Tired on the longest night

I have reached the point in my wrapping where mismatched scraps seemed perfectly acceptable. No tag,  grab a sharpie.  Maybe just throw that gift in a grocery bag... and I refuse to be up until 2am on Christmas Eve this year. 

If I had to summarize my feelings about this day: 

done 

would be the right word. 

I'm done preparing. I have no new ideas.  No more creativity. I'm ready to sit. 

I've switched from preparation to execution.

This morning I packed 14 bibles carefully wrapped in brown paper and decorated personally for each child in my Sunday school class. I set them up like presents under the tree in my Sunday school classroom and set a tray of Christmas themed cupcakes on the table. The room was set for Jesus birthday party.

 

Then I went and sat in the front row of the church where I sit with my Sunday school kids for the first part of church. Little faces poured in.  I've carried them each in my heart and prayers all week.  

I led them into the Sunday school room and they gathered around me as I lot a candle and told the christmas story. They are still surprised by the story. It is still new to them. They had lots of questions and my heart smiled. We are cupcakes and they opened their presents and many of them found a comfy place and started reading their new Bibles together.  I sat in the mess and the chaos and beauty of that moment and allowed myself to rest.  

It was just a heartbeat and it was over.

We've reached the solstice.... the longest night.... the shortest day. 

The winter solstice conjures the image of a hibernating bear. 

Man,  wouldn't that be a great holiday... we should have a holiday where we all hibernate.  I think many of us do something like hibernating in the days between Christmas and new years.

I think we reach a point in the year where good or bad,  we're ready to hang it up and wait until next year.  Having Christmas and the frantic activity that goes with it seems to amplify this feeling.  

I have reached that point. I'm done with homeschool for the year. We will pick up our studies again in January. I taught my last Sunday school lesson.  I finished wrapping gifts.  There's a bit of baking but beyond that I'm done for now. 

Acknowledging this and receiving it created space in my heart to show up and be present at Sunday school this morning to see and feel and hear the beautiful mess of it.  

To let go of my list and my plans and my what's next I can just sit and be in this long dark night. 

There is so much that comes with being human

Joy.  Exhaustion.  Grief. 

Hunger.  Restlessness. Boredom.  

The night has a strange way of amplifying the inner space that we can stomp down in the busyness of the day. And this time at the end of the year with the winding down of the years activities can feel like way too much time to "sit and be with our own thoughts"

As we gather for our parties, there is an opportunity to see each other at this end of the year place and to show up in each other's human-ness. 

God entered into this time. This space. This feeling.  Incarnate in a tiny baby who peed on Mary and threw up on Joseph. Who got bored and irritated and had to deal with family gatherings. Who lost a close friend and went. Who rolled his eyes at politics and turned tables in the temple.  Who slept in a boat because he was exhausted from teaching and fed a 1000 people because they were hungry. 

Whether you are buzzed by all the joy of the season,  exhausted from a long year of working or grieving a loss that makes you feel like shoving all the christmas trees up someone's nose... or maybe all these things at the same time... God dwells with you in deeply human place you find yourself.

May peace be with you and may it be well with your soul.  

Week 3: Longing

 

My blogging has been interrupted by a 5' 9" shaggy teenage boy who wonders into my room predictably as the hustle of bedtime gives way to the snoring of his younger brothers. 

He comes to listen to the news or watch a clip from late night television.  He comes to taste adulthood.  He's looking for something.  

We've reached the rising crechendo of the holiday season.  Parties are starting soon.  We're wrapping and baking and getting last minute items from the store.  We're texting and scratching out to do lists. At least that's what I'm doing.  And I enjoy it.... but I'm looking forward to the quiet of the vacation to come just past Christmas.  I'm looking forward to wintering with my little brood. Allowing them a rest from school and routine,  with video games and movies,  hikes in the woods,  hot tubs, family reading,  hot chocolate and adventures.  

There is this pressure that comes with Christmas.  A striving for just the right gift. The beautiful chord of presents and decorations and fire light. Everyone gets along. It's all the hallmark movie moments to recreate in real life and then freeze them for a long as possible to stretch out a beautiful warm memory to hold and cherish for Christmases to come. 

And yet,  a friend that I traveled with started hospice this past week.  I've had long conversations with people in my life who are hurting.  Christmas is a salt on tender wounds. 

I've held all this in my heart all week and pondered what God might speak into it to me.  There is a longing. Some subconscious connection with all the brokenness in life that feels amplified by a holiday that is measured by perfection. And whether the feeling is a desire to capture and hold on to a beautiful moment in this holiday or to move past into into a new year or to go back to a time before grief happened.  The longing is there.  Loud or quiet.  Joyous or grief stricken. Longing marks this holiday in a way that I do not feel any other time of year. 

The Longing that things could be put together the way they should be and then stay that way.  The Longing for a world that doesn't suffer.  For time to stop and to breathe in moments of love for eternity. 

These days before Christmas feel so much like Peter on the mountain during the transfiguration. Seeing the glory of God and saying "Let's build tents. Let's camp out and hold on to this moment as long as we can."

This longing gets at the heart of advent.  The waiting.  The deep waiting for the time when God will turn the world upside down and shake it by the heels.  Creation reborn. Each of us whole and healed,  known and loved,  connected to creation and creator and the Longing will be replaced with wholeness. 

For now,  I am making myself become aware of the Longing. Times where I like a teenager wondering into a parents room,  start praying without a real plan, just seeking some sort of connection with God who feels too far away.  Times so precious,  I want to freeze time and hold onto a moment forever and times saddled by grief,  weariness, work and the desire to dive into a quiet wintering. 

These point me to God,  to grace and to hope. 

One day,  the Longing shall be satisfied. 

Until then,  I carry faith, hope and love.  

Week 2: A hope so strong, you decorate for it

 

We put up our Christmas tree this weekend. 

In our house,  there are a lot of feelings about Christmas.  Some years it's overwhelming and the kids need a break and they don't want to put up a tree.  Some years there are rules about when Christmas season actually begins and the tree can't go up until Christmas is close enough. Some years there is indifference. Some years there is joy and deep connection. 

This year,  there was joy.  There was gathering of boys and looking at ornaments.  Pictures of younger versions of themselves and school ornaments and memories of Christmas past. 

I thought about the christmas season. How some people are so ready for it.  They can't wait for hallmark movies,  hot chocolate and Mariah Carey. 

I thought about how the shopping season hits me and I browse and suddenly I'm thinking more deeply about all the people in my life.  Wondering which gifts will be well loved.  Wondering who I should buy gifts for and possible acts of service. I start to unfold myself to the season and I try not to over schedule myself so I can whole heartedly say yes to moments that bring joy.  

As much as Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Jesus, it is also a season of love and joy and hope that we bring by allowing ourselves to be washed in the traditions of love and joy and hope. 

What if we held the hope of the return of Christ so vividly, that we decorated for it?

What if we knew the day and hour that creation would be fully redeemed? The mystery of God.  The new heaven and earth. When tears are wiped away for good. 

How do you decorate for that?

I graduated from grad school bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to make a difference in the world. I applied to so many amazing jobs.  But it was a recession and I was one of hundreds sending in my resume.  

I bought myself interview clothes. But no interviews came. 

My hope wilted some as days,  then weeks, then months passed. But surely some day I would get a job and start my life. People do it every day.  Those clothes hung in the closet as a sure reminder that some day my life would start. 

--------

I bought a onsie from a thrift store not long after my husband and I decided the time had come to start "trying." 

Like my interview outfit,  that onsie stayed folded in my drawer for months.  

And then,  a line. A second line. Two lines!!!!

But what felt shockingly certain in one moment,  faded quickly as all the possibilities unfolded.  Statistics about miscarriage looming in my mind. The stubborn silence and relentless nothing different that I felt in my body. Maybe the test is wrong. Maybe there is no new life. 

Weeks turn to months.  And mostly silence.

I had some cartoon in my mind about what pregnancy would feel like. A belly that would stretch over night.  Throwing up everywhere. I felt like me,  but tired and a bit of an upset stomach. It felt like stress at work,  not a miracle. 

And then one day,  I felt him move.  It was undeniable.  There were two of us alone on the couch together.  I put my hands on my belly and allowed hope and joy and love to wrap around me. A small person was going to join our world and I would be his mother. 

The 20 week ultrasound was a miracle.  I held the hand of God as I looked at every bone,  every organ,  the two halves of his tiny brain,  the curve of his spine with each spiked vertebrae,  tiny fingers and toes. 

And then it hit me. 

I needed to prepare. 

He needed a place to sleep.  I needed to make space for him in my little apartment. We needed a car seat.  I had no idea what I was doing.  

I began to decorate.  Onsies and diapers.  Gifts from church and friends and family. Preparing my home,  my heart, my life,  to change..... forever. 

What does it look like to decorate for the coming redemption that we so deeply hope for?The world made right.  Turned upside down by the creative whirlwind of God,  making us new and whole. 

How many days or months or years before Jesus comes back can we start celebrating his arrival? How do we prepare our hearts and homes and lives for a change like that?

We are waiting for Christmas and yet we bring Christmas into the waiting as we get caught up in the preparation.  May we invite the re-creation of ourselves and our world as we wait for Christ to return.   May we bring redemption as we get caught up in the waiting.

"Come,  Lord Jesus,  come."

First day of Advent

And just like that Christmas was everywhere. The world went from ordinary to holiday overnight and things felt different like waking up to a world covered in freshly fallen snow. 

But it doesn't feel quiet like snow. 

It feels like an airport. 

Plans and messages.  Invitations and calendars. Sales and wish lists. The giving and the greeting and the buzz of goodwill.  

And so, today I searched for advent.  

Sunday is my usual planning day. I get a few hours to eat lunch, plan lessons for homeschool and Sunday school,  write out the week's schedule and meal plan. All the mom things. Sunday is my day to find my brain and make sure all the pieces are there.  

We're behind at Sunday school.  I had a plan to wrap up our lessons on the old testament in time to switch to the story of Jesus in place for advent.  But families were on vacation and I didn't want too many kids to miss the lesson so we will be doing the story of Queen Esther and the exile of Israel next week,  then shift to prophecies of the coming messiah on the 15th of December and I'll cram the whole beautiful story of Mary and Elizabeth and angels and Bethlehem on the 22nd. 

And as I wrote those lessons in my planner, I found advent.  

It was so long. So very long. 

Israel was ruled by one empire and then another.  And with ever generation there were new prophets who carried the light. Who spoke of a king. Who gave the people hope.  

400 years. 

Longer than America has been a country. Longer than than most things we think of as long in a historical way. Longer than anyone should hope. 

I think of the world I hope for. Could I wait 400 years? Could I live my whole life and die and my children's lives and their children's lives and their children's lives and could I pass on a hope that would live on for that many generations.  

Advent comes in our deep weariness for the world.  The pieces of the world that seem to keep going the wrong direction with little hope of ever changing.  

"For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given; And the government will be upon His shoulder.

And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of His government and peace There will be no end, Upon the throne of David and over His kingdom, To order it and establish it with judgment and justice From that time forward, even forever.

The zeal of the Lord of hosts will perform this.

I think there was a hope that the messiah would fulfill this in a certain kind of way.  But the baby born in Bethlehem did not overthrow Rome or reestablish Israel as a mighty nation.

I think I hope God will show up in our world in a certain kind of way. 

But advent is, for me, letting go to the wildness of God.  Wildness that redeems humanity through a vulnerable baby.  Wildness that chooses the cross and the garden. 

In advent, I grab a hold of the light and hope carried by generations before me.  A hope that leans into the wildness of God who works in ways I cannot understand and brings peace that passes understanding to a weary world in need of healing. 

Easter: surprised by the good news

The pastor said a blessing and excused us from the service. There were 11 kids, about half of them were new or rarely attend. 

I led them out back. The early morning clouds and fog broke as we walked and by the time we arrived at our destination the sun was warm in our backs.  The church has a community garden and a large grassy plot of land that butts up against the creek. I crouched near the ground and the children gathered around me. 

"This is going to be a little serious." I told them just a drop above a whisper. 

"Has anyone had a pet die?" Hands went up.

"Has anyone had a human die? Someone in your family or a friend?" Hands. 

My eyes connected with each child who has raised hands.  There was a knowing connection between us.

"It is so sad when someone dies or when a pet dies...When that happens we often will bring their body to a beautiful garden like this and we dig a hole and put them in the ground. And then,  we can come and visit that place to be near them. 

When Jesus died, his friends brought him to a place like this and they put him in a place but they couldn't finish because there was a holiday and they had to leave.  But there were some women who loved him and they wanted to come back and finish. They were so sad."

You could have heard a pin drop.  

They leaned in to listen to my quiet voice. 

"They came to the place where they had left him but he wasn't there and they became worried that someone had taken his body away.  And that made them even sadder.  

But suddenly,  angels appeared. They told the women that Jesus wasn't there because he was alive.  They were so surprised and a little afraid.  So they walked around the garden and they saw... Jesus!! They were so happy."

Smiles curled onto all the faces.  Eyes bright.  

"Here in this garden Jesus is hiding and I want you to find him. But there's not just Jesus. Do you remember our sheep from the God shepherd story? They got out of their box and got into this garden and Jesus doesn't leave one single sheep behind so we also have to find 5 sheep and we can't leave here until we have them all. "

Kids scattered far and wide frantically looking for Jesus and the sheep.  Every time one was found we cheered and danced and threw a little party.  And when all were found we brought them home to our Sunday school room and placed them safely in the box. We ate snacks and listened to hymns and painted eggs. 

And I soaked in Easter.  

I've been in church my whole life.  

I love Easter.  It is my favorite holiday. I got engaged on Easter.  I baptized my children at Easter.  

And yet.  

This humble morning, with these 11 little faces who took in the story so fully in a sun drenched garden with flowers opening and dew on the grass.  It was the gospel alone.  No bells or whistles or hymns or trumpets.  

Just children looking for Jesus in a garden. 

I will cherish it always. 

 

Holy Saturday: holding vigil

 

Pale light signaled the coming dawn.  Familiar little hands reached to be lifted into bed for our pre-dawn snuggle ritual.  But there was another sound. A larger child.  

"Do you want help with Zander?" He asked. 

Andrew,  my almost 12 year old,  was too excited to stay in bed. After 40+ days without video games,  today was the day. 

We are leaving Easter day on a big RV trip but he wanted to play video games with his friends as part of his Easter celebration.  He took Lent seriously.  This would be his personal garden good news moment. 

We had planned it.  I started my last fast with the last supper (which completed with a giant chocolate chip cookie) so we were planning to get breakfast together then pickup his friends for some epic video game action.  

The sun was creeping up and the air was crisp as we got into the cold van.  Golden arches glowed at the end of the street.  Illumined open sign glowed into the still dark morning. 

Egg mcmuffin and a diet coke. A quiet but very deep celebration of the end of a season of fasting.  

We talked about those grief stricken women. Up early to do the one thing that dominated their thoughts.  Pay respects to the Lord who was so violently taken from them.  They did not greet Easter morning with joy. It was just doing the next right thing. Not seeing the next step after that. 

Arriving in the garden to an empty tomb must have been more bad news piled on. It was despicable to murder him. But did they really have to steal and defame his body? Could they not even be left to their grief.  

I savored my meal and my early glimpse at the risen lord but those women stayed in my heart. 

I picked up Andrew's friends and we came home. My other kids were up and excited. Everyone fell instantly into their screens.  It was a big collaborative game and they were laughing and chatting and strategizing and completely unaware of my existence. 

Parenting was easy this morning.  

So I went about my cleaning and joined the women in the way to the garden.  We women do the things. We prepare meals and homes. We make sure children have everything they need for school and that everyone is packed for vacation.  We cook potlucks for funerals and baptisms. We are the backbone of community,  of church.  And Sometimes,  our deepest expressions of love and grief is work we do with our hands. Especially in moments like this too terrible for words.  Too terrible even for tears. We hold on to each other and we work,  side by side in holy silence. 

And so I worked silently preparing for the Easter day of my lord.  I prepared my Sunday school lesson. I cleaned my house.  I did laundry.  I made beds.  

In our grief sometimes the only thing to do is to do the next thing. Clear the table.  Make coffee.  Buy eggs. Vacuum the rug.  Take out the trash.  It needs doing. We need a single point to focus on. 

But the work is a declaration of the choice to continue living. It is a step forward into a new unknown. It is a silent sliver of hope that we can grab on to. It is a vigil we hold,  a space we create. And when we do it together we hold each other up.  We hold each other's grief. 

But people hadn't stolen the body. 

Angels sat in the tomb and declared.  "He is not here.  Why do you look for living among the dead. "...And their clothes gleamed like lightning. 

And the night became day.  The dark became light and the women witnessed it all. 

Good Friday: last words

At some point biology takes over. 

When you have to pee or are hungry or need to sleep or are sick.  

A strong mind can push it off and control the body for a bit,  but in the end,  biology usually wins. 

I remember when I was in the thick of labor with my first son. I had a prolonged early labor and hadn't slept for more than 24 hours. I was dehydrated and floating in the birthing pool completely overwhelmed by pain.  

My precious husband,  bless him,  had no idea what he was doing.  He leaned over the water and whispered something about how Jesus suffered on the cross. 

I had no space to process that.  

I was zoned in trying to make it to the next breath. Anguished over whether I should get an epidural,  which was still an option at that point and completely terrified by how much of a hill I still needed to climb. 

Life arrives in a fury. 

Eventually long after Eddie was born and we were snuggled in for a  late night nursing session did I even remember what Ulrich had said.  My higher brain present,  I was able to process and put the things together.  In the moment,  biology was driving and my brain was not accessible. 

I imagine,  in death,  we may find ourselves in a similar place.  

And as I read the story of the passion I think of Jesus in his humanity reaching that point where biology takes over. That is what lends such strength to his final words.  They were not a sermon or well thought out coherent statements but the deepest truth of his being coming forth in those lucid moments as consciousness begins to fail. 

"Forgive them,  they know not what they do. "

"Today, I say to you,  you will be with me in paradise. "

"Mother,  this is your son. Son this is your mother. " 

"My God, my God,  why have you forsaken me?"

"I thirst. "

"It is finished."

"Father,  into your hands I commend my spirit. "

These 7 phrases reveal the essence and mystery of Jesus. The parts of himself so deeply written that he could access them when biology was screaming it's loudest.

As one who follows Jesus, who has heard these words year after year I feel like I have some thoughts on this but I find them hard to put into words and perhaps presumptuous.  

But,  when I place them aside his command to love others as he has loved us I find the command to deepen. 

It is to carve the way of love and a trust in God's goodness so deeply into my soul that it is automatic. That it is my instinct even as I am dying.  Even when biology has taken over. 

I am not there.  I do not love well when I am tired,  sick and hungry. I do not automatically fall into rhythm and stance of love without first accessing my higher brain.  Except... with my kids.  Motherhood teaches me what automatic love might look like.  I can confort a child without waking up.  I can push myself past my normal tolerance of pain,  exhaustion,  hunger or other afflictions for the sake of my littles.  

And love in motherhood has come to me by way of practice.  I have practiced loving these little people over the span of years until it has been etched in places that are automatic, even deeper than habit. 

So my call is to build on this tiny kernel and broaden this love to my spouse,  my parents,  my siblings,  my neighbors,  people at church,  people at work,  people who cross my path, people who harm me.  

Like that beautiful Haitian pastor that I wrote about earlier,  Jesus has gone.  He has left the work of carrying his light to us. As I reflect on how loving he was even in suffering and death I hold the gravity of what it means to be a light bearer.  

Christ have mercy.