There are two reasons I know someone is trying to knock some sense into me.  Dream one and dream two.  Both in the same night.  Both causing me to wake up with my arms over my head in an attempt to protect myself from the enormous pieces of machinery coming towards me, while I lay cowering on the ground.  Because I have a son, I actually know the name of these demon machines that threatened to decapitate me in the middle of the night.  They were excavators, one gigantic and one just plain huge, one filled with sand and one filled with red clay.  Apparently, the attacks were occurring on Georgia soil.  

Two dreams in one night in which I was about to be clobbered in the head?  Sure seems to be clear evidence that someone is trying to knock some serious sense into me.  In this case, I believe that person is Jen Hatmaker. 

I desperately want to plagarize Jen Hatmaker because then you would think I was absolutely brilliant.  But alas, I'm not the plagarizing type, so my suggestion is you buy her books as soon as possible and read them yourselves.  Then, you too can have dreams about being frozen on the ground in the middle of an active construction site.  

Jen Hatmaker has me so stirred up I can barely sit still, or think straight, or complete a sentence.  You should see my list of things I want to write about – it’s a mile long and looks like someone on heavy drugs wrote it.  There is, however, one common theme on my rambling list of jumbled ideas – a single name that repeats over and over and over again. 

Jesus.

I know, I know.  I always seem to come back to that guy, don't I?  Trust me, I never thought I'd be that person.  I sin, and a lot of times, I enjoy it.  (If you're doubting my deep need for a Savior, I should probably inform you that Adam and I were trying to come up with something fun for the Elf to do a few nights ago, and the first thought I had involved naked Barbies, Cool Whip, and an empty box of . . . like I said, I sin, and sometimes, I giggle while doing it.)  Despite my sinful nature, I always believed God was the one writing my story, and for whatever reason, in the last few years He's encouraged me to make sure my story points to Him.

Of course, it is almost Christmas.  Jesus should be on my mind, right?  I mean, this is his time to shine.  This is the season when he actually gets to occupy some shelf space.  You might even see him in storefronts and on catalog covers right now.  He'll be the tiny one - the baby lying in a feeding trough in the middle of a barn, because that's where kings are born when hotels are filled to capacity. 

The thing is, I keep seeing Jesus and thinking about Jesus and reading books by Jen Hatmaker about Jesus, but I don't understand why I can't get the fellow out of my head.  Sure, he looks cute in his manger, but my mind isn't racing with images of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, although I'd gladly trade my two big kids in for one right now since a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes wouldn't expect an elf to perform G rated magical feats in the middle of EVERY. FREAKING. NIGHT. IN. DECEMBER. 

All cuteness aside, baby Jesus isn't the one consuming my thoughts.  Instead, it's the Jesus of Easter I'm thinking about.  I'm way ahead on the calendar and completely off on my holidays.  Can I put a bunny on the top of my Christmas tree, because I can't stop thinking about the grown-up Jesus.  The one who performed miracles to prove he was the son of God. The one who provided instructions on exactly how we should live. The one who took every bit of my sin - all of it - and died on a cross to and wash it away forever.

Do I remember they are one and the same - the baby lying in the manger next to farm animals and the man who gave me freedom?  When I'm running around in circles planning and decorating and buying and buying and buying and wrapping and addressing and mailing . . . do I remember that the baby I'm celebrating became a man?  A man who loved me so much he willingly gave his life as a ransom for mine.

As I write the words . . . I know.  I know they are the reason I'm dodging excavators in the middle of the night.  It's not because of Jen Hatmaker.  She's a great writer and I highly recommend her books and blog, but she's not the reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus. 

The reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus is because his Father is after my heart.  In the midst of all my Christmas preparations and holiday busyness, God is whispering sweet reminders in my ear.  As I rush around trying to check off every item on my December to-do list, He wants to make sure I know . . . really know . . . how much he loves me.  And all I have to do to know how much God loves me, is look at Jesus.

The one sleeping between the cow and the donkey.

The one who became a carpenter and a man.

The one who lived, and died, to save me.

To save you. 

To save the world.