A Resolution

From the attic I hear church bells ring.  A benefit of living in a small village, this may be my favorite feature of our home: its proximity to three houses of worship that pause to mark the weeks and years and holy days with long, tolling invitations to pause and be still and to come worship.  And that is exactly why I’ve come to the attic, this New Year’s Eve, redeeming the best gift I received this Christmas – an afternoon of solitude, provided by the man who knows me and loves me best of all.

And after the bells fall silent, I sip tea and sit long.  In quiet.  It’s a miracle that could be a rhythm of my days and weeks, and I am learning that even this extroverted, spontaneity-craving woman needs stillness and rhythm as much as I need roaring laughter and mystery.

And I come back to the words that grip my heart again and again.  The words written as epilogue in my favorite childhood book, and the ones whispered during college crisis of faith, and tucked in corners of my life at crucial junctures all along the way:

And as a new year dawns, I am aware that there are plenty of places in my life that need strong resolution: my lateness and my laziness, my lack of routine and propensity to live self-focused; the list is long, and, yes, I will seek by grace to grow in these.  But these are not my resolutions. Just this one thing is the foundation that I will build my life upon, and all else must come from this place: to abide in the love of God.

And I pull out the Greek Dictionary of the New Testament, and the word for abide is defined as this: To stay (in a given place, state, relation or expectancy) abide, continue, dwell, endure, be present, remain, stand, tarry (for)… Oh to stay in His love, to remain in the center of that relationship, to keep this heart vulnerable and wide open in expectancy.  To continue and endure in this love, to be present in it.  To stand in it and tarry for it, all at the same time.  To abide. To dwell.  These are the words I painted and hung in our dining room, the ones that I long to define this day, here in the attic, and this new year closing in, and the whole of this small life.

Abide. I think it is truly the most beautiful word I have ever heard.  This is the word I come back to, again and again, when my heart yearns for a life bigger than the one I’ve been given, and also when I long to shrink back from dreams too big for me to understand. And it is here, abiding in perfect love, that He becomes more and I become less. The lies of not good enough, not doing enough, all the enoughs and shoulds, they loose their grip – because when I remain in His love, I am reminded that my value has little to do with my performance, and much to do with grace, and I see you in that brilliant light too. And it is Love that nurtures the branch to bear fruit, and He is a faithful vine-dresser, so it is here, I resolve, by grace alone, to abide.

A Merry {Stinking} Christmas

Christmas morning has come, and we welcomed it in our quiet home, as we sat squeezed together on this old couch, us four, and read ancient words from this new book, a gift.

And our Christmas was full of wonder, because its easy to come by when you’re two and five, and these little ones brimming over with their child-faith, they draw me right in to it. I think about last Christmas, a year ago, and the healing that has transpired here, and I am hushed by His goodness in it all.

But mixed in with the wonder and the meditations, our Christmas was not without the stench that no doubt marked the stable that first holy night. Only the foul festering here was not so much malodorous, but rather a soul stench emanating from within me: the creeping up of fear and control, of pungent sarcasm and defensiveness, the stink of an old self and the ache of this broken world with its bruised relationships.

And as long as I have breath I will wrestle with this stench. But Christmas, it doesn’t hide the stink of the stable, Christmas celebrates His coming right smack into the dark ugly of it. And I am indebted to those who walk this road with me, and point me back to the One who forgives and makes new, who came to give life, and who offers it today.

And in our little church, I am discovering the beauty of liturgy and the rhythm of the church calendar, and I am surprised to learn that Advent is the beginning of the church calendar. And isn’t this how we begin a new year: with hope, full of expectation, and yes, waiting on the One who writes our stories and numbers our days? And why would I, why do I start anywhere else but here: raw anticipation, deep hope and expectation that Jesus will come right here – into the mess and frailty of this broken life, of this weary heart, of this very moment?

And this is my prayer for this new year, that a cadence and rhythm would develop in these days, that I would learn to daily quiet this heart and hear His voice, His coming in the midst of stench and wonder unfurling altogether here.

I am so thankful for each of you who journey with me and read these words and share your hearts, in email and in comments.  I pray that as you look to the new year, His peace & grace, His rest and very Presence will fill your hearts, your homes. Merry Christmas, friends, and Happy New Year!

On Empty Mangers and Finding Jesus

The first Christmas we are married, my parents give us Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus.  These little unbreakable people, abiding quietly in a woodsy creche (that looks little like what historians tell us that first stable resembled), these were the playthings of my childhood Christmas memories.

Each year my parents add a piece – a shepherd, the wisemen, their camels, an angel, then the camels again when their wiry legs melt in the unbearable heat of a summer attic... (click here to continue reading)

Merry Christmas, friends! I’m guest posting over at Momma Day By Day.  Won’t you join us?

On Holly & Holy & Here Inbetween

I’m thankful for Emily’s words, and the way they really do cause me to pause, to stop and let this soul breathe.  And today, I needed to heed her advice.  To step outside, away from the doing and not done and into the quiet of the frigid air here.

And sometimes I can rest easy and just be, relying on the hope that I am fully known and loved, and in the just being, the being with the Creator in His creation, I am renewed and refreshed.  But today I find it difficult to just be.  I read these words before I wrap up in vest and scarf, an attempt to mute the incessant ramblings of my mind with something strong and still:

“A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;
from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.
The Spirit of the LORD will rest on him—
the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
the Spirit of counsel and of might,
the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the LORD—
and he will delight in the fear of the LORD.    He will not judge by what he sees with his eyes,
or decide by what he hears with his ears…” Isaiah 11

And I go out with pruning sheers, because I’m afraid if I go with nothing, just the stillness and the Word alone, that I might waste my time.  And this way, I’ll at least hold holly pruned to prove the worth of my time.  It’s holly over the Holy, I value today, productivity over presence.

And I find, in the quiet I hoped for – now disrupted by the steady hammering and clamoring of builders next door, I find the source of the nuisance we could not discover in the lush green of summer. And I hack off a pile of unwieldy branches so large that it almost dwarfs the holly bush itself.

And the largest branch is the hardest to prune, this one that grew ridiculously long all summer, ignored by previously owners and left to grow long till this, its dormant season, when pruning harms least and promises future growth, when the cold air is forgotten and snow not yet seen is a melted memory.

And the living fibers I find inside the cut branch remind me of a vine and its branches, and the desperate need I have to be connected with the source of life.  And out here in the unwieldy beauty and the air that toes the line between unbearably cold and deeply refreshing, I pray for a heart that’s not afraid to be still, that needs not pruning sheers and distraction to shelter me from the mixed cup of wild beauty and heartbreak this life offers.  And I offer thanks to the author of my faith, who meets me in  the still centered times, and also in the dailiness and in my failures and in the dormant beauty here.

Unwrapping Tuesday here with the community at Chatting at the Sky.  Join us?

A Giveaway

UPDATE:: This giveaway is now closed (although you’re welcome to keep telling me your favorite Christmas memories!). Congratulations to Jefuremu Njambilo!  Use the contact form to send me your address & I’ll ship it out today!  Thanks to all for your memories & traditions shared here!  So glad you all stopped by. And thanks for checking out Freeset and their beautiful work.

As we celebrate the extravagant gift of a King coming down, right into the midst of our broken world, I’m thrilled to offer this small gift, a giveaway here today, this lovely teal & parchment bag, shown here.

This fall I had the joy of meeting Kristi Griem.  Kristi works with Freeset, a fair trade business that offers employment to women trapped in Kolkata’s sex trade. If your heart beats fast for freedom and justice, or if you are just beginning to learn about the dark world of trafficking, take a minute to learn more about Freeset, the lovely products they create (that you can purchase!) and listen to their beautiful stories.
To win this beautiful bag, just leave a comment below sharing one thing you do to celebrate this sweet season, great or small, simple or extravagant. 

Giveaway ends Friday, December 16th, 2011 at midnight. A winner will be chosen at random and announced and contacted Saturday morning, and the bag sent first thing Monday, to get there just in time for gifting or enjoying!{{Giveaway is closed!}}

On Wisemen and Shepherds

Less than two weeks till Christmas and somehow we still have that teepee in our dining room, and the only tree making merry here is the Ficus we inherited from my in-laws when they moved down south.

We are usually all over the Christmasifying of our abode, but the last two months have been a little crazy here. Today I find myself unpacking from a week of travel, living with a half hung garland messily wrapped around the banister and a candle-less advent wreath, that, truthfully, we’ve only used once. And this year it hasn’t really mattered. The conversations in our home and the meditations of this heart have been centered around the manger, and I’m honestly considering just throwing a string of white lights on the Ficus and calling it done.

And I’m thinking, in the midst of this mixed up house here, where fall leaves and jingle bells linger together and bristle the lines of separate but equal seasonal decor, that sometimes we work real hard to get it all right, to celebrate correctly, to make everything count and mean something.

I grew up in a home where Christmas was celebrated lavishly. The sheer quantity of gifts and cookies (I’m talking dozens of dozens!) and people through our doors during all those merry years drove memories deep, spoke right to the heart of the beauty of lavish love, extravagant giving, warm hospitality. And I remember  the prodigal’s father, offering all he had to celebrate, and of heart of a woman who offered an extravagant gift  at Jesus’ feet, of her costly worship. I think of three wise souls, waiting and watchful for the new King coming, who searched far and labored hard and brought costly gifts, and of how in our home, our gifts (both material and those of time and energy) were expressions both costly and beautiful, to celebrate His coming.

When we visit my in-laws, I fall in love with the simple ways they gather around a tree, and the hymns and carols spring up, laughter roars, time goes slow, small gifts exchanged here and there, last year the gift of goat, given to a family whose names we’ll never know. There is intentionality and focus, a centering down. And the heart of it all reminds me of the shepherds, confronted with glory come down right in the midst of them, leaving their flocks and entering in to the very presence of the Humble King, and this is how we celebrate together.

As we seek to raise our children now, to sojourn through this life with grace and integrity, the pendulum has swung back and forth in my heart. And I have held high the ideals of simplicity and scoffed at lavish expressions like a grace grinch, not recognizing the way those very gifts have shaped me. And I have longed for a formula, some simple solution to take all the magnitude of the Word Made Flesh and translate it flawlessly into Pinterest-worthy crafts and activities, that drive home the fullness of God into gingerbread and Advent readings. And it sounds ridiculous when I write it out here, but, really this is what I’ve wanted.

And something cracks open in me when my sister says it: when she tells me they’re going big this Christmas, letting go of the limiting of gifts and attempts to make small something that bursts big with celebration in their hearts. I sense that lavish love longing to pour out, to make memories and teach truth by living it out well, full of joy.

And its a beautiful thing that there is no formula to celebrate a perfect Christmas.  My sister, she tells me straight, that there was a time when high holy days were laid out in stone, and directions were clear, and not one could keep that law perfectly.  And that is why we celebrate the God made Flesh coming to fulfill what we couldn’t.

And you can make fourteen dozen cookies and welcome neighbors and family and strangers into your well-prepared homes, and it can be all for your glory or desperately, beautifully for His. And you can buy all the fair trade gifts or give only to those in grave need, and store up judgement and anger in your heart at those who fail to see the need, or you can do the same in humility and forbearance, moved by compassion and the leading of His Spirit. And the externals, the giving gifts and making ready, it can all be an act of pride or it can all be graceful whisper of humble worship.

Because the Word Made Flesh looks at the heart, and meets us in our mangers and messy stables. And we can worship with extravagance and we can worship in hidden humility, and the Spirit who divides bone and marrow will quiet us with His love, bring us to repentance, and offer us the gift of coming before Him this Christmas, just as we are, when we come.

This Christmas, I am comforted that I serve this Humble King who came down low in a manger, who gave both wise men and shepherds value, and welcomed them into His presence.  O, come, let us adore Him.

The Quieting in the Coming

We rise through the clouds and my heart takes flight.  Soaring at 30,000 feet, and I am relieved at our departure: life has been crazy here.  Tiny fingers wrap around mine, and we sit together, quiet.  This little one, she has thoughts, and there are days when they pound out like firecrackers, erupting steadily, each bang and burst somehow still surprising.  And then there are days like this, quiet ones, hold-my-hand-mama ones, where she just is, and we just are together.

And I am amazed at how these children grow, how this life that once formed inside my womb now grows out here in the wild, utterly unpredictable and outside my control.  And to this heart, it causes wild wonder and ferocious fear, deep comfort some days, and harrowing trepidation others.  And my children, they are not even old enough to tie their shoes, but I have seen the weary wonder on the faces of mothers of teenagers, and I have seen my own parents and my husband’s, and I know this is an endurance race, and these tensions will only grow larger.

And this is the wild place we live – in the story of a kingdom coming, the hope of a promise, and the sin and brokenness tearing and deceiving all that is good and pure and lovely- this is the backdrop of our story, the setting of our lives.

And there are days that I live shouting aloud, and days that I simply lean in and quiet.  And as my baby’s lashes fall heavy and rest overcomes her tired little body, I remember another mother holding another baby, and I think of the way that baby, grown and living in the tension of this broken world, thundering out the kingdom come and retreating to be still and listen, how that baby expressed the Father’s heart for His Holy City.

And I think of David, and wonder if he held a sleeping toddler when he penned these lyrics.

And as we wait for Christmas and celebrate, with expectancy, the coming this advent, as we join in the waiting and hoping, may our hearts be stilled and quieted, before the King who came, small and vulnerable in a manger, and who comes to us today, in our flights and messes, in the midst of laundry and grocery stores, heartache and deep joy, firecrackery diapered wonders bouncing on dining room chairs and all.

Joining Emily P. Freeman, at Chatting at the Sky, to look close into a little moment, and unwrap the gift of the wild beauty all around, this Tuesday. Join us?

And linking up a day late to count thanks with Ann & others today.  Join us!

- For a week with Mimi and Papa, our first visit to their beautiful new home, and the sweetness of being together
- For lunch and later tea with a dear friend, who lives out thanks-living and challenges me
- For the compassionate airline representatives who saw a sick baby and put us on a direct flight, free of charge
- For a car waiting, already warmed up when we landed last night, in the middle of the night
- For neighbors who check mail and turn the heat on, thank you!
- For a four pound nephew breathing strong and learning to take a tiny bottle, and my sister and brother in law getting to hold their tiny baby now.
- For a house barely ready for Christmas, filled with little hearts full of hope and wonder
- For friends and sisters who make me laugh and keep me grounded

On Mary’s Escape

The first week of Advent, we haul out the manger, really a creche, filled with beautifully unbreakable figures, and set low for little hands to embrace.  And as they take hold of each character in the greatest story ever told, I whisper prayers  that the story will take hold of their tender hearts.

When the novelty wears off, I notice little hands setting Mary and her baby wrapped in swaddling clothes off to the corner, behind the stable, making some scenario of her own, so I inquire as to the change in scenery.

“Mary just wants to be alone with her baby,” she tells me, her, all of five, and me now the child, eager to learn. “There were too many people stuffed in that manger.”

And I nod; this makes good sense to this mother’s heart. And solid logic to a girl of five.  And I find longing, even now, to find the quiet.  Even as they grow, little delights my heart as much as simply holding a contented child. And while I love to talk, I have a need to breathe deep in sweet silence with the man I love, to be in the company of such kindred friends that silence is a welcome melody in the song of conversation, and yes, more than all of this, my heart finds rest when I come away and simply be in stillness with the Word Made Flesh.

And these days, those quiet moments are rare, and I am learning that it is worth it to carve them out, to trade in the elusive hours that never come for the actual minutes that are right now. To still and to be.

Tell me, how do you carve out quiet? What does it look like in this season, for you?

Joining Emily P. Freeman, at Chatting at the Sky, to look close into a little moment, and unwrap the gift of the wild beauty all around, right now, this Tuesday.

On Advent and Empty Days

Twas the night before advent… and the procrastinator who lives in this house was up past midnight, stapling twine to broken frame, creating something out of the random supplies that cause drawers to jam and husband eyebrows to escalate in equal parts confusion and wonder.

And the stapler that’s traveled to college and classroom and found a home now on the counter in the mudroom spits its last staple on the last piece of yarn: just enough, no more, no less.

The past few years we’ve incorporated a beautiful tradition from my husband’s family.  For each of the four Sundays preceding Christmas, we gather in the evening, light a candle and read scripture, a Christmas story, sing quiet hymns and carols that tell of the God who formed the world being formed in a womb, the Word made flesh.

As our kids grow (and perhaps, more honestly, as I grasp for something centered, quiet here in the midst of much noise) I long to make each day fixed on this beautiful story.  So this year, inspired by Tsh’s calendar, and the scripture and corresponding crafts and ideas from Amanda, I make this, out of found paper and last staples.

And the printer’s not working, and it’s late, and they only open one day at a time – so I draw the candle – a clue to today’s sweet reflection, and hang 24 empty days.

And perhaps that’s just it.  That we need have only just enough, that we move forward, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. And I’m pretty sure we won’t make all 24 crafts, but we are beginning, and today little eyes grew wide at the beauty of light coming to darkness.

And tonight, this grown-up heart, full of darkness – of fear and frustration and worry and judgement, was quieted by the light burning steady, exposing the deep dark of brokenness and selfish center of it all.  Quietly, without fancy or fanfare, the empty dark is filled by light, in this heart, this home, this world.  So I light a candle, and scribble out day 2, and move on to laundry, this first day.

five minute friday :: {On Gratitude}

Gratitude.

The discovering and the diving into the rhythms of gratitude walked into my life in a dark hour, and, you might say, provided a life line – reshaped my thinking and pointed me back to the giver of life when a life had been taken and my heart unraveled.  And learning to offer thanks in those moments of desperation was a necessity, just as learning to turn in gratitude in the abundance – hushed by the goodness of new babies or fireflies, wells up, with intention, yes, but mostly because it can’t be suppressed.

But in the daily, the litanies, there is nothing glorious or tragic to turn this heart from it’s normal course of gaze: namely, myself.  The little things that bristle me, the exhaustion of motherhood and daily routines – they usually lead this heart to self-pity, venting, gossip.  I have learned, and am learning the hard gratitude, and I have sung praises on mountaintops, but here, now, I am learning to give thanks for the mundane, to let the nothings and somethings sing of His goodness. Slowly, slowly, learning.

Yes, linking up this Friday with Lisa-Jo and the community over at the Gypsy Mama, who invites me & you to write for five unedited minutes:
“For fun, for love of the sound of words, for play, for delight, for joy and celebration at the art of communication. For only five short, bold, beautiful minutes. Unscripted and unedited. We just write without worrying if it’s just right or not.” -Lisa-Jo 

This week’s word was gratitude.  Tell me, what does the word gratitude stir up in your heart?