gifts look an awful lot like disappointment.

But there's sweetness in them.

There's gospel in them.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Get-to

It feels like I am always counting. Can you get into your boots before I get to ten? Counting groceries and pairs of socks and just how many bowls are squirreled away in bedrooms at any given moment. How many minutes are left before we're late for school and how many plates to set out for after-school snack and how many days left until Christmas. 

Tonight when I was settling Kachi into bed, I scooted in beside him for a kiss. He climbed on top of me. "You can't leave," he said.

"How about a hundred-second hug?" I asked. And I wrapped my arms around him and began counting to one hundred.

His head burrowed into my neck and he held me tight. My counting, which had begun at a good clip, started to slow.

He just wanted to be in my arms. Just wanted to be held. Not managed, not directed, not parented ... just held. 

And while my evening to-do list hung paused and waiting, the weight of it shifted. It ebbed. Faded. 

That hundred seconds was the most full and beautiful and restful of my day.

Kids are not great at getting things done on time and they are not amazing at shaving seconds off a schedule but they are very good at connecting and they are very good at stuffing joy into the little cracks and spaces of their day.

This morning I was getting everyone ready and out the door for school but Pascal was dilly-dallying so I sent the big kids outside to play while I got him ready. When we joined them in the fresh air, they called me over, laughing. "We built a snowman!" they crowed. There was not a lot of snow on the ground and they'd only had a few minutes but they had made this hilarious little snow man, complete with buttcheeks.

I, bona fide adult, don't tend to jam joy into every minute. I do the things I have to, and pat myself on the back if I do them more quickly than I'd expected. 

Left to their own devices, my kids create. They build. Write. Strategize. Draw. Sing. Invent a game. Make rhymes. Find patterns. Laugh at butts.  And they do this in the space between leaving the house and leaving the yard. Between leaving the yard and arriving at school. Between assignments. In between all the must-dos they jam a whole lot of get-tos. 

And sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be squished in with that list, a get-to. Get to hug mama for 100 seconds. Get to lie with mama while I fall asleep. Get to draw with mama, get to read with mama, get to make up silly songs and wash dishes with mama.

I hope this Christmas offers you a whole lot of chances to enjoy your get-tos. I hope you get to make a snowman while you wait and play on a frozen puddle when you pass it. I hope you get to press pause for one hundred heartbeats with your arms around someone you love. 

Jesus came because you're His get-to. ❤

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

A Gentle alarm bell

 A friend of mine is a life coach. She's got a lot of wisdom and joy to share, and early this fall she suggested I pause a few times a day to give thanks. "Don't just rhyme off a list of things you know you should be thankful for," she added, "take time to be still and listen to your feelings. What are you feeling thankful for? Soak in that for a minute. You can feel many things in a short time, but you can only feel one thing at a time. So put your other feelings on pause and just soak up all the good ones while you're giving thanks."

So I set an alarm on my phone.  I made it different from my typical alarm - I chose a soft instrumental instead of an urgent ring, because I wanted it to prompt me into a good place, no matter how frazzled or rushed or discontent I might be feeling.

It's been a solid exercise.

I think I'm generally a pretty reactive person, but twice a day this prompts me to act, instead of react - to choose what to focus on, to celebrate or evaluate. And to give thanks.

When the kids hear the gratitude alarm, they never want me to turn it off. It plays for ten minutes and they all kind of hum along to it while they draw or build with lego or whatever they're doing. 

It's a really nice song, of course, but I think what they're getting is the feeling of it. The respite. The stillness. The joy.

And at Christmas (as with any other time) I tend to zoom around with a poorly planned checklist and a million mental to-dos. I remember to buy the kids presents and gift cards for the teachers, set up the tree and put some lights in the windows. I bulk-buy nuts and nacho chips, oranges and potatoes and jalapeno poppers. I pop my change in the Salvation Army kettle and drop some non-perishables off at the food bank

But

Jesus came without any of that stuff. He could have rescued us without coming as a baby, I think. He could have popped into the world, gone to the cross, and died for our sins. He could have. 

He came and dwelt. Holy, beautiful gift: God with us. With us.

So the thing is - 

To celebrate Christmas in the mode of Christmas means taking time to dwell with one another. To be with. And this year with all the Covid restrictions that's extra hard - but also, maybe, not so hard at all.

Maybe when we can't spend our time getting together with our usual jolly crowd, maybe we can take more time to look into the faces at our own table. Ask them some still and personal questions. Take time to hear their answers. Connect more truly and love more slowly - and truly dwell together.  We can cultivate that feeling, choose it, act in ways that nourish it. We can even set an alarm if we need to ;)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Boom da da boom

A story for Vava.

There once was a little boy who lived long ago. Like you, he was curious about God, and like you, he loved snuggles and stories before bed. Every night, when his parents snuggled down with him in bed, they would tell him a story from the Torah. Noah. Deborah. The ax-head that swam.  Jonah. Jael. Balaam's donkey.

"Do miracles like that still happen, mama?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," she would whisper, "but maybe they will when the Messiah comes."

"Does God still talk to prophets, papa?" He would ask.

"Not that I know of," he would reply, "but maybe He will when the Messiah comes."

And every night those words would beat like a little drum in his heart. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes. When the Messiah comes.  

Sometimes he was cold, and sometimes he was hungry. His family did not have a lot of money. But he was rich with hope, because the Messiah was coming.

He went to Torah school and learned all the stories from the priests. After every lesson, he would say goodbye to his teacher. "Goodbye, rabbi. Maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come." The rabbi would smile.

One day, the priest seemed different. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were red.  "Goodbye, rabbi," said the little boy when the lesson was over, "maybe tomorrow the Messiah will come."

"He will come," the rabbi gasped, "He will come! And soon."

The boy stood still.

"I am an old man," said the priest, "but God spoke to me. He told me I will not die until I see the Messiah."

The boy's heart leaped.

"God spoke to you?" he whispered.

"He spoke to me," the rabbi replied, and tears slid over his wrinkled cheeks. He could not stop smiling. God spoke to him.

The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come! The boy's heart drummed along very fast as he ran home and told his mama and papa what the priest had said.

One night, the boy woke up. He could hear hooves and soft bleating; a flock of sheep was passing by. The moon was full and bright and the night was warm and inviting. The little boy crept out of bed and followed the flock.

The shepherds stopped the sheep on a grassy hillside, and stretched out on the ground. The boy sat down between two lambs and stroked their soft fleece.  The night was still and silent, but underneath it all he could feel the bright drumbeat singing in his heart. The Messiah will come! The Messiah will come!

Suddenly, the darkness burst with gold light. An angel appeared and the shepherds yelped in fear.

"Do not be afraid," the joyful angel beamed, "there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign: you will find him lying in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes."

And then a choir of angels appeared, like backup singers, praising God.  The boy's eyes were as big as saucers. Was he still awake? Was he asleep?

Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The Messiah is come!  Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. His heart pounded.

And as suddenly as they had come, the angels were gone. The boy's eyes swam in the moonlight, which seemed now so dim.  There was something in his hand, something firm and round and hollow - a little drum.

"AHHHHHHHH!" yelled the shepherds, "AHHHHHH!" And they leapt up and raced down the hill toward Bethlehem.  

The boy ran after them, as fast as his legs could whirl.

They peered into all the stables in town. All was still. They could smell the pungent odour of cattle. Sheep. Goats. Cows. There were no babies here.  They tiptoed through the sleeping town.

Really, had it all been a dream?

Until they came to one stable with a light inside. The air was expansive. Laughter and delight rang out. The boy heard a little mewling cry. A baby!  THE baby!

The shepherds walked in without invitation, eagerness precluding manners. The boy followed them.

"We've come to see the Messiah," a shepherd explained. The baby's parents looked at one another, eyes shining. "He's here," they replied. And there he was, lying in the manger ("what a funny place, God," thought the boy). 

The shepherds knelt, the boy knelt.

The Messiah is come! Born to you this day! The boy's heart drummed. He picked up the little tambourine that was in his hands and drummed along softly. Boom da da boom. Boom da da boom. The baby smiled. His mother smiled. His father smiled. The shepherds smiled. 

When the sun began to rise, the boy ran home.  

"God even speaks to shepherds," he told his parents, "and the Messiah is come."  And he played for them. 

On his drum.

I Step Into The Dressing Room with Walt Whitman

 

I Step Into the Dressing Room with Walt Whitman

My last pair of jeans 

Gave up the ghost three months ago.

Summer, with its dresses and flowy tops and stretch pants

Allowed me to put off the inevitable

Quite comfortably.

But now that fall is here

My bones cry for the warmth of denim.

I brave the awkwardness of retail,

Browse the shelves and descriptors

Until, armed with hope and a stack of pants,

I step into the dressing room. 

Suddenly a woman who was full

Of life and days and love and dreams 

Is reduced to the sum of her inches.

The mirror 

Reminds me again I am both too much and not enough.

I step out of the dressing room

And pay for my pants,

Flat and empty, neatly folded on the counter.

I think about my busy day

My full week, my full life

The bellies I’ve fed,

The arms that have wrapped around me 

Eyes that have laughed into mine

Hearts that have ached along with mine

Sunshine that has warmed my skin

Songs that have rolled with gladness out of my throat

Books I have read

Conversations that flowed past midnight

Rooms I have cleaned and danced and slept in

Planets and suns I have seen with my naked eyes

Oceans crashing against rocks that have held the press of my feet

Prayers I have whispered to the God who made it all, carries it all, 

--

Only He can carry me all

The mirror cannot contain my multitudes

It cannot capture a glimpse of me

It is not three or even two dimensional, but barely one -

I carry my pants

Out into their new world

And they rejoice.