Surely He Taught Us to Love One Another

Today was super busy. Right after dropoff, I went Christmas shopping. Then work started fast and furious at 11 and I didn't stop for anything until my shift ended at 3. I squeezed in a bit more shopping before 330 pickup.

So by the time Pascal and I met on the sidewalk, we were both as worn out as a 4yo at the end of a long day.

Sam joined us after a minute, and he was wiping his eyes. He's not one to cry easily, so my heart lurched. "It's okay mama," he explained before I could ask, "my friend accidentally hit me with the gate in the neck. He didn't mean to," he assured me. And there, along his collarbone, was an ugly red gash. He'd been smoked really hard. I was so proud of him for not blaming his friend, for not reacting in anger, for seeing my worry and meeting it. I kissed the top of his head and he leaned against me. 

When Vava joined us, I collected Scally and Kachi's backpacks and we headed to the van.

Pascal decided he'd had enough. 

"Carry me," he huffed, slumping over onto the frozen grass. 

I stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out if I could juggle both backpacks and Pascal.

And that suddenly grown-up Sam picked up Pascal and carried him for a block, halfway to the van.

He has such a beautiful heart.

This Sam is a gift. 

Born on a snowy March night, placed in our arms with more love and sacrifice and beauty and heartache than we knew - than we could know.

So much like Jesus. Sent with love. Costly. Precious. 

Defending his friends. Father, forgive them. They don't know what they do.

Carrying his brother, bearing our griefs and sorrows. 

Like a brother does.

God-with-us: a gift, placed right into humanity's arms.

Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.

Love covers a multitude of sins

I have to attend council meetings (virtually) and report on them for our local newspaper. It's a pretty cool thing to be part of - sometimes, yes, extremely dull but also really revealing. I read all the council members' bios and platforms 2 years ago when they were up for reelection, but seeing them in action makes me want to adjust my vote next time. I can see who is passionate about what, who refers to townspeople as fellow citizens and who sees us as voters (a small but significant difference, I think). And I can see how they act under pressure, when something unexpected pops up, when they're put on the spot.

I'm glad for virtual meetings. I attend on my computer which has no mic or camera, and I never have to worry about being heard or seen. Other reporters for other publications attend too, and sometimes ask questions or clarify a murky point. Often, visitors present complaints/reports/awards virtually too, and I always like getting a glimpse of people in their own setting.

This week, a guest was presenting a report when suddenly someone else's mic was turned on. There was the sound of a squalling child in a busy home, obviously clamoring for a distracted parent's attention. And then the exasperated parent's voice could be heard, telling them not to hit the computer again, and then the gasp of realization that their mic had been turned on. 

The presenter smiled kindly and murmured "these things sometimes happen with zoom, don't they," and then, unruffled, continued the presentation. 

The absolute grace and kindness of his comment shone in the dull meeting like a Christmas star. 

I could just feel the interrupter cringing as they realized what had happened. The flush of embarrassment and panic, the horror as they replayed their snappish voice in their head. And then the relief as the meeting flowed on, the brief interruption barely a ripple.

Love covers a multitude of sins. 

[To be very clear, I'm not talking about covering up abuse (which is a crime, and makes you party to the crime if you cover it up). Report that ruthlessly, and so protect the vulnerable.] 

Love covers failures and flaws and gaps and insufficiencies.

I have a friend who has been through some really tough times, and she has this breathtakingly gracious response when someone is disregulated.

'Hey,' she asks, 'how can I support you right now?'

And just reading it like that, it might sound formulaic and academic, but hearing it? Hearing it when you're losing your temper or coming unraveled over something? 

It's sweet balm. 

There isn't any judgment. No 'get it together, you horrible person!' and no 'how can you act that way?' (Which is already ringing in the background when I'm overwhelmed anyway.)

Just mercy.

Just care.

I remember one night we had a bunch of friends over, and one friend, noticing the state of my fan, blurted out, "whoa, you have a lot of cobwebs!" Cringe. I definitely should have dusted long before then. But another friend asked me about one of the dishes at the table, and the conversation moved on.

Kindness. Love. 

It's so beautiful in action. 

Love covers. 

Like soothing balm on sore skin, like warm blankets on a cold night, like a plush-lined hat over wind-nipped ears.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

May we see it, and cherish it, and extend it - all year long, but especially at Christmas.

xo.

Big Toe Adventures

 My friend's daughter called her over tonight and said, "Mommy look at this big toe and take a picture! Do you know it's been on many adventures?!" 

And after I stopped laughing my smile just stretched wider and wider.

This kid is awesome; she's always saying the most unexpected things. Her perspective is unique and wonder-filled and hilarious. Last week she watched a movie upside down, balanced against a couch. She sings and draws and makes her mama laugh and just seems to exist in a world of joy - her heart is bent on delight.

I think Mary must have been like that as a kid. You know? Open to wonder. Seeing ordinary things in astonishing ways and then, naturally, seeing astonishing things as not so out of the ordinary. 

Because when the angel came, after her initial confusion, she believed.

She believed.

She believed that she would bring the Hope of the world into the world.
She believed that God would make all this impossible glory unfold right there in her own body.
She believed the extraodinary words from the astonishing angel right there in her own ratty little town of Nazareth.

I think she must have been an awful lot like my friend's little girl.

And oh, the adventures that she and her big toe got up to. Bearing the Messiah. Receiving the Magi. Being hunted by Herod. Escaping to Egypt. Drinking water made wine. Witnessing miracles and death defeated. The cross. The resurrection. Jesus. Glory, glory, glory.

Blessed is she who believed.

That brave girl. That little mama. With a full heart bent on delight.
And you. I wonder what adventures you and your big toe have gotten up to? 

I bet your story is amazing.

Blessed are you who believe.
xo.

A Monday kinda day

The weekend was a mash of hilarious notes from Kachi and my first ever love note from Pascal.

But today, ugh, it's Meanday.

Maybe everybody finds it hard to get back to work on Mondays, or maybe it's just a case of me seeing what I expect to see, but Mondays tend to be the days I have the most rude customers and stressed out servers.

Today one guy was so nonchalantly mean in our brief exchange that I kept weeping for practically an hour. And I'm pretty sure at that point I was no longer crying for the meanness of the moment but for all the meanness, each unfairness and heavy blow that has ever crashed against my heart (which is less than many have experienced, I know, but enough to swamp me).

In The Great Divorce, CS Lewis talks about the way grief stains backward - when we're grieving, it hurts to look back at old memories, because the current sorrow paints them dark.  He posits that joy stains backward too, and all the burdens we know on earth will seem insignificant and barely remarkable when we look back on them from the doorway of heaven.

I very much look forward to joy staining backward over 2020, with all of its small indignities and great sorrows. 

Perhaps next Christmas will be sweeter because of the contrast of this year. Or maybe it will be harder, lonelier.  But it will still be Christmas, with Jesus, God with us. 

Even when people are unkind.

Even when there's no joy to stain forward or backward at all.

Even when I make disckusting food. 

 

Always, Jesus, God-with-us.

Merry Christmas. 

xo.

Bottles of milk

The other day we were driving home from Patrick's work, and Sam asked "how many bottles of milk do you think it is between here and home?"

"Can you repeat that?" I asked, "it sounded to me like you wanted to know how many bottles of milk it is between here and home."

"I did," he said in all seriousness, "if we start at 99 will we be done before we get home?"

And then it dawned on me that he wanted to sing the song. (Turns out there are approximately 144 bottles of milk on the wall between home and work.)

Unlike Sam, I usually prefer to count distance by podcasts or coffee stops.

I noticed in the book of Matthew that the writer likes to count too: there are 42 generations from Abraham to Jesus.

42 generations of distance. 

And we can count from Jesus til now but I'd rather count from Jesus to me and it's less than a heartbeat. 

Because he came to be with us.

No waiting.

No silent years.

Just that silent night and God with us.

Zero bottles of milk on the wall between me and that long-awaited Jesus.

Merry Christmas. 

xo.

On the first day of Christmas

Today we went for a walk.  There isn't any snow, but the wind was sharp and it was definitely winter.

We saw squirrels and wild swans and wild Swan boys acting squirrely. 

After a nice walk along the well-kept walking path, we wound up in our favourite spot: a little patch of woods behind our house. A stream runs through it, and in the summer it's so overgrown with leaves and ferns and vines that we have complete privacy. Now, though, it's bare and the mostly-frozen water just slides slowly over thin moss and dead leaves. We were hunting for owl pellets (which we didn't find) and I loved the way the earth dipped and sprang under my feet. 

When I was a kid, there was a little patch of woods behind our house. It ran between my friends' backyard and ours, diagonally. The ground was uneven and soft with pine needles, roots jutting out to make fantastic jumping spots, and the trees oozed golden blobs of sap.  We had no end of fun in the woods and today, standing among the trees with the laughter of children ringing in my ears and the earth soft under my boots, I felt ten years old again.

The kids climbed and wrestled and played and once, when the fallen tree across the stream got slippery, they quickly asked for a calming song to help them cross without falling.

And just before we went in, they found a heron, carved.

It felt joyful, magical. 

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me

A heron carving in an old tree.

A friend told me once that in Ojibway culture, seeing a heron is a symbol you're on the right path. I don't know as much about Ojibway tradition as I want to know, but that has nestled in my heart and I always feel God smiling on me when he sends me a heron.

It was a good day. Fresh air, health and strength to enjoy it, and a heart winging upward. 

God bless you with unexpected gifts in ordinary places, friends.

Xo.

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.