If these were silent

 

A bird in flight

A name at just the right angle

Sunshine spraying across the floor through a slit in the curtains

You're here you're here you're here

Rocks and birds and light and words

Cry out

Longing, comfort

Kachi and Pascal are best friends. I'm drinking my morning coffee and I can hear Kachi helping Pascal get dressed. "Put your arms up," he coaches him, "you're doing it!" 

Last night at bedtime Pascal suddenly sits up in bed and sighs, "I'm so tired of waiting for love to come."

And I was kind of just frozen because it's rather arresting to hear the longing of your heart crystallized by a  4 year old.  

But Kachi climbs into Pascal's bed and wraps his arms around him and gives him a kiss and says "love is already here, Pascal, you don't have to wait."  And Pascal curls into him.

And I feel like all the ache and comfort in the world is summed up in those two sentences.

All the best in 2021, my friends. When your heart is longing for love, may you find it already there.

Xo.

For A Weird Christmas

I stepped outside early this morning to put out the garbage. I was utterly surprised to see a rainbow.

There was no rain; hadn't been any yet this morning. 

The rain came a few minutes later, and it poured all day. A warm and weird Christmas Eve.

A friend with a paint sprayer came over this morning. Our space, which was bare drywall this morning, was transformed by this evening.

And yes, I bought the very last Christmas tree.

We'd all been so worried. "I can't believe I'm sitting beside our tree tonight," Vava sighed before bed. 

"I thought it was a No, but God said Yes," Sam replied.

Yeah.

He does that sometimes.

Keeps us waiting.

Keeps us looking up.

And fills our lives with a dizzying array of contrasts.

I think God puts contrast all over the place, and probably for the same reason all authors do - to make us look twice, pay attention, see more clearly.

A rainbow before the rain.

An empty room, filled.

A usually full house, empty.

A king in a manger.

Poor shepherds and wealthy wise men.

The prince of peace to a weary world.

Lights shine in the dark, windows glow warm against the chill, wet night.

It's a beautiful story. A story that has rolled on and on through the ages. My story. Your story. A story that has maybe had a few sadder twists, lonelier spots this year than we're used to.

A story the author entered that first Christmas night. I imagine the loneliness and difficulties he encountered were quite a bit different than what he was used to.

Wishing you a peaceful night and a joyous morning, friends. And good reading, wherever you are.

xo.

A Little Peace

I got an early Christmas present today. 

The workers finally finished sanding my future kitchen.  A friend is willing to come paint tomorrow. I had a few hours between the workers leaving and my evening shift beginning, and I wanted to shop vac and clean out the space so we can get right to work in the morning. 

But it was the witching hour - that tired, bored, crankish time of day right before supper. It's when my kids all want attention, separately, and don't have a lot of patience or focus.

I left them playing nicely, determined to get as much done as I could until they called for me.

I moved all the equipment and tools to the hallway.

Nobody called.

I vacuumed the window sills and outlets.

Nobody called.

I vacuumed the edges and corners.

Nobody called.

I finished vacuuming the entire floor.

Nobody called.

I went back past the plastic sheeting and into the land of the living. Sam had cleared the table, made himself a snack, and was watching a movie. Kachi and Pascal were playing cars on the stairs. Vava was reading in her room. 

It was the quiet hum of a happy, contented family.

I washed up quickly, and laid down beside Vava. Kachi joined us, then Pascal and Sam. We ended up in a giggly heap and just laid there together while I ordered a quick pizza for supper. 

Sheer gift.

Kachi stayed snuggled up with me the longest, and afterward he made me this.

Peace in the whirlwind, peace. I opened my heart and breathed it in, that little echo of Immanuel.

Wishing you moments of stillness in the busyness, contentment and peace in all the upheaval this Christmas, friends. 

Because Jesus. 

xo.

In the Fullness of Time

Due to a summer reno gone woefully awry, we don't yet have a Christmas tree up. It's so late it hurts. 

Five rooms' worth of furniture and appliances are jammed into two rooms. We're living on top of each other and have been for months. There's nowhere for a tree to go.

I love Christmas trees. I love the warm glow of twinkle lights, the fragrance of fir, the special ornaments the kids have made. I love the way it sets a celebratory tone regardless of what's going on around it.

But right now we're more than a little low on celebratory tones. There's more plaster dust than Christmas sparkle. Presents are stashed in the attic. We've got a string of newly made ornaments dangling in front of the mirror, awaiting a branch where they can make their debut. 

We're so achingly ready to celebrate. 

But we have no room for a tree.

We've been hoping the reno would reach a usable pausing stage, so we could set up our future kitchen as a temporary living room, with plenty of space for the Christmas tree. 

But things keep going wrong and wrong and every day our plans get pushed back and back. Now we've got two days left til Christmas and if we're going to put up a tree on Christmas Eve it will take a miracle.

I know that Christmas isn't in the tree. I know it. It will be Christmas whether or not we have that particular decoration.

But the waiting, and hoping, and waiting, and hoping - 

It's exhausting. 

Logically I know that every day brings us closer to the space being ready. It must. It does. 

But somehow, every day of delays and setbacks makes me feel like the opposite is true. It makes me feel like we're further from finishing than we were when it started. It's a lie that feels really true.

It's my own little glimpse of the weary world, awaiting the Messiah. Awaiting deliverance. Awaiting salvation. Longing for the promised God-with-us. And every day before He comes makes it feel like he's further away.

But he's not.

Each day adds up, each day fills up, until the days are complete and God-with-us.

And now we're all waiting. Waiting for Covid to end. Waiting for restrictions to ease, for hugs and visits and borders to open. Waiting maybe for that heartbreak to stop aching, waiting for that unanswered prayer to finally be answered, waiting for surgery and healing, waiting for your baby to come home. Waiting for peace, waiting for love, waiting for relief and comfort and rest. 

In the fullness of time, God sent forth his Son.

It will take a miracle for Christmas at our house this year.

But then, it's always taken a miracle for Christmas.

xo.

What We Remember

I keep seeing that post on Facebook about how your kids won't remember what presents they got for Christmas this year; they'll remember the feelings and delight and joy of it all.

Tonight I asked Sam what is his favourite Christmas memory of all time. 

"Last year," he said confidently. 

"What happened?" I asked.

"I forget," he replied. 

😅❤😅

Turns out, it wasn't any one particular thing - just having his cousins here, and having Ash sleep in his top bunk. She's the eldest, and he adores her.

My earliest Christmas memory is from the house we lived in before I turned 5. I remember the tree, set up in the basement (I think?!), lit with coloured lights, and decorated with red and green and gold and silver balls and bells. And I was allowed, oh bliss of bliss, to sleep by the Christmas tree with my big sisters. We nudged our air mattresses all up against each others', and I think we used Dad's thick hunting sleeping bag to turn them into one big bed. Together and warm and cozy under a those magical twinkling lights - mmm yeah. It radiated Christmas magic.

That thing going around on Facebook speaks truth.

We don't remember the presents, we remember the love that gave them.

We don't remember how things look, apart from how they made us feel.

We remember togetherness and specialness and lights in the dark.

The traditions we cling to and the celebrations we create and recreate every year matter to us because they sing to our hearts the song of heaven: love.

Love came down at Christmas.

And everything that carries an echo of His peace and joy and generosity and light holds that Christmas magic.

Wishing you a good one, friends.

xo.

Great Love

Two weeks ago at work I noticed a sudden shift away from door delivery to doorbell delivery - almost everyone was requesting me to place their order on the step, ring the bell, and leave.

The first day I thought it was just a funny coincidence, but the next day it continued and I finally turned on the radio and realized what had happened. The number of Covid cases in our area had begun to spike, and people were responding with increased distancing. 

And even though I miss seeing happy faces in doorways, it made my heart glad to see such an immediate response. This is how we love our neighbours. 

Do I want to be social distancing? Heck no. I wish there was no pandemic.

I miss my family.

I miss my parents.

I miss my nieces, who we're usually picking up from the airport right about now.

I wish we were able to get together and laugh and play boardgames and sing and cook together. But we can love each other, love our communities by laying down our Christmas traditions and preferences. 

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. (John 15:13)

I might paraphrase it:Greater love has no hugger than this: to choose not to hug for one's friends. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Miss you.

the Untied way

Have you ever seen Inside Out? You know how Riley's memory bank workers occasionally send an unrelated memory up the chute to dance on repeat in her head? Well, when I was a kid, I heard a clip on the radio about The Untied Way. Nope, that's not a typo, not the United way, but the Untied Way. And every now and then, the Untied way clip plays in my brain.

The Untied way is a philosophy that promotes giving freely (no strings attached, no expectations) and generously ("charity should hurt a little bit") to people around you. It's a stop-gap support, a drop of kindness to the people who have fallen through the cracks between cracks.

I googled it today to see if anyone else has thought about it since the 90s, and found an oldish article - Click here if you want to read it.

I think it really resonated with me and stuck in my head because it seemed like a Jesus sort of generosity. No bureaucracy. No demands. No rewards or tax receipts or strings*. Just - as you can, do. 

When He told the story of the good Samaritan, Jesus asked "who was the neighbour to the beat-up guy on the road?" And the answer was: the one who cared for him.

It wasn't the priest.

It wasn't the deacon.

(It wasn't organized religion.)

It was the stranger who stopped, and helped, and carried him to bed.

That's how we love, and that's how we put our arms around the world at Christmas time and anytime: love our neighbours as ourselves. 

We stop when we see a need.

And we help.

However we can.

Untied. Freely.

It's the joyfullest part of Christmas.

Xo.

(*please know I'm not bashing organizations or tax receipts! They enable us to give even more. I just mean that sometimes people need help, people right in front of us, and not on the other end of an organization.)

The Real Treasure

I found this in the kitchen today.

Vava had repurposed a pizza box into a gift box. She wrapped it with construction paper, created a Santa-themed card, and filled it with presents she made herself (three magic wands, a purse, and a notebook). 

Not because someone told her to, not because she felt obliged, but because she loves.

Her love flows out of her in creativity, in colour and tape and paper.  And in generosity, because love gives freely, gladly, happily, eagerly. And here's the secret: love itself is the light that illuminates any present. Whether it's a store-bought gift or a construction paper masterpiece, the real treasure isn't the thing you unwrap... the real treasure is the love.

And it's so so beautiful. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

Xo.

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.