This Baby...Jesus

The reality of Jesus coming to earth as a baby should never cease to amaze us.  My thoughtful husband shared these words at our Young Life Christmas party last night and I thought they deserved repeating.

The irony of Christmas is this...that this baby, who is completely and utterly dependent on Mary is also the one who is providing for her every need, and ours as well.

-Jesus was formed in Mary's womb, but he knit her together in her own mother's womb.

-Mary met Jesus for the first time at delivery, but Jesus knew Mary before time began.

-Jesus needed to be fed at Mary's breast, but he is her bread of Life.

-Jesus caused Mary's arms to tire and her back to ache as she lugged a growing baby around; but he is her light yoke and her rest.

-Mary swaddles Jesus and holds him tight, but through him, Mary is held together.

-Mary loved and cared for Jesus, but she is only capable of love because of his love.

-Mary trained Jesus in righteousness, but only through him is she made righteous.

We are like babies.  Totally needy.  Utterly dependent.  He understands.  He's felt that.  And in that understanding and with love, he will be faithful to provide everything we need. 

 This baby...Jesus.  Almighty God.

All is Grace

In AnnVoskamp's book, One Thousand Gifts, she says this.  "All is grace."  And I believe that's true.  How could I not?  I believe God is good and he is sovereign and so, whatever situation I find myself in gives me an opportunity to see his grace at work in my life.

It's just that, sometimes, it's easier to see than others.

Not too long ago, I had a rough day with Ava.  Not a little hard.  Not some difficult moments.  It was rough...from beginning to end.

When, finally, she was sent to bed early, for coloring on the couch with a marker, (why???????) I climbed the stairs to wearily tuck her in and repeat the traditions that have become bedtime routine around here.  Sing an old hymn, pray with her, give her a hug and a kiss before turning out the lights.  None of which I am too keen on doing when a child has been sent to bed for misbehavior.  And I know how that sounds, by the way.  I'm not proud of it.  But, it's honest.

When I got there, she was already close to tears and my heart melted.  For all her stubbornness and impulsive bad decisions, that child feels our disappointment deeply.  I told her I didn't like it when she disobeyed. That I didn't enjoy punishing her and that it was really hard for us to have a fun day together when she was disobedient.  I told her how much more we could enjoy the day if she would just obey.  And, with her lip trembling she said to me, "I can't mommy."  "You can't what?" I asked.  "I can't obey and (fully crying now) I don't want to be Ava."   

The accusing, mean-spirited part of my brain spoke up lightning fast.  Oh where have I gone wrong?! How can I have a child who wishes she was someone different?!  Does she even know how much I love her?!  How much I love every bit of her personality? I. Am. Failing.

I tried to tell her how special she was.  How much I loved her.  "You're special, too, mommy." she cried quietly. " And I don't want to be Ava.  I want to be you."  I hugged her tight, with tears running down my face and told her I didn't want her to be me.  That I was so glad she was Ava and that God had made her so special.    We tickled and giggled and both promised to have a better day tomorrow.  And when I turned off the lights, she was smiling again.

I walked downstairs with a heavy heart, worrying myself silly that my child had no idea how wonderful she was.  That I had done some irreparable damage that would affect her forever.

But, all is grace.  And I know that now.  So, I took a breath and began to thank God for that moment. And here's what came to mind:  I'm thankful for...a child who knows right from wrong and aches when she disappoints, a child who's very words speak scripture to me and mirror my own heart (Romans 7:19, "For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do - this I keep on doing."), a chance to tell her how special she is and how glad I am that God made me her mommy, the unbelievable understanding that she sees me as an example of obedience and good decisions and the grace she obviously has for me, the power of touch...of tickles, and hugs, and kisses, the promise of new mercies every morning...for both of us.

In the midst of that, I also realized that Ava's response to her own disobedience is not all that different from my own.  "I've done it again, God.  I just can't seem to get it right.  I wish I wasn't so full of me.  I wish I was more like you."  And I realized that maybe...just maybe, instead of seeing her response as insecure and full of self-doubt, I could see it as an open hand, ready to receive grace.  Because receiving grace always begins with the acknowledgement that our need is beyond our own ability to meet and that there is something far better to cling to than who WE are.  That reaching for Him, replacing US with Him, requires an open hand...and the realization that, "I don't wanna be who I am anymore."

And maybe starting to learn that at three years old isn't such a bad thing.  Even though that train of thought wouldn't win me any awards in pop psychology, I'm pretty sure it's important when trying to raise kids who will follow Jesus.  Because I know that, at least in my own life, the kind of humility that has most often led me to transforming grace began with a trembling lip and words like, "I can't seem to obey...and I don't wanna be who I am anymore. Change me, Lord."

Thankful!

Today, I'm thankful:

-For this computer, given to me by a friend, so I could do just this.  Write.  I'm excited to have the ability to write whenever I get the itch without having to steal a minute or two here and there on my husband's busy work computer.

-For gathering with teen moms once a month to have some crazy fun and talk about Jesus.  It's a privilege to walk with them.

-For coming home from that gathering to see Loren and Hope playing Scattergories and laughing together.  A husband who gets how important it is to spend precious time with our kids.

-For a girl who prefers pancakes, one who prefers cereal, and one who likes eggs in the morning.  For one who prefers skinny jeans, one who wants yoga pants, and one who rocks skirts every day.  And for girls who yell out "I love you!" to each other for the whole block to hear on their way to school.  They are as different as can be.  And they love each other dearly.  I love being their mom.

-For homemade Christmas presents that I can work on at night and the joy it gives me to think up the perfect gift.

-For a kitchen counter that is a mess.  Evidence of life lived in these walls.

There's so much more.  But the kitchen counter calls.  I hope you get a chance to stop and be thankful today!

What God Reveals While I Sew Last Minute Kilts

I'm not sure why it hasn't hit me before now.  That this life I am living is so similar to the one my mom lived.  But, as we laughed and made last minute program costumes on Thursday night for my famously procrastinating husband, who was due at camp in less than 24 hours, she said, "oh...I remember what this is like.  I've done this before."  And it hit me like it was brand new.  She does know this life.

She knows about a husband in ministry...a job that comes home with you every night, both physically, as in stuff everywhere (with my dad it was music...always endless pages of music filling up our house, and cassette tapes of choral arrangements in every part), and in your heart.  Always thinking about what was stirred during that last conversation or thinking about that kid that's walked away and needs Jesus so bad.

She knows about raising three girls, too.  Last week she told me she didn't envy the task Loren and I have.  That raising girls back when we were small was hard enough.  Today, it seems so much harder. But she has also pulled me aside before and told me that she wouldn't have traded having three girls for anything.  And I can see in her eyes what I have come to know to be true.  That the moments between mothers and daughters can be so full with feeling, all that estrogen and all those easy tears mixed with the flowery vanilla scents that women have, that a heart can feel just about to burst with the beauty of it. And I know that when her cell phone plays the tune to "My Girl" when one of us calls, that that's exactly how she feels. 

 

It's been a rough year and a half for my parents. Life always has it's ups and downs but I think when you're in your 60's you think that roller coaster should be leveling out.  That you should feel more settled.  But, God doesn't always play by our rules.  (Thank goodness, right?!?) And in the midst of all of the heartache and the up in the air and the lazy days when all you wanna do is something, rather than nothing, I know one thing that has remained.  My parents have never doubted that God was faithful.  That he was at work for their good.  And someday, if God sends heartache and a storm that won't be stilled as quickly as I would hope, my prayer is that I will remember that my mom knows that kind of life, too.  And that I'd find some hope in remembering the faith of my parents...enough to remember that God is always faithful.  That he is always at work for my good.  And, if I'm lucky (and I am, people, I SO am!) my husband will also lead us gently through that time with humor that just won't quit!  Yeah...she knows about that, too.  She knows about husbands full of jokes and she, like me, knows just when to laugh.

The Table

When your 87 year old grandfather comes to visit and wants to restore your dining room table, you let him.  Of course, that was his business for years.  Furniture.  And the restoring, his job on the side for years after that.  Even still.  And you bought that piece of furniture from his store all those years ago when you were engaged and dreaming about the kids that would fill that table and declaring that you would use the china on it at least once a month when your soon to be mountain man husband had argued that it wasn’t necessary.  The china, not the table.

And now, we have these children and we almost never use that china. Except for those times when I think about that declaration long ago and drag it out with an “I told you so” look in my eyes.  Our table is scarred and syrup is permanently stuck to it and the chairs have legs that were chewed by the dogs, who were once teething puppies.  Thirteen and half years of life have been carved and spilled onto that table’s cherry wood and my Dada tells me that he can’t make it look like new, but he can polish it up and ready it for the next thirteen years.  And I've always known him to be this way.  Able to see what a thing could be and then able to bring out it's beauty in surprising ways.  Never going about it in a rush, but slowing to see that every detail is attended to.  At rest as he exercises his gifts. 

I think about thirteen years.  Allow myself to dream about them and turn off the dutiful voice that tells me I may not even get tomorrow.  Today, I dream that I get all thirteen.  In thirteen years, I will have a 21 year old daughter and one who's 18 and a 15 year old that may be giving me fits.  The daddy and I will probably sit up at that table some nights, sipping hot tea, waiting for her to come home.  Twenty-six years of marriage under our belts, our eyes scratchy and red with the lack of sleep that comes from having teenage daughters. Our hands cupped around mugs whispering about the day she was three and peed in the bathroom sink and told him it was because she “loved to.”  (Yep…that was 2 nights ago.)

We’ll look, then, at the scars of that table.  The ones that my Dada was unable to rub out with the steel wool and lemon oil all those years ago, and the ones that are newer, that tell about our life, not with puppies and babies, but with growing and grown girls and teenagers in and out of our house, and days where, more and more, it’s just the two of us again at that table.  And we’ll see that this table, which once held food offered to small, sticky hands, and which had blessing spoken over it thousands of times in the past 26 years is laid with a feast fit for a King.  That this table is set with stories of grace.  The grace of feeding babies, and grown up girls, and teenagers not my own.  The grace of praying and reading the scripture at meal times.  The grace of friends and family breaking bread together. The grace of memories when tears of disappointment turned miraculously into gratitude and when hands wringing in fear turned into faith. The grace of cups of tea with this husband who lights me up inside when I look at him loving his life.  And the grace of a grandfather, whose gift of restoring, has opened up my eyes.  Cracked open what was stuck.  And finally...there are words to write again.


Linking up with Just Write....because it's about time I did!