Christmas crazy

My kids are all home for Christmas break, and do you know what? It is CRAZY. 

I mean full to the brim, how-n-the-world-can-anyone-be-expected-to-handle-this crazy.

I love them dearly, but holy chaos.

Today I said to them, "We really need to get this house together, kids! Look at all the chaos you've created in here!"

And one of them said, teasingly, "No mommy, YOU made this chaos!"

And of course, there is some truth to that. It was my womb that brought forth this explosion of rosy cheeked, snow-dripping life.

Christmas break brings out my crazy, too.

Like the way I am so tired of a thing, and yet I want more of it, and can't bear to see it end.

For instance, the baby stage.

On the one hand, it's the little ones that are driving me the most crazy. I'd really like to curl up with a chapter book with the big kids, but the little ones insist on throwing things in the toilet whenever I turn my head. I'd really like to have a huge snowball fight with the big kids, but the little ones keep falling over in the snow and losing their boots.

Could it be? Am I actually growing out of the baby stage?

I want to be done with the sweaty wrestling match putting on boots and snowsuits just to go outside in the snow for a few minutes. I want the littlest ones to grow up already.

Did I just say that?

And yet, just as passionately, I don't want them to grow!

I drag my feet, OH how I drag my feet!

I linger in the rocking chair.

I crawl into bed with my baby (who insists he is NOT a baby) while he's still sleeping because that is the only time he will snuggle me.

I hold other people's tiny babies, and I smile like an old woman, and I can't help but say, "Enjoy them while you can! They grow up too fast!"

I imagine a dark-skinned baby who needs a mommy, magically transported into my arms.

I research adoption, with a mixture of compassion and selfish aching.

I watch all six of them in the Christmas program, and I am a little sad, because for the first time, there is no baby to wrangle in the pew with me.

I don't want to move on.

and yet, I do.

And my wants? 

Really, they don't matter so much as I think they do.

I could attempt to sort out my emotions, and I could try to clean them up, and mold them into what I think they should be, what I imagine they would be if there were no sin mixed in with them.  But even my imagination is clouded. I don't think I will bother.

Instead, I'm going to ask a simple question:

What is true here?

What is true?

I have been blessed beyond measure. My house is bursting with it.

Things change, and change seems too slow and too quick all at the same time.

Frustration and grief and anticipation is to be expected.

And yes, my sin is mixed in with all these things. (Why does this always surprise me?)

And yet, by grace, my sin is swallowed up in Christ.

He has given me His righteousness, and His hand is upon me.

His grip is my peace.

And so, I end where end so often.

Weak and Loved,

leaning on Christ for that which I need for this day,

and entrusting to Him my tomorrow.

Peter, far left. He is not a baby.

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Does Christmas bring up mixed feelings for you?

Do you feel the ache of the never-agains?

baby prayer

This is my god-daughter.

May God bless her, every day as she grows up in Him,

and today, as she is in my care.

What do you think of the picture? Cute, or a little too "Catholic?" 

Or maybe both?

Either way, I love this sweet girl!!!

See also: Pin Me

important things to do

I don’t have time for sick kids! I grumble in my head, thinking of my too-long list of things I will be forced to ignore if he stays clingy like this all day long. 

I have more important things to do than sit on the couch!

Do you, really?

He looks up at me.

And I see him.

I really see him.

He sits on me, fighting his sixth ear infection, and he pleads with his eyes.

Hold me, mama.

I sit a little longer.

His tears stop, and he snuggles into my soft robe. He hiccups, then sighs a grateful sigh.  He is content.

For a moment, I am content, too.

He cannot pray, not with words. He is too young for that, I suppose.

And yet if he had the words, what would he pray for?

Pain relief (We still have those drops in the cupboard.)

Medicine (daddy is on his way with that!)

Comfort in the meantime: a body like a soft pillow, and warm, sympathetic arms.

And God would answer his prayer, by sending him his mother.

The words were not necessary. God provided before he asked.

…and in this moment, I am that provision.

Right now, today, I get to be the one who soothes him. I am a comforting embrace to this little child, MY little child. I get to be God’s hands of compassion to him, God’s arms around Him in an afternoon nap.

What could be more important?

We sleep.

It is good to be a child.