It sure is nice

Sam is tall and quiet, with a goofy sense of humour that comes pouring out when he's around his favourite friends. He loves funny YouTube videos, he loves to read, he loves to play with figurines and set up epic battles. 

When he got out of bed this morning, he just happened to come out of his room when everyone else had converged in the hallway. 

I was stepping into the bathroom so I called good morning, and the others all hugged him hello.

When we met in the kitchen a few minutes later, he was grinning.

"You look happy today," I said.

"It sure is nice to start your day with a bunch of people who love you," he said.

A gift like that can warm your heart all year long.

Wishing you a moment of knowing that the people you love loved to be loved by you - 

Merry Christmas friends ❤️

Xo.

Known

Mary said to the angel: how will this be, since I am a virgin? (literally, I do not know a man) (Luke 1:34)

Mary had never known a man. I love that old-school phrase, because it carries in within it an acknowledgement of the togetherness that is kerneled up in oneness: knowing, and being known.

God knows us.

He knows us.

We are not alone.

He came to us.

Immanuel, God with us.

Merry Christmas friends. Xo.

Common Grace

If you find yourself some freedom,
With ability, and time,
And this freedom coincides
With a moonlit night like mine -
Take your dog and take your leash
Slip your arms into your coat
Stuff your feet into your boots
Zip your zip up to your throat.
Walk or skip or run as sprightly
As your boots and bones allow
To the closest wildish place
And - if your dog stands still somehow -
Tip your head up to the sky
Let the wind caress your face
Drink the beauty and the stillness
As you bathe in common grace.

It's a beautiful night out there :) 

Merry Christmas, friends.

xo.

$50 000

I was blown away this week when I read that a local business donated $50 000 to three local food banks during the Christmas food drive. They could have put it in their own pockets -

And since I was already mulling over the idea of Jubilee and Sabbath years, it tangled together in my head and I realized - I've never really thought about what Jubilee would be like from the perspective of a wealthy person.

When I read "all debts are forgiven" and "anyone with extra food opens their storehouses so no one goes hungry," I unconsciously imagine myself as the person whose debt is forgiven, the person who can fill up a waning cupboard again. 

And Jubilee blew my mind all over again, because it obviously blesses both the poor and the wealthy.

The poor? Their prayers are answered, food is available, and their debt is erased. They can start working forward again - building their future with joy and reaping the reward of their work. This seems like the obvious benefit of Jubilee to me - to feed and clothe and offer respite to the poor.

But the wealthy? What do they get out of Jubilee? They have to open their storehouses and share any abundance. They have to let the land rest from its constant cycle of planting and harvesting. They have to let the labourers rest too. So their stockpiles ebb, maybe entirely away. Their next few years will be leaner. 

I think this gives them the blessing of community, and sets them free from being envied. (When you know your landlord will open the silo and share the grain with you, you celebrate their success.) And it releases both the poor and the wealthy from worshiping money as the road to freedom or esteem, and sets them free as co-recipients of common grace. They can both rejoice when the crop succeeds, when the business booms, when resources pile up - because they will not be ground down by it. There will be sharing, and rest. And they can both be free from temptation to despair - because the highs will be made lower and the valleys will not be as steep. 

Jubilee reminds us that all blessing comes from God and is not God. It reminds us that we're stewards of the blessings we have received, and reminds us to freely give, as we have freely received. Jubilee resets our focus to remember to love God and love our neighbour.

And clearly, I'm not an ancient Israelite. I'm Canadian.

Jubilee isn't Canadian law. It has no legal claim on me, on us.

But His law is love, and His gospel is peace. God opened His heart and shared His Son with us. He gave his best and loved His little neighbours as Himself. And at Christmas, especially, I get a frisson of delight every time I see a snapshot of Jubilee. 

Throw open the storehouse doors! Forgive debts, feed the hungry, rescue the oppressed. Donate to the food banks, volunteer at a shelter, welcome refugees. Because our Jubilee - Jesus - has come. 

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Shmita, Yovel

I've been reading about the Jewish Shmita, the sabbatical year, when the land and produce and debts and indentured servants should all be forgiven, and given rest and release.  I wanted to know if Jesus could have been born during a Shmita year, or maybe even Yovel - the year of Jubilee, a mega-sabbath, which was supposed to be observed (after? in lieu of?) every seventh Shmita.

It turns out there's a bit of argument about what year is a Shmita year, and even more argument about Yovel years - should Jubilee be marked every 49th year, as the seventh seven? Or on the 50th year, as the year after the year of Shmita. I read theories about Jesus being born in April, and theories of him being born in September. Some speculate he was born on what we now count as 1 AD (or CE), some think it was year 3, others say year 6-7. But nothing conclusive about him being born during a Shmita or Yovel or plain old ordinary year.

To me, it doesn't matter. I was just curious because Jesus seems so Jubilee-y to me.

 Maybe my favourite and most-chewed-over passages of scripture is the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus teaches his followers to offer forgiveness and renewal and freedom to others, just like the Hebrews were commanded for the year of Jubilee. Forgive debts. Feed the hungry. Welcome strangers. Live graciously and generously toward others, the way God lives toward you.

Our culture does this most at Christmas, I think. Just today I saw two notices about free Holiday meals for any and all, and sign-up sheets for donations for Christmas gifts for the needy have made their rounds from the school.  It's a mini Jubilee to celebrate His birthday.

During Jesus' first recorded sermon, He read this from the Isaiah scroll in the synagogue in Nazareth:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.

And then he told everyone, "today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing."

What's the year of the Lord's favour? Yep, you guessed it: Jubilee 😊. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

xo.

Who are dear to us

Today Kachi was bored. 

The kids are all sick again, just ten days after getting over fevers. Kachi, who'd been the most sick last time, is the least sick this time. He's got a cough and less energy, but no fever.  So while the other kids have been drifting in and out of naps on the couch, Kachi hasn't had a lot to do.

So, instead, he has spent a lot of time and diligence writing books. They are heavy on stick-figure illustrations with lots of action and weapons, and a few words. 

His fourth book was about himself and his best friend. He illustrated as many playdates as he could remember, one after another. After he'd finished, he climbed upstairs to find me and threw himself at me with a deep sigh. 

"I'm feeling so emotional now," he explained, eyes a little full, "Just from thinking about my best friend."  

And part of me wanted to laugh. (I did not. I hugged him tight and told him I was so glad he had such a wonderful friend.)

And then I wondered why - why did I want to laugh? Did I think it was silly, that an 8 year old should feel the weight, the magnitude of examining his closest, dearest friendship? Has it been so long since I did the same? 

Just last night, I teared up over friends who decorated their lawn stump.

I, too, sit down and write stories about mine.

Jesus, too, teared up over his friends.

Jesus, too, told stories about them. 

God, too, filled the universe with pictures and wonder and mysteries and people that make him - yes, a good word choice - emotional.

And at Christmas we sing and retell. We bring gifts and retell. We reenact the story of love given and feel the weight of it, year after year.

I kissed the top of Kachi's head.
"Same, little apple," said the tree.

 

Merry Christmas, dear, dear friends. xo.

The Festive Stump (with apologies and thanks, to P&A)

My friends posted a picture of their house and yard all aglow with Christmas lights. And right down at the corner where the yard meets the street and driveway, there's a squat mass all wrapped up and glorious in a tangle of brilliant colours.

Guys.

They have a Festive Stump.

They wrap it in lights like a favourite tree. No matter that it's short and branchless.

No matter.

Thirteen years ago, in one terrible summer, Patrick and I lost our jobs, lost our apartment, and miscarried our baby. On moving day our family was busy, but these friends showed up at our door. 

We had packed up most of our things, but I hadn't been able to deal with the room full of unused and unusable baby things.

They came in and started helping. My friend gently and kindly helped me choose the special things I wanted to keep, while her husband and Patrick moved the furniture. They were so helpful and spacious and ready to laugh and ready to cry with us.

Truly, my heart was not prepared for happiness that day. But the thing that stands out the most was after we had worked and sweated and worked some more, we sat down on the floor in the empty apartment and scavenged snacks from the mostly empty fridge. We ate pepperettes and drank ciders and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

That day echoes with joy, because they were with us.

They've got a history of wrapping heartache in beauty. 

It looks like a Festive Stump.

It looks like love.

Tomorrow I'm going to find the ugliest part of my house and put some lights on it. I'm going to make like Peter and Angela, and make it special. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

It might feel scary

My friend recently shared her testimony at church. The service was on YouTube, and she sent me a link so I could hear her speak.

After I'd finished listening to her piece, the link stayed active in my YouTube library, and when I was searching for music to listen to while I worked on my kitchen, I saw the video and decided to listen to the rest of the service.

I was mixing up waterproof concrete, working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. (I do not want to be working on my own artsy/industrial style backsplash. But I am. We paid for a full kitchen 3 years ago, and our contractor lost our money in his addictions. So we have been living in this unfinished state and it has been breaking my heart away in chunks. Our brief renovation has turned into a massive part of our lives - a full half of Pascal's existence - and the things we have completed since then keep breaking down too. New stove. New sink. The van. Even my foot has decided to break down.  Anyway, I'm not telling you this because I want to dwell on grief, but because I want you to know the frustration and resentment that was colouring my mental space when I was listening to this message. I was not feeling hopeful or glad.)

Suddenly this sentence sliced through my fog.

 

It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.  

I backed it up and listened to the message again. The preacher was speaking about hope. 

Before Jesus was born, the Hebrew people had been waiting to hear from God for over 400 years. This God, the one who spoke the world into existence, who spoke in storms and stillness, spoke through prophets and donkeys and little slave girls, spoke to kings and judges and embittered concubines ... This God of theirs who speaks and speaks and speaks hadn't spoken to them collectively for over 

Four

Hundred

Years.

Fear not, the angel told Zechariah, the angel told Mary, the angel told Joseph, the angels told the shepherds; He is with us.

They needed to be reminded - and I need to be reminded - not to fear the believing. Because it's scary to believe, and it's especially scary to believe after hope deferred. (Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12. That's exactly how it feels. Heartsick.)

It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

And these people who had waited and waited and waited for a word from God? They got their word.  The very Word they had longed for came into the world and cried and loved and spoke -- spoke to priests and prostitutes, fishermen and widows, people of all types, rich and poor and eager and reluctant and fearful and brave.  And those who believed were filled with joy.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, says Proverbs 13:12, but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life.

It is scary to dare to hope - it is scary, and hard, to stand in the middle of broken dreams and fruitless work and choose to hope, anyway. It might feel scary to let yourself believe something again, but that's what Christmas is.

Merry, brave Christmas, dear ones.

Xo.

Candles in the window

My parents had these candles when I was little. Every year when we'd start bugging them about putting up Christmas lights, they'd drag them out of some box somewhere and plug them in, setting them in the windows.

I remember - oh, maybe back in grade 7 or 8 - walking home in the gathering dark after play practice, looking at all the different lights in all the different houses. I didn't have music to listen to, and this was at least a decade before phones, and it was too dark to walk and read - so I'd just walk, and think, as the stars winked on overhead.

Not every house had Christmas lights, but many did. My favourite were always white lights - not the bluey white lights, which made my eyes hurt, but warm white, which felt a little more like candles. 

And it always felt like something special, coming up the street and seeing the candles flickering in the windows. The very world felt alight, holding back the dark in ways both literal and metaphorical. 

I spied on it all, walking through the still blue evening, listening to my backpack scritch against my winter jacket, wind purring against my face.

Anyway. I mentioned to my parents last year that I missed the plastic candles from my childhood, and this summer they brought them to me. When my kids started asking when we were going to decorate for Christmas, I heaved a sigh. (I hurt my foot in November, and climbing stairs is extra sore). But I went up into the attic and dragged down two boxes full of decorations. We plugged these candles in and -

Instant Christmas magic.

For a few moments, I felt that giddy wave flash over me - the excitement and freedom of being young, walking home alone in the dark, looking at Christmas lights. 

I hope you feel it too.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.

I don't know why it's a swimming metaphor either, sorry

The waves haven't stopped crashing
And I am finding it harder and harder to swim.

But tonight, a raft:
A gangly dog heard my tears
And climbed up onto my couch,
And insisted on being right on top of me.
She wrapped her forelegs tight around my neck
And pressed her whiskered cheek against my hair.
She hugged, and hugged, and hugged.

May many rafts, furry or otherwise,
Make their way to you when you need them
As you row, or paddle,
Or swim through many waters.

(If you are a new reader, welcome. I keep my own little advent calendar here on this blog, by opening up doors and peering inside and sharing what I see. Today is Dec 1, and the first post in my 24-day series.)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined. - Isaiah 9:2, and Matthew 4:16

How tall was Jesus?

 My friend sent this funny joke 

Which of course made me google how tall Jesus was, and then I found myself plunged into the baffling, hilarious world of religious people arguing.

I know, I know - never read internet comments. But some of them made me laugh so hard.

The consensus seems to be that historically, the average height of a poor man in Jesus' society was between 5'1" and 5'5".

This seems to not sit well with some people. Someone commented that it's blasphemous to say Jesus was short. (I don't know how or why they came to that conclusion. They probably don't either.)  Someone else commented they were certain he was over six feet because God made mankind on the 6th day. You know. The usual wild conjecture.

The Bible doesn't give us any physical description of Jesus. It says he had hair on his face, so we're guessing a beard. And it says he wore sandals, and had clothes that the soldiers gambled over. 

Anyway, those thoughts and ideas were fresh in my mind when I went to church, and the homily was about ... how tall was Jesus. What? I almost laughed out loud.

The sermon started off with a caveat that we don't know how tall Jesus was, but then pointed out something I'd never heard before. 

Do you know the story of Zacchaeus? He was a tax collector, a rich and ruthless man, but when Jesus came to town he threw his sense of personal dignity to the wind and climbed a tree to see over the crowds.

Apparently, Greek has unspecified pronouns like English does.

Who does the second "he" belong to, in this sentence? Zacchaeus wanted to see Jesus, but he could not because he was short.

Grammatically, unclear. It could be either Zacchaeus or Jesus. 

So next we turn to context clues: so Zacchaeus climbed into a sycamore tree to see him. Still unclear.  If there was someone short in a crowd and you wanted to see them, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  On the other hand, if you were short and wanted to see someone taller in a crowd, climbing into a tree would be one way to do it.  The context doesn't clarify anything.

So yeah. 

This story might have been about a short tax collector, or - as much as we're not used to thinking it - a short Son of God. 

The message pointed out that in the same way that Zacchaeus gave no thought to maintaining his status or dignity and clambered up a tree, Jesus gave no thought to maintaining his status or sense of dignity. He came all the way down to us - God with us. He wasn't a glorious, beautiful, radiant human. There are no words describing how handsome he was, or how strong or - or anything. Whether he grew to be a 6'1 man or a 5'1" man, he came to us as a baby (and we all start off pretty short lol). 

No matter how you look at it, he climbed down an impossibly long way.

And sometimes looking for Jesus means we have to climb a bit. Throw our serious sense of self to the wind and just do whatever unexpected, unusual, even shocking thing is needed - look past the crowds of people and the religious noise and so many silly arguments until we meet him for ourselves. 

In a tree.

<3 

 

Can Do

I sprained my foot two days ago.

I've been sitting or lying down almost exclusively since then.

(Today I stood at the counter to pack the kids' lunches, and felt it was quite the accomplishment).

But I've definitely been consumed by thoughts of all my body can't do.

Can't walk the kids to school.

Can't take the dog to the park.

Can't go sledding in this gorgeous heap of snow that just fell.

Can't shovel.

Can't vacuum.

Can't mop.

Can't exercise.

Can't can't can't.

But.

And this reminded me  to look at what my body can do.

I walked home, more than a kilometre, after I injured it.

It's been only 36 hours since a huge crunchy sprain, and already it has healed so much. The constant throbbing is gone. I can curl my toes down and even wiggle them a bit. And I swept a section of the floor today. 

This old bod has been healing and repairing like crazy.

Gonna celebrate the can do, and not worry so much about the can't do.

🙏❤️