remember, Christmas (belated, 2021)

I am here to remember….
the laughter during the game
when my mom’s terrible poker face sold her out
and everybody saw her sneak
and my dad laugh so hard his eyes disappeared
and he had to wipe away a tear

and the way dad looked sleeping on our couch
with his hand on the remote
and fox news prattling on
cozy under Aggie’s blue royal robe
the cloak, that makes her look homeschooled

I am here to remember walking with mom
and how the girls ate snow and got in silly fights
and how it was when we were still all together. 

I am here to remember that these days do not last forever
and that its OK to love them and then release them like a balloon into the sky

I am here to remember the moment
that I saw my dad as a person, a friend,
a guy with a whole big life that I know little about
with heartaches and private struggles
and hurt feelings, and a walk with God that he holds close to his chest

I am here to remember the awkward offer to help with college
love trying to give wisely, but none of us really knowing what that looks like yet
and this sweet gestured tied in my mind to my own “car payment” singular
and the dog they gave Amy that ended up being mom’s
and how gifts don’t always come with expected outcomes.

I am here to remember that they came,
they came down for a visit during a pandemic
they came through snow and blowing anxieties
they came even though they were on the vaccine list and could be called at any time
they came, they risked, they loved.

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

Quempas echo

Christmas eve, and the lights in church are low. The saints hold candles and sing of Jesus, they circle the church, singing from all corners, echoing praise back and forth as if from every corner of the world.

I snuggle a sleepy little saint while they walk by with the candles and their Quempas Carol.

The song itself is light in our darkness, but it’s not so bright that it wakes the sleeper. Not yet.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

Each saint who goes by, each familiar face made even more lovely by soft candlelight, inspires affection, gratitude, prayer in me. I join their song, grateful that the average pew sitter is invited in as part of the echo. I envisage God’s great gathering of us all; how our lights will shine then; how my own voice will be more lovely, more confident.

But when he walks by there is more affection, more hope, more aching prayer.

For he’s mine, my husband, him whom I have loved in this life.  

It is with a mix of deep affection and selfish possessiveness that I use the word “mine:” God isn’t finished with me yet.  He is pastor, he is daddy, he is many things to many people, but at the end of this day, he is mine.

He walks by in his robe with the candle, singing with the saints as we are all  being gathered

The sheep are safe, He will indeed take care of them.

Safe. The sheep are safe. How his shepherd heart must ache for that day when all God’s sheep are finally safe and gathered in. I ache for it with him.

I try to imagine it:

He’s part of the heavenly choir, and I see him walk by singing sanctified praise, but with the voice I know, the smile that I have loved. There is more joy in his smile.

He will not be mine, then, not exclusively to possess as husband.

With others I will love him, see him, and rejoice in what God has done.

Will I still be allowed to speak of him with the “mine” of affection?

Will there be an amused “I told you so” in his glance, or in mine?

Will there be a silent mutual apology for not loving better? If there is, surely there will be mutual grace to consume all regret or pain, to swallow it all up in forgiveness.

Will we share a glance that nobody else could possibly understand, rich with memories and tearful nights and joys and fears we shared in this life, amazed to see how God has redeemed every bit of it all?

“Confirm for us the work of our hands:” we have prayed  this many times.  Will we someday see God’s answer?  It will all be done by His hand, we will see clearly then.

And yet He has used our hands to “help,”

Used pastor’s words to convict, comfort, heal, uphold

And mine too, in my own way, though all of the grace and the beauty were borrowed.

Will we get to trace the paths of His Words on our lips, see how God took our imperfect efforts and (miraculously!) watered and grew and reaped a rich harvest?

I have shared his burdens in this life; will I get to be with him to see those burdens made beautiful?

These saints we walk with and their griefs, will we see the finished artwork when they are finally healed?

We cannot picture, cannot fathom what is to come. So for now, light candles together, we join in song, and we receive glimpses of hope from our God. And we wait until the new day dawns.

The sleeping saint in the pew stirs under his coat-blanket.  I try to coax him into holding a candle and joining the song but he is too weary. It’s ok, son, we will sing for you, for now.

Rejoice in his goodwill; The Savior came in meekness

For you, for you, to bear your flesh in weakness.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

12/17

Christmas snapshots 2017

Four services in 24 hours: a marathon, and we attended every one. Solidarity with pastor-dad, Praise to the Lord, Joy to the World, and so forth.  I gather an amalgam of Christmas moments, shared in no particular order:

Everyone knows where their shoes are this year. It’s a miracle, made possible in part by my willingness to overlook the fact that Peter’s are slightly too big. If his brother doesn’t care, I don’t care; we’ll call it a win.

Snow falls, and the cold rush as we leave makes us all excited and invigorated. They squeal; we put our faces up to receive its cold shower. I quote a song we know, “Isn’t it love? This rain that falls down on the sinners and the saints!” but the snow is grainy and cold; it doesn’t feel as pretty as it looks.  Lorraine laughs as I sputter and wipe the “love” off my cold face. The walk to church is quick and cold.

Lorraine looks gorgeous in her gold dress; she takes my breath away. I’ve heard some moms feel like their teenage daughters have stolen their beauty, but I'm not one because I never had that kind of beauty in the first place. Hers is a beauty all her own and I just smile as I watch it shine.  She is wearing my high heels- the ones I am not graceful enough to wear.  She walks into church, a tall, elegant, a lovely young woman, but her heel slips, ankle twists, and she barely catches herself. Her smile says, “I meant to do that” and we both giggle like crazy in the front pew. “Did you see that banana peel someone left there mom? How rude!”  Her light heart is gorgeous, too.

Sitting next to me, Marcus keeps forgetting to listen and follow along. I nudge him, point to the hymnal, direct my spoken responses to his ears so as to verbally pull him along with me into the story God is writing in us. He steals my pen and decorates his thumbs. “Mom, I’m ready for the next thumb war, now, look they have faces!” as if I’ll be proud. I’m not, but I’m not mad either.

Sitting by Aggie is at Christmas is like sitting by Elf. After communion she has so much to say; I hide in kneeling prayer as long as I can, but I can’t hide forever; so she loud-whispers to me about the gifts she will give and her band schedule and straightening her hair and then she gasps “oooh this hymn is my favorite!” Her song is strong and sincere, and she is focused, until it ends and her stories begin again. Finally I say, “Can you please stop taking for a bit honey?” She does, but the organ plays a tune she knows and she bobs her head and taps her foot, and I am amazed that she can make even silent movement so loud and joyful.

Pictures by the Christmas tree: Peter farts and everyone makes a huge deal about it. And Seth doesn’t want to be in the picture; I use my mom voice and when that doesn’t work I threaten to get dad involved.  “We can do this now or we can do this later but you’re gonna do this.” He does begrudgingly, and as soon as I say “now, a silly one!” he runs. Later, I follow him with the camera and take action shots to make up for it.

We have a crazy idea this year: Let’s let (make?) the kids stay up until late church: 11pm. Dad is sure they can do it. Of course, this same Dad also takes a nap a 8:30. He has to preach, after all.  Home Alone and Christmas snacks sustain them for a time.  I drink tea and record moments.  Come, Emmanuel.

It’s hard to stay awake. Behold! God has sent buckets of snow from heaven! Eldon and I go for a night walk; we make the first tracks, running tracks, laughing at the way the wind has made just one side of our faces cold. I promise to snuggle him later, and I do: we keep each other warm for all of the late service. The tree, the candlelight, the beauty of the late service is overpowering. But Peter is asleep before the opening hymn. Seth and Marcus stare sleepily ahead. Aggie joins the quempas carol and shines bright.  Lorraine plays handbells, and experiences wonderful moments of holy goosebumps. Heart-overflowing tears are my Christmas gift; I blink long and grateful.

Christmas morning:

Daddy wakes first and makes coffee: the best in the world, oh how he cares for me!  A few gifts, excitement, arguing, and breakfast. And the snow is still falling, just like grace: it’s time for another service.

Another service: I am grumpy about the clutter closing in at home, but I don’t want to be; annoyed the the wiggly boy next to me distracts me from the sermon, but pastor tells of  a welcoming God, welcoming even me. Pete lifts my arm to snuggle under-- my arm rebels in annoyance-- then gives in and tries to be welcoming like my God. My imitation is weak, but the boy rests his head on my lap and finds rest there.  Big sister’s lap is welcoming to another little boy; the sight softens my heart further.

Pete knows how to follow along in the bulletin now; he argues with me when dad forgets to tell everyone to stand. I whisper, “He’s the pastor, he can overrule what’s in the bulletin.”  He finds the songs in the hymnal for us and sings along; we both sing the wrong verse and he giggles. He makes sure I’m folding my hands when it’s time to pray.  He who has been managed by so many in his life is now managing me.

Seth has Official Business to do: he runs the sound board and does well. He’s looking quite handsome in his gray suit.  I hemmed it for him, as his dad suggested-- I almost didn’t though. I recall Josh’s input on the right way to hem, Seth’s anxiety that I would do it wrong, so many suggestions from those two chiefs, and me finally snapping, “Do you two want to do it yourselves?”  And I felt like my own mom in that moment; today it makes me laugh.

And the whole thing is covered in grace, all the memories and the moments, just like the junk in our backyard is covered with pretty white snow. I ponder these things in my heart.

Oh Come, Emmanuel, we sing, and we live His coming.  His songs on our lips when we wake, His Words in our ears on our way, His peace in our hearts as we sleep.  His grace that binds us up again after tempers are lost, that covers over the greed and the distraction of the season; His Son that dwells with us here, now. HIs light that shines and gathers us to Him along with all people. Come, Lord Jesus.

Merry Christmas.

christmas 2016

Once again, the pre-service stress is due to a child’s missing shoe.  We give up, and he wears a grubby old pair. Bu this year, the wonky youngest child sings through the service (last year he slept!)  And this year, each boy has a suit coat to wear. They give me crap, but they look so handsome I have to insist.  Seth allows one picture, at home; when I try again later at the service, he blocks his face with his trombone.  

Marcus did not forget his part, like he was sure he would. He sounds great, looks handsome with his new haircut.  He’s the only one who got a candle that didn’t work for Quempas Corners.  (hangs head). Aggie’s voice is heard over all the others, with the exception of Jacob.  Aggie narrates for Mary, and she speaks with such confidence I asked her later if she was even nervous at all.  Eldon and Peter sing a cute song, “Just like me,” and did great.  One kid in Eldon’s class has a cold so his froggy voice through the whole song makes us laugh!  I hold newborn baby Flannery during the beginning of the service and ponder the quick passing of time. She gets fussy and Quinn takes her to dance in the back of the church.  And my first baby,  Lorraine, wears her gold dress and looks like such a young woman that I can see clearly she’s outgrowing elementary school, as much as I hate to admit it.

The older four planned to stay up and go with me to the 11pm service. Eldon and Marcus drive me crazy “reading” by the fire (wrestling.) I send them to bed. Peter snuggles with me and we read an entire Magic Treehouse book. I said, “Do you want me to take you up to bed now?” He said, “No, first I want to fall asleep on your lap.”  So I set an alarm and fell asleep with him. Josh brought me some coffee. It sat next to me on the table while we slept!  

When the alarm goes off at 10:40, only Aggie is awake already.  She woke Lorraine. Seth got up too, all dressed up in his nice suit and blue shirt and tie. But then he came up to me and says, “Mom do I have to go? My stomach hurts and I’m so tired and I’ll go if you want me to but..” I gently sent him to bed. So, just the girls and me, so sleepy. It was a long service, but so snuggly and wonderful, magical with the quempas corners that daddy sang in too, and the candles and the packed pews and the gospel shining brightly for all to see, brighter even than the giant Christmas tree.

And both girls put their heads on my shoulders, and our eyes close both to pray and to rest. It is good, Oh Lord, to be here. My voice is to froggy to sing, but that means I can listen better to the girls.  They add their extra fancy wonky version to O Come All Ye Faithful and I think my heart will burst.  On the way home, Aggie gets slap-happy and tells goofy jokes while Lorraine and I stagger off to bed.

In the pew on Christmas sunday morning, Peter sleeps soundly. The girls get volun-told to acolyte. Marcus embellishes the stick-figure nativity scene on his bulletin. He gives Jesus a baseball cap, there in the manger, and a mobile with stars and moon to look at.  And Joseph needs a beard, of course, and sunglasses.  He adds a sheep with sunglasses, too, and angels and shepherds and wise men, and in the background, three crosses, and a crack in the earth under Jesus’ cross: His whole life in a picture, when He entered in and broke death.

And Daddy preaches.  And the Word of God which started as a whispered promise the day the word was broken gets louder as daddy speaks- and the kids like when he gets loud.  Just as the promise of God itself got louder through Abraham, louder again through David, hollered by John the Baptist, and then shouted from Son of God on the cross saying “It is finished.” “Father forgive them.” And death is destroyed, and He is making all things new.  His light shines in the darkness, and we see the break of dawn and the sky changes color and even the shadows are getting smaller.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Merry Christmas.

Where shepherds lately knelt

and kept the angel's word,

I come in half belief,

a pilgrim strangely stirred,

but there is room and welcome there for me,

but there is room and welcome there for me.

In that unlikely place

I find him as they said:

sweet newborn babe, how frail!

and in a manger bed,

a still, small voice to cry one day for me,

a still, small voice to cry one day for me.

Dear children, in december

To my kids, in December-

Greetings from the December version of your mom. First, thanks for putting up with her. She's a weird version of me, I'll admit.  She's cheerfully making cookies one minute, then you ask her what's for dinner and suddenly she's yelling everybody out of the kitchen! Here's a secret: it's because she forgot that dinner was even a thing, that you people need to eat three meals a day EVEN during the holiday season!  All she thought of was those cookies with the kisses in them but she forgot to buy the kisses at the store where she waited in line for 30 minutes to get the flour and someone's baby was screaming and the cashier was slow so now she's just making peanut butter cookies and they'd better be good because they're probably what's for dinner anyway and how dare you even ask when your homework isn't done yet!

Let me try to help you understand her.

You see, kids, December is this magical time of year, or at least it was once, maybe, in your mom's memory.  Vague feelings and memories float around like snow flurries, and they were so sweet and wonderful, I'd like to pass them on to you if only I can capture them.

It seems like I remember hot chocolate, cookies, reading books by the Christmas tree, watching the snow fall from inside, playing for hours outside, lights strung everywhere, carols and family and peace and harmony and hundreds of presents. And in the background, there was that weird little Rudolph Christmas special with the fake-looking abominable snowman that you can't even believe I used to think was scary but I did.

Back then, I was a child, and I took the Christmas moments handed to me like cookies on a Santa plate, eating them up as they came. Now, I am the one who has to create those moments, or at least I think I do. "What are some holiday treats that you guys like?" I ask, and you guys list twenty different things.  You already have SO many wonderful food-related memories of Christmas time that I must be doing something right, or something dreadfully wrong... but food is pretty great, so whatever, let's eat.

And almost every day there is an event that requires us wearing something other than Pjs in the evening and finding a shoe for every single foot and leaving the house all so that we can hear or sing or do something that's supposed to feed that Christmas spirit, or at least listen to carols while we go to the next basketball game.

Lots of work goes into all this magic, kiddos.  And this sugared up body of mine is fighting a cold, too.  But Pinterest and Facebook and my own happy memories set the bar so high for this time of year.  It's tough to balance this pressure to create Christmas magic with my own two hands with the desire to be "in the moment" or to "seize the day," while of course I'm ALSO focused completely in my heart on the baby Jesus- the real reason for the season, that sweet baby in the manger who keeps getting buried underneath the snow that somebody should probably go shovel!

 It's this kind of crazy scattered "focus" in my mind that makes me feel like I'm doing some complicated yoga pose, trying to hold it all together just right to things go smoothly... and then you come in and fight over the last bit of hot cocoa and marshmallows go flying!  Why is it so impossible to keep things smooth and under control in this house!?  Everybody go take naps!

And yet, Christmas moments come despite my inner battles.  The snow came down heavy, and you all got a day off.  The Christmas tree is up next to the fireplace, and our living room feels magical. We read books and entertain and reminisce and take naps here.  You practice your piano pieces here.  Even while I clean my kitchen, from little lips pour rhyming words of truth as you prepare for your Christmas program.

It's not all magic, but some of it is. And most of it, I don't create at all. Like you, I receive.

Like the spontaneous trip to the movies on Saturday morning, even though the house was a disaster. "I'm not caring about you!" I said loudly to the after-party mess in the dining room. "This is me, children, NOT caring about those dishes and walking out of the house to go have fun instead of cleaning." I said it loud because I know you kids will help me not care about the mess. "Oh, I got this," said my daughter, and she echoed me, "We do NOT care about you! Ha! And we're leaving now!"  Yeah, you kids are pretty good at that.

The December version of you all is something to see, too. One gets sentimental and wants to look at scrapbooks and write letters to old friends. Another isn't happy unless he's shooting something (that's true all year long) or throwing snowballs at brothers or cars (not ok!) One hates the cold so much he acts like his legs won't support him every time we leave. Some of you want to go to every party possible, while others want to be quiet at home.  Some of you fight the sideways pressure you feel to buy gifts for people, while others want to hand-make complicated projects for EVERY SINGLE PERSON THEY KNOW.  Music performances loom large, and I don't even know if you all have dress shoes that fit. And between all of you, there are 12 boots to keep track of; and we own at least 60 gloves but few of them match, just like our socks. Sugar is coursing through everyone's veins, so there's wrestling and teasing and crying and noise! Oh the noise, noise, noise noise!

In and with all of this, Christmas is coming. Into this very chaos, our Jesus comes to us again.  By this grace, we

will keep on putting up with each other, even in December. I love you guys. Merry Christmas.

singing in expectation

I bribe them to go caroling with our church group. If they behave and sing, we will get Slurpees when we are done.  Slurpees in the winter- weird to some, but not to us.  It is enough to make them attempt to keep their hands to themselves.  Just please don't knock down any old people.  And try to smile. 


A group of elderly people have been coaxed into the living room, and they await our performance. One is asleep.  Another is definitely not impressed with any of this tomfoolery, but we smile at her anyway.  We gather in front of these dear people, full of years, and they wait.

Waiting, the theme of their lives in this season- they sit in quiet expectation.

The night will soon be ending, the dawn cannot be far
Let songs of praise ascending now greet the morning star

"Would you like a song book?" I said, and she reached out hear hand and said in a broken voice, "Oh, please help me." I took her hand, "I'll help you, sure. What do you need?" She held my hand tight for a moment, and then looked off to her left, to a distant place of memory or suffering or fear that I couldn't see.  She seemed to have forgotten I was there, her hand in mine. I do not have the help she needs.

Angels we have heard ...

Singing is not my gift.  I sing quietly, sliding behind the stronger singers around me.  On this day, it is my daughter Aggie.  Her song is confident, joy-filled, and even after all the time, she is a miracle to me.  I can't help but smile at the way she is just so loudly, confidently herself, and as I smile I meet the eyes of an elderly woman who seems to know exactly what I am thinking- she winks at me.

My daughter held out her hand to a skeletal woman who did not respond.  As she stood their awkwardly, I reached down to the woman's hands folded on her lap and gave a gentle squeeze. I felt the feeblest squeeze back, and it seemed to me to be a grateful one.  She simply hadn't had the strength to reach out for my daughter's handshake.  Her body was bones with the thinnest layer of skin on top.  She must be close, even at the very door.

All you whom darkness frightens with guilt or grief or pain

God's radiant star now brightens and bids you sing again

After we sing, I encourage the kids to shake hands with each and every person in that waiting room. Some make eye contact, smile and thank them.  A man says he wants to "eat up" my littlest one, ruffles his hair.  The little one puts his hand out for another man, and his little "Merry Christmas" is met with strange noises, intended to be words.  But the smile that came after was something he understood, and the little boy smiled back.  Then he grabbed my hand.

Be near me Lord Jesus I ask The to stay close by me forever and love me I pray
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care and take us to heaven to live with Thee there

After shaking hands with everyone, my sassy son shakes my hand too and says, "You're an old lady too, so, Merry Christmas, HA!" And the other brother says "Old lady! haha!" and they seem so horribly loud I tell them to stop using the word OLD.  Yes, old is everywhere in this place, but it will not always be this way.  Our God is making all things new.

Light and life to all He brings
Risen with healing in His wings

"Merry Christmas!" I say again, and from her wheelchair she smiles a broken smile and says "b- b- beautiful. You all are ... beautiful."  I look in her eyes and say "You are beautiful, too. God bless you." Her tears come and I wish had time to tell her what I meant by that, but the line keeps moving and the moment has passed.

And we leave these dear saints in their hard season of waiting.  We leave their struggles and their beautiful expectation behind us, for a time, until we join them someday, when it is our turn to sit at the edge of eternity. May we, too, be filled with the hope that God gives in His Son Jesus.

They shall see the glory of the Lord, 

the majesty of our God.

Strengthen the weak hands,

and make firm the feeble knees.

Say to those who have an anxious heart,

“Be strong; fear not!

He will come and save you.

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,

and the ears of the deaf unstopped;

then shall the lame man leap like a deer,

and the tongue of the mute sing for joy.

And the ransomed of the Lord shall return

and come to Zion with singing;

everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;

they shall obtain gladness and joy,

and sorrow and sighing shall flee away

(from Isaiah 35)