Diamonds at the Grocery Store

She has packed three tiny plastic jewels. They are her treasures and today, I’m not sure why she eagerly puts them in her pocket to bring to the grocery store.

We aren’t out of the car for even 5 seconds before she’s shouting at a young couple walking toward the megolith American foodstore.

“EXCUSE ME!” she shouts and I frantically try to stop her from embarrassing us both.

“Sweetheart wha--”

“This is for you,” she says, and places one of her small jewels in the man’s hand. “To make you happy. Merry Christmas!”

And the three of us adults stop in our tracks. He is bumbling with words. The young woman at his side squeals a little with joy.

“Are you sure?” he says, rolling the small plastic faux-diamond in his hand. “You want to give this to me?”

“Yes, sweetie,” I lean toward her and say a little quieter. “Are you sure you want to give those away?”

She nods fiercely, “YES. I have three to give away today.”

----

We are in the grocery store and she is all sniper-eyes. She’s looking for the right recipient. A grandmother with her young grandson rolls by us next to the watermelon.

“EXCUSE ME!” my daughter shouts again and the woman looks startled with the tiny shout. My girl proceeds to hand her a jewel and the same conversation commences.

“Oh wow, I don’t even --” she begins to say.

“Have a good day!” my girl says and hops along next to me again. "Merry Christmas!"

----

An elderly woman is hunched over the fresh bread, her long coat sweeps the floor as she surveys each bag. Her hair is snowy white against the backdrop of all this mayhem.

“Excuse me,” my little says. The woman does not respond.

“Excuse me….” she tries again and now reaches toward her slightly bent arm. “EXCUSE ME.”

(She’s still learning the art of gentility.)

“Here,” she hands her the last of the diamonds. The last of her pocketed treasure. The woman is startled, overwhelmed with the beauty of the moment, speechless. 

“What’s this for?”

M pauses, “For you! Merry Christmas.” The woman stood still, unmoved and watched as my girl danced away.

Her joy was spread. Her love lavished.

----

I am overwhelmed at global tragedy. Thousands dying at the hand of nature. At shocking news articles of sweat factories and the clothes they make so we can bargain shop. I’m sick to my stomach with pictures of children who are forgotten, abused, left to die. I’m knee-broken at the stories of women who are raped, abused, sold, shamed. The men who sell, the men who use, the men who are abused. The endless ticker tape of hate, judgement, injustice, arrogance. School shootings, domestic assaults, street wars, car accidents that steal the lives of children, and so on and so on and so on.

You know, right? You know it too? That sickening drone of the real world that spins everywhere around us, in us, below us.

I sit at our table and I’m wrecked and I cannot do a thing. I say it, “What can we possibly do about any of this?”

I cannot do much. Our bank account balance runs continually low. My ability to change the world from my small cedar-sided house seems very unlikely. Seems insignificant. Seems pointless. Until I look at my daughter.

----

I might not know how to end child slavery.

But I know how to love a child. I know how to look her in the face and say “Fight for good.” I know how wrap her hair in braids and push her toward kindness, compassion and unmerited grace. I know how to teach her that speaking up for those with no voice is better than staying silent.

I might not know how to end racism.

But I know how to speak truth. I can make our home and our table diverse. I can make her world bigger and change the way we speak, the way she speaks, and not keep silent. I can foster relationships and understanding across the street, across the block and into the heart of the city. I can show her that treasure hoarded is no treasure at all. The best kind of treasure becomes more valuable when you give it away.

I don’t know how to end homelessness.

But I can give my child a home, so that she’ll grow to understand the value of love, safety and shelter. That in her heart she’ll understand the weight of what it means for those who have no one, nothing left. That she’ll understand we are not entitled or enlightened, but just profoundly fortunate in this season to have food, clothes, a roof.

I don’t know how to fix the brokenness.

But I can carry a broken heart here — with her, with myself. I can show her how Jesus sits with the broken and busted up. How he extends grace and teaches freedom from sin. How he loves without judgement and still inspires everyone who follows him to lead a life marked by obedience and grace.

I may not know how to change the world but I can show her how to love the ones who live in it. And maybe that’s a good place to start.

---

She has pocketed three more jewels today, and she’s decided it’s better to give than receive. “People in this world need people who love them,” she tells me at bedtime last night. “We need to pray that they have people to love them.”

Yes, indeed, this is a good place to start.

Here is the Perfect Place

Today, it is only 9 days until Christmas. Every nook and cranny of this house looks like Christmas — whether it's the hidden pile of gifts, the tinsel that has somehow wandered from the tree to my slippers, or the bucket of Christmas fudge my mother made, just begging to be consumed. It's everywhere. It's in our speakers, on the television, on the radio and twinkling from our neighbors' windows. And we start our days with squeals as the Advent calendar is opened, chocolate tumbles out and a little note reminds us what activity to do and who to pray for. Mother says "Let's make the recipe jars today!" and my little begs, "Christmas cookies today?" and my calendar for the week could all be categorized under some "Christmas" reasoning. Rehearsals, movies, gigs, wrapping, etc. 

I see Christmas everywhere...

And yet, in my own heart, in this tiny beating knot of life within me, I find something missing. This morning, I'm looking at the list, the want-tos, the to-dos, the need-tos, and I whimpered a little. My mother, the one who knows me best and has carried my bleeding heart on her hips since I was a wee babe, comes close. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and I leaned into her warm robe that smelled of her perfume and some Irish Breakfast tea. 

"Whatever it is you think you need to pick up today, let it go," she whispers this into my hair. My hair that is still wild with curls and is knotted on the top of my head. The hair that is unruly somedays and feels a lot like my temperament. Unpredictable. Moody. Wild and knotted. "Don't pick that stuff up." 

And she doesn't mean this in the "don't take responsibility for your life" sort of way. She means it in the "that's not your burden to bear. That burden is too heavy. That weight is not your life sentence." And as her words cover my heart, I feel it. I feel that sense of my heart putting down luggage, putting down my packages and all of the things I'm convinced make me stronger and better. I'm blowing the dust off my hands — the dust of expectations, worries, fears. 

I've often thought about Mary and her constitution. I've wondered at the woman God chose to carry His son. I think about her form and poise in these final days. The nights when she cannot sleep and the anticipation of what's to come seems too heavy to bear, and the delivery is an unavoidable certainty. When she's riding donkey-back and Joseph is leading her and the questions of love and choice, destiny and promise, deliverance and hope are all intermingled with the fear, the worry, the doubt. And God takes her to a stable, and creation around her is coarse, smelly and less than ideal. Here He tells her — lay this burden down. Here your burden becomes a promise. Here your weight becomes a watershed. Here, where you submit your body and soul to a greater plan, it becomes less about you and that's where the beauty happens. That's when the stars shine brighter, the angels sing louder, the earth nearly cracks under the beauty of what has come. 

Here, when the tiny beating knot of life within you begins to beat in sync with the knot of life that will save you. Here's where you find true joy. True rest. True peace.

And I think of this as my own mother wraps her arms around me today. The things that cause my mind and heart to race are nothing but a waste of time. But if I lay low, let them go, give into the greater gift of delivering peace, joy, and The Gospel into this world, I find that the things I have dropped become the things that "grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace." I think of Mary and stables, and I'm letting go of the coarseness in my heart, the mess of soul, and the stench of my sin, and I'm always caught off guard by the beauty when God says "Yes, here. This is the perfect place. Here is where I bring my promise."

I'm back to sipping my coffee, and Toy Story is playing in the background. Several Christmas gifts sit unfinished on the shelf next to me, and my daughter exclaims "I've lost the baby Jesus in the sun room!" She is worried and I tell her we'll find him. "But he's MISSING," she says and bites her lips. "BABY JESUS IS LOST FOREVER."

I want to tell her that's ok — plenty of us enter into this week before Christmas wondering if Jesus is actually going to make an appearance in our lives at all. But there's time, I tell her. We have time to find him. And come Christmas morning, we'll see his face, new.

The Long Christmas Eve

"I once had a dream that I died and went to heaven," my brother mused as we turned along the dark country roads. 

"I didn't realize you could actually die in dreams," I said, watching the frosted fields zip by.

"No, I totally did. And heaven was Uncle Cliffy's house."

"Sounds disappointing."

"No, it wasn't," he smiled. "I was downstairs, and it was Christmas morning. I could hear everyone upstairs, celebrating. And I asked if I could go, and I was told I could. It was awesome."

Christmas.

He went on, "Maybe that's why we love Christmas and having a home so much…we're craving Heaven."

We are getting ready to celebrate the Advent season. And in my heart I know somewhere around January 4th, the buzz will wane and I'll be left wondering how long is too long to leave up a Christmas tree. I know it's going to fly by and I know this — it will not satisfy me.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. I might be obsessed with this season. I grew up in a Christmas-loving family. I will do my best to wring this season dry of every good and sweet gift it brings.

But it will not satisfy that hunger in me that wants to celebrate. The thing in me that leaps for joy amidst every beautiful thing. The craving for all beauty and coming home and all gifts and the ones I love and all joy complete. It's not meant to satisfy that in me.

I celebrate this advent because I know another one is coming. 

I know a Christmas morning is waiting. And we are playing and tiptoeing in a cold, snowy world on a long Christmas Eve. 

Waiting.

"It's the only thing that there's just too little of..."

It's the week of Christmas. Today is my last day of client meetings until next week, which means my "work" vacation starts soon.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the two weeks I spent in northern, northern Alaska; about 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle. A few years ago, I traveled there in February and it doesn't take a genius to guess that it was (fill-in-the-expletive) cold. Honestly though, as much as I didn't love wearing eight layers, walking like a penguin and eating seal meat, that entire visit gave me the gift of wonder again.

The kind of pure wonder I experienced as a kid. 

The kind of wonder that can only come from
standing in the middle of the darkness
of the Arctic Circle
while staring at the Aurora Borealis
dance across the sky.

image courtesy of weheartit

I've been thinking about that wonder. Missing it.

Closing my eyes and remembering that night, in the snow, just a bit off the steps while my breath came out in short gasps, near the whale bone monuments... and the sky.

That divine, breathtaking sky.

Something about the memory alone has sparked wonder in me again.

So I've decided, this week, I'm going to let it seep back in. I'm stopping in my tracks and I'm looking around.

I want to be where I am. Not daydreaming about somewhere else.

I want to be with the people I'm with. Not updating my facebook while I share a seat and a shoulder with them.

I want to hear stories face to face. Whisper secrets to friends.

Let my heart swell a bit with love and joy.

Drink cheers to the coming New Year.

I really want to put cheesy 90's Christmas songs on repeat, and twirl around my apartment while Madeleine asks me when we're opening presents.

Let the lights twinkle late at night, curl up with a good book, and listen to Bing Crosby croon.

I want my social networks to collect a little dust while my face to face world brightens with cookies and anticipation.

It's the week of Christmas, and I'm feeling the coming hope. I sense the arrival is near.

I'm closing my eyes, stargazing, letting wonder fill my senses in the least obvious ways.

If I could give all of you a gift, I would. I'd wrap it up in brown paper and ship it off today.

But I can't.

Here's what I can do:
...wish you sweet moments with the ones you love, the perfect recipe, magical bliss, the unbelievable second that makes your heart dizzy with joy, the childlike glee to remind you that all is not lost.
...if I were standing next to you, I'd squeeze your hand and say, "Look around. Find the beauty." And when you furrowed your brow, I'd say, "Even your furrow is beautiful."
... and wonder. I pray you have one moment that takes your breath away and for once, you don't go running to find it.

I'm wishing you a very happy and merry Christmas! See you next week!

Happy Bubbles

I was going to do a blog post on my Christmas wishlist. But when I went to look at all the things I want, instead of getting inspired, I got depressed with the lack-thereof in my wallet.

So I trashed that idea. Proverbially crumpled it up and tossed it into the dark void of "ideas for another time".

"Find those happy bubbles," my sister says.

(My sister — mom of 8 — happens to be a master of this on her blog. I read her entry this morning and felt all set and ready for Christmas.)

When she says this, I remember that scene in Cinderella when she sings while scrubbing the floor. The bubbles rise with her reflection. It's one of those scenes that makes cleaning look absolutely magical. Happy bubbles that make an otherwise mundane task — beautiful.

{image courtesy of weheartit}

So I'm breaking up my routine this week with some happy bubbles... (especially for my sister).

::: Recently, I thought I might blow a lid from M's incessant shouting and shadowing. I would've paid some ungodly amount to anyone who could've have entertained her long enough for me to get a silent breath. Her shouting/story-telling/singing/talking continued through lunch. It had reached the point where I just heard noise. Senseless shouting. 

"Madeleine, what is it?!" My aggravation was not even skin-deep. It was festering at the surface. She was standing on top of her booster seat, arms spread and bits of macaroni and cheese spraying onto the table cloth. She closed her eyes in one more frantic shout ————

"YOU'RE MY FAVORITE!!!" She yelled. "MY.... FAVORITE!"

Oh dear. I quickly quieted my temper. Now that I had acknowledged her, she smiled and sat back down. "You're my favorite too, honey."

Sometimes I really just need to chill out and just listen.

::: This photo. Holiday Inn + a cute bottom.

::: When M asked me if she could stay home with me and be "cozy cozy", I had no choice but to give in to my own childlike heart and oblige her. We filled a day with making "snowflakes" out of old scrapbook paper, baked cookies, decorated paper Christmas trees, watched every Christmas special imaginable, and spun around in our "princess" skirts (as she called them).

As hard as being a parent is, these kind of magical days seem to blur out all of the bad ones.

 

These are my "happy bubbles" in the middle of otherwise mundane tasks. Go find yours!

A Used Christmas

We don't have a lot of money this Christmas. I don't say this as some plea for sympathy or checks in the mail (though if you want my address, I'll oblige... *wink*).

But we don't. It's just life right now. It's how things fell, how life fell, how we're picking up the pieces.

I love Christmas though. I love it so much and I'm determined to not let an empty wallet pierce my little Cindy-Lou Who heart.

When I went to decorate the tree this year, I was sad to find quite a few of our ornaments had shattered, broken, or simply succumbed to old glue. So...with a jar of quarters budget, I wandered into a thrift store.

Did you know that thrift stores are currently marking down all their Christmas inventory?

Did you?

Because I didn't.

So imagine my joy to spend $1.18 and leave with a bag full of vintage-y ornaments, wrapping paper and a renewed Christmas spirit.

We hung them up, in between the hand-me-down ornaments, the bruised ones from years gone by, and it all seems so appropriate. We're fitting in our used with the bruised.

(And yes it's an artificial tree. Let's not talk about that.)

Whether you're on a budget or not, I hope you discover that Christmas is so much more than how much cash you're spending. Maybe this Christmas isn't shaping up to what you hoped it would be. Maybe you've known for awhile now that this was going to be a hard year.

I can say, though maybe without full knowledge, I know how you feel. I'm fitting in my bruises with the things that feel used, too. But somewhere in there, Christmas exists. I hope you find it too.

Even a thrifted Christmas has so much joy, I sometimes can hardly contain it.

White-Knuckling the Promises

We stirred early this morning. It's seems habit now that M crawls into bed next to me around 6:30 a.m. She tucks her cold little toes into my side and I ask her what she dreamt. This morning, she said "I played."

Sounds lovely. I snuggled her and prayed with her, for her. I want to say I dreamed about playing, but I didn't. I just thanked God that one of us is burden-free, and prayed that maybe I, too, could revel in some carefree-ness.

I'm finding these days it's easy to write about the heavy things.

That's probably why I've written six blogs in the past three days and not hit "publish" on any of them.

There's a time for brutal transparency. There's a time for tears. And lately that time needs to remain in my heart, in my room, in my quiet whispers at dawn.

We opened the fifth door of our Advent calendar last night. Christmas is absent of it's typical nuances this year. It's not worse or better.

Just different.

This year, I pulled out the old "family" Bible I picked up at an auction a few years ago. Something about it's old, aged pages, and spilling articles and notes dated back to the 1800s makes me feel like I'm brushing holiday shoulders with the March family. (Wouldn't that be grand?)

I laugh as M reaches for the chocolate. (She makes her priorities quite clear.) Her giggle is contagious as she grabs a kiss and runs off to catch the last 10 minutes of a Barney Christmas special.

So it's just me. Sitting on the floor. With an old Bible.

"This doesn't feel much like Christmas," I say to myself. No sparkling joy down to my toes. No abundant blessings filling my world.

Just dirty, chocolate hands.

A weary soul.

Ancient words.

These quick moments seem to drop gently on to me.

The reminder hits as Barney sings something about imagining and love.

Isn't the advent about waiting? Anticipating? Hoping?

The long watch. The desperate longing.

The open hands waiting for redemption.

I'm reminded that promises of redemption are made because things seem unredeemable.

Hope shines brightly in the dark, because if we could see, hope wouldn't be necessary.

Grace hits those spots where the wounds gape, because any other treatment wouldn't heal.

Maybe it's not time for celebration yet because we're still in the advent of this season.

Waiting.

Watching.

I'm looking back at promises, white-knuckling them, curling my toes into the dirt and holding on.

If that's not a good starting point for the Advent story, I don't know what is.

A Little Mood Music

This day. Oh heavens. This day.

This day of sniffling and sneezing. Nyquil naps and Hylands for the young one. The Family Stone is on repeat, and all I keep thinking is "I can't wait to get back to the North."

My nose stings with sneezing, and my little bird keeps asking to watch more Dora. (If I have to hear that cartoon girl and her pet monkey travel through an imaginary land one more time, I might swing a bat through my television.)

So naturally, tonight was the perfect night to set up the tree, right?

Of course. Hot chocolate + Christmas music + childhood wonder makes any sick day brighter.