These days (Christmas 2020)

These are the days of constant Christmas carols coming from our piano, as Seth practices for upcoming church services.

These are the days of hearing all about Dairy Queen, crazy customers and blizzard flavors, and long stories told at Aggie-speed:  “I told someone at work the whole Nativity story; I mean I might have left out a few details but I remember a LOT of details and so I told her all the nativity story between customers today. It took a long time.”

These days, before the Christmas Eve service, we have a big ugly fight over socks.  Also, I find brown curls in the bathroom sink, but nobody will admit to cutting his hair and I’m  too preoccupied to chase down that mystery.

These days, one is an acolyte for the first time ever, but he pushes through sibling sarcasm and anxiety and does a fine job. 

These days, the church is decorated beautifully, but we all notice one ornament that looks like a coronavirus. Yes, coronavirus is present here, at least in our thoughts, but we will gather and smile and give thanks anyways.

These days my prayers in the sanctuary are still interrupted with a whisper:  "I have to poop."

These days Peter goes up to the altar wearing my tennis shoes, untied. His older siblings care more than I do about these things, but none of them caught it this time. I suppress a laugh. I can only address so many things at once.

These days the girls are singing the choir, around the altar with the others pushing their songs hard through masks, praise and joy reverberating off the walls and lifting my heart to heave.

These days, Christmas is not canceled

After service, we came home to dog puke by the Christmas tree. Copper had gotten into Peter’s butterscotch chips, ate the whole bag, and then gave them back in a slimy mess on the carpet.

These are the days of “I hate my life” and “everyone is mean

to me” but also,

These are the days of huge excitement over “my very own box of pop tarts!” 

These days, I watch the Nativity Story through the eyes of Mary’s mom, and I sigh when her daughter leaves with the Lord, far away, with no guarantees but God’s faithfulness.

And my oldest daughter rests her head on my shoulder during church

the string of my bow gets tight (like my heart) and I can feel this arrow getting ready to launch.

These days I miss seeing my family, and the snows of Michigan and the kielbasa and the noise.

and I learn that letting a few tears fall while wearing a mask is especially not fun

and I am afraid to sniffle in my emotions, making others fear infections.

(Masks hide more than just viruses, and these days I am weary of it all.)

But all through these days, the Word of God echoes in the church and in our home,

and daddy the soldier-priest stands in front of the poinsettias, 

proclaiming truth faithfully,

and the church around the world lights candles and takes refuge in God’s presence,

even in the darkness and grief of 2020

and Christmas is not cancelled.

Jesus  is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power. (Hebrews 1:3)

These days, he calls, gathers, and upholds us

Christmas is not cancelled.

refuge

 “I just want to hide until all of this is over.”

We want to curl up by the fire and be children again,

to take the weight of it from or own shoulders.

We want to be comforted by stories of hope,

and filled with expectation of good gifts in the morning, of better days to come.

Do you know, fellow adults, that it is not wrong to want this?

What is the right response when we meet the end of our rope?

Fear.

Fear is a rational response, 

and it can spill into panic or despair

if we try to treat it with our own paltry medicines

for they will fail us. 

It is not wrong or crazy to be afraid, to need a sanctuary

to want to escape the madness, to seek solid places when all is sinking sand.

In fact, wanting this may be a symptom of spiritual health and healing,

may be the very work of God in us. 

Wanting a refuge may be a sign that our faulty comforts are failing us,

that we can’t work or eat or distract ourselves to contentment when we face real trials,

that the shadow of death cannot be overcome by the work of our hands.

We are the body of Christ. We gather where his Word is spoken, 

to confess together, hear together, sing together, and encourage each other.

Could it be that this gathering is God’s answer to our longing,

God’s invitation for us to come in, out of the storm,

to let HIM worry about the meals and the gifts,

to rest from our works, and to just receive?

We hear his promises of new and better gifts in the morning,

and we receive His real and present gifts NOW,

Word and Sacrament,

forgiveness, life and salvation NOW,

as we gather around his real presence,

as we hide from the storm in his sanctuary.

This is exactly what God does for his people when they gather. 

Our gathering in His house around His word

it is not a mere foretaste of a refuge- it IS a refuge, right now

a place where our wounds are tended

where we are fed with heavenly food, nourished for the journey

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble, now. 

We can take refuge in Him this holiday

Yes, we just have to look out our windows to see the storm raging outside

the headlines thundering and the wind howling

but why would we DWELL out there, 

fellow Christians?

Why, when we have free and open access to the real sanctuary

the warmth and light of our God’s presence is truly there waiting for us,

and he calls us to come, 

take, and eat?

Call, gather, enlighten and enliven your people, Lord.

We need your refuge.

fellowship near the edge.

Full disclosure: I dragged myself there. Before I got in the car I was slumped in a chair, curled in a ball, staring at the wall (or my phone to make the grief gaze a little less obvious to those around me). Everything is so heavy these days; my body itself is heavy, my arms sympathizing with my heavy hard and not wanting to lift to do the things.

But then we gathered

circled up by the light of the Christmas tree

and with the help of ND Wilson

we peered over the edge together

we saw each other, ourselves, and all of God’s spoken people

we saw faces, souls, lives

born to trouble as the sparks fly upward

running along wet concrete

molding souls shaping narratives

grabbing handfuls of wind and pinning them down in scrapbooks

we didn’t invent the narrative

God has been writing this story from the beginning

but we are swept up in it

we are on stage

we are making the sandcastles and facing the dragons

today

with or without His help

we move to the next level of life

even if we haven’t mastered the one we are on

What kind of characters will we be? 

the yearning we feel

is perhaps having too much to love

too much to do

with the sense that we do not have enough time for it all.

we don’t. 

we are trying to catch oiled diamonds as they rain down. 

(Try anyways.)

but if we are here to spend and be spent,

tiredness at the end of the day

is the goal!

if we pour out, we are going to grow weary and break

but manna is new every morning

we will get more (energy, life, days, even flesh.)

we can live generously because we have a generous God

in our soft-lighted room, 

side by side we peered over the edge,

hearing the sound of the dirt thrown on the coffin

and pondering the finish line

and the kindness of an ending

(it is not death to die)

Shall we die for ourselves or die for others?

The choice is now.

A closing prayer to the Author of our stories,

that He would give us our lines

and the courage to scatter the seeds

until our hands are truly empty

and we enter His rest.

May our living be grace to those behind us.

-----

To the author that inspired the discussion, a group of weary mamas in Kentucky who have been renewed by your words in 2020, enter our own stories today with our eyes up and hands ready to blister.  We echo your words right back to you:

"We will live and we will die in Christ, thankful that he placed us downstream in the river of your human grace."

Death by Living, ND Wilson, highly recommended!

Holiday Dissonance

As I am writing this, the kids are jamming to Christmas carols in the bedroom. Lorraine has vowed to wear the Santa hat I bought her all day long. She is still excited from our Christmas shopping extravaganza last week. We skipped in and out of 5 stores buying gifts and baking supplies, just the two of us. Her wide-eyed excitement is absolutely contagious!

As we pulled into the parking lot of Hobby Lobby (our most favorite store,) I got a call from Josh who was at home with the other kids. Apparently Aggie had a seizure while climbing on the bunk bed and fell straight back from the top. She was still having the seizure after she fell, so for several minutes she just laid there unaware of any pain at all. Both of the little boys knew this was NOT normal and were making a huge fuss about it. It took her about a half hour to really notice her aches and pains, and she spent the rest of the night snuggling daddy on the couch. As Josh and I talked about this, the familiar ache in my heart for Aggie returned, and the laundry list of worries I have for her future began to replay in my head. (She was a little bruised but otherwise just fine the next day.)

I slowly closed the phone and looked at the giddy toddler sitting next to me. “OH mommy I see more Christmas lights in Hobby Lobby! Are you ready? Let's go let's go let's go!”

How does one jump from that phone call back into the joy of Christmas shopping? I was startled by the dissonance I felt, the conflict between the joy of Christmas preparation and the pain that cast dark shadows over it all.

I suspect most adults feel this tension during the holidays. We sense the dissonance between the apparent holiday joy and bliss in every store and every Christmas song, and the feelings of fear, grief, or sadness that we wrestle with in our secret hearts. The festivities of this time of year can make the sorrows seem even deeper, the loneliness even more lonely.

Glitter and bells are out of place, and sometimes downright annoying when paraded in front of our pain. How can we be expected to sparkle with JOY when we all we can see is the huge hole where a loved one used to be? How do we hold on to HOPE when we see sickness in the sunken eyes of our own child?

Christians have always been people acquainted with grief, people whose hearts are sometimes torn with this conflict, yet the church has stubbornly and enthusiastically celebrated Christmas in the darkness year after year. God gave us His very own Son, and we see the nearness of God even in this place of pain. Our God does not stand far away, merely cheering us on through the darkness, He comes to dwell with us right in the middle of it.

This time of year, we are surrounded with tangible reminders of the hope we have because God is with us. Candles flicker and we sing praises to the Light that has come into the world. Bells ring with joy as we remember promises made and fulfilled in Jesus. Glitter sparkles on angel wings and we look forward to the blessings to come when our Lord returns.

We dwell in darkness, but the love of Him who sent His Son shines brightly. And so this year, like every other year, God's children gather together in the night, lift up their heads, light candles, and sing songs at the top of their voices, testifying to the world that God is indeed with us, and the darkness is passing away.

originally posted 12/2008

What love looks like around here these days

“do you want a warm-up?”

Pumping up a brother’s bike tires

“i’ll help you with that piano song”

Do you need any help with dinner? (such progress from “what are we eating? Do I have to have that”)

Presents for siblings purchased, wrapped, displayed early

getting him a glass of water

sharing MnMs

When she takes the grumpy one for a drive

Giving rides to work

Picking up that thing I forgot at the store for me

“How did you sleep?”

helping with a piano song

brushing the dog

aiming nerf guns away from the face

bouncing together

not wearing dad’s socks

cleaning the gunk out of the sink drain

gathering the dirty socks

hugging after a fight

vacuuming up the dog hair

feeding the gecko

microwaving the warmie

sharing the electric blanket

letting someone go first

sharing a water bottle

scooping the ice cream

giving the lecture/ refereeing the fight

trying to handle it when mom’s on the phone

letting someone sleep in

picking up the dog poop

saving some meat for dad when he gets home

sharing a blanket with mom

putting on deodorant

lowering voices when dad has a headache

lifting the lid

flushing the toilet

it might be obedience, not yet love, but it’s practice for love, muscle memory training; it’s the love of God in us coming out clumsily and imperfectly.

God, give me eyes to see the glimmers of light and love in this place.