There is something in me that wants to put a neat bow on everything that I write; wants to pick apart every story, find the whys and the hows that are hiding in each line of black and white text; wants to understand.
Even if mine are the only eyes that see it, it seems important that it make sense.
Neat and gift wrapped and tidy.
But, it is December. Advent. Holy time. And, the messy bits of humanity seem to ooze out from under the tape and burst at the seams of the wrapping paper.
The stories blend together, and I can't seem to decide, even as I am telling them, whether the mess is joy or pain. Can't decide if this is the part of the Christmas story with the angels and the shepherds and the newborn king. Or, the part where the Savior escapes into the night while children are slaughtered.
We pause mid song with the high schoolers, and they are given a chance to write down something that is heavy on their hearts, something that they want to give to God.
They step forwards as one.
Without hesitation. Without pausing to consider. Without having to think.
Advent.
When we carry our hurts raw and close to the surface. When things spill over and out and I am constantly, constantly reminded to pray. When the gentle tugs at my soul that means each child blend over and around and beneath each other like a chorus, whispering every time of a unique need to talk to the Savior.
The Savior whose birth brought eternal hope, but also a temporary sorrow. Who knows what it is to be poor. To be a refugee. To be oppressed. To play. To laugh. To live with the messy ups and downs of a ragtag group of humans.
So, we celebrate Advent. When a tiny young family made a journey required by a harsh decree. When the unknown and the despised watched their sheep, not knowing that they would live to see angels. Live to see the Son of God.
When Magi prepared to travel, already carrying the gifts that spoke of burial.
So, there is a tiny tree beside my bed, and, tucked into its branches, is a tiny cross. Carved out of two pieces of playground bark, years and years ago. Lashed together with a well worn piece of string. Keeping watching over the creche where a wooden family kneels.
And, I am reminded of the gifts that used to appear at its base when my sisters and I were little. Advent gifts. Unwrapped. Loose. Small piles of candy or coins. Socks or a book. Movie tickets on one special Sunday. No paper. No bows. No neat finish but the one that was coming.
The one that is still coming.
1 Chronicles, where I am reading with my high school girls, rewinds back to the beginning. Back to Adam. To the garden. To genealogies that are important because they carry the thread of a promise. A promise already come, but not yet fulfilled.
And, I am reminded that none of our stories are ever finished. That the longest book I could ever write would never fully come to "the end." That eternity stretches in front of us. That it matters less if this record makes sense, and more, for my own sake, that it is true.
Even when it is a mess.
When one of my kids is too quiet. When we go through this pattern every December. When I am too chicken to ask the question that I know the answer to, because I don't want to see the tears that will spring up in his eyes. When I know that next Sunday, for his sake, I will have to ask anyways, so that he knows that I care.
When there isn't enough time or I don't have enough eyes or ears or hands for everyone. When I haven't yet started shopping for presents. When I don't have the words to pray. When the answer to the story is somewhere out of sight.
When we're still waiting.
Because, there is something uniquely holy to this kind of a mess. Some kind of unique treasure in this unwrapped, mixed up, pile of gifts.
A reason, in the midst of the mess, for rest. Comfort. Joy. Blessing. Charis.
Even if mine are the only eyes that see it, it seems important that it make sense.
Neat and gift wrapped and tidy.
But, it is December. Advent. Holy time. And, the messy bits of humanity seem to ooze out from under the tape and burst at the seams of the wrapping paper.
The stories blend together, and I can't seem to decide, even as I am telling them, whether the mess is joy or pain. Can't decide if this is the part of the Christmas story with the angels and the shepherds and the newborn king. Or, the part where the Savior escapes into the night while children are slaughtered.
We pause mid song with the high schoolers, and they are given a chance to write down something that is heavy on their hearts, something that they want to give to God.
They step forwards as one.
Without hesitation. Without pausing to consider. Without having to think.
Advent.
When we carry our hurts raw and close to the surface. When things spill over and out and I am constantly, constantly reminded to pray. When the gentle tugs at my soul that means each child blend over and around and beneath each other like a chorus, whispering every time of a unique need to talk to the Savior.
The Savior whose birth brought eternal hope, but also a temporary sorrow. Who knows what it is to be poor. To be a refugee. To be oppressed. To play. To laugh. To live with the messy ups and downs of a ragtag group of humans.
So, we celebrate Advent. When a tiny young family made a journey required by a harsh decree. When the unknown and the despised watched their sheep, not knowing that they would live to see angels. Live to see the Son of God.
When Magi prepared to travel, already carrying the gifts that spoke of burial.
So, there is a tiny tree beside my bed, and, tucked into its branches, is a tiny cross. Carved out of two pieces of playground bark, years and years ago. Lashed together with a well worn piece of string. Keeping watching over the creche where a wooden family kneels.
And, I am reminded of the gifts that used to appear at its base when my sisters and I were little. Advent gifts. Unwrapped. Loose. Small piles of candy or coins. Socks or a book. Movie tickets on one special Sunday. No paper. No bows. No neat finish but the one that was coming.
The one that is still coming.
1 Chronicles, where I am reading with my high school girls, rewinds back to the beginning. Back to Adam. To the garden. To genealogies that are important because they carry the thread of a promise. A promise already come, but not yet fulfilled.
And, I am reminded that none of our stories are ever finished. That the longest book I could ever write would never fully come to "the end." That eternity stretches in front of us. That it matters less if this record makes sense, and more, for my own sake, that it is true.
Even when it is a mess.
When one of my kids is too quiet. When we go through this pattern every December. When I am too chicken to ask the question that I know the answer to, because I don't want to see the tears that will spring up in his eyes. When I know that next Sunday, for his sake, I will have to ask anyways, so that he knows that I care.
When there isn't enough time or I don't have enough eyes or ears or hands for everyone. When I haven't yet started shopping for presents. When I don't have the words to pray. When the answer to the story is somewhere out of sight.
When we're still waiting.
Because, there is something uniquely holy to this kind of a mess. Some kind of unique treasure in this unwrapped, mixed up, pile of gifts.
A reason, in the midst of the mess, for rest. Comfort. Joy. Blessing. Charis.
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