Thursday, December 29, 2011
My funny boys
Thursday, December 15, 2011
My Grown Up Christmas List
My desk is cluttered with Christmas cards, a list of names concerning all I will one day send said cards to, books of stamps, my iPod recently charged and waiting to fill my SUV with Christmas tunes, stacks of envelopes from which I aim to extract addresses for my third attempt at an address book that will not die along with another hard drive. My kitchen sink is full of dishes, there is a cake sending out a divine smell from the oven, and my Christmas tree skirt is draped over the coffee table where I left it after vacuuming up an ornament catastrophe this morning. Only one thing is missing from my festive chaos: my manger scene.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
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