I’ve been thinking a lot about discipleship.  Yea, okay.  Not a lot.  A little.  I think about a LOT of things a little bit.  Anyway, the idea of discipleship intrigues me.  A lot.

Jesus’ disciples were an interesting bunch. If you were to endeavor to pick twelve people to represent you and share your amazing ideas with as many others as possible (without the use of cars, planes, email, or anything starting with a capital I), you would probably look for those with characteristics such as loyalty, confidence, intelligence, responsibility, determination, charisma, and hey, let’s face it, good looks.  Remember folks, the Bible says God looks at the heart.  The rest of us are prone to focus on outward appearances, and if you’re trying to draw a crowd, you best get a hottie showing some skin – unfortunately, that’s the world we live in.  If you doubt me, please find and watch some coverage of the Golden Boobs, I mean Golden Globes, from last week. Apparently, a little beauty and a large dose of cleavage will make people hang on your every word, regardless of what you might be saying.

My point is, Jesus picked a strange group to call his disciples – to be with him and go out to preach (Mark 3:14).  These guys were not the best and the brightest.  In Mark 7, Jesus has to explain himself to them because they can’t quite grasp what he’s trying to say.  In Mark 9, once again, the disciples don’t understand Jesus, and this time, they don’t even have the guts to ask him what he means.  In Mark 10, James and John ask if they can be seated next to Jesus in his glory.  Wow.  Ya gotta love such a gross overestimation of place.  Then, in Mark 14, it all goes to pot.  The disciples can’t obey Jesus’ basic request to stay awake.  Judas completely betrays him.  And Peter denies knowing him, not once, but three times. 

Like I said, these fellas were not your top of the line groupies.

Still, I have a hard time thinking of myself as a disciple of Jesus Christ, because despite their inadequacies, the twelve disciples played major roles in the most incredible story of all time.  They were main characters in God’s amazing plan, while I’m just an extra among billions.    

The definition of ‘disciple’ is one who embraces and assists in spreading the doctrines of another.  I do the embracing part pretty well.  The spreading doctrines part, however . . . I could use a little work on that.

If I want to be a disciple of Jesus, I have to share him with the people that show up in my life, and that can’t just mean the people I know and love.  The reality is, the majority of the people in my life have already met Jesus, and most of them know him well.  I’m called to share Christ with those who don’t know him, and that’s where I often get tripped up.

I think it’s because I don’t feel qualified to be a disciple.  I don’t know enough.  I’m not bold enough.  I can’t answer all the questions or quote all the scriptures.  I can’t possibly be considered a disciple. 

But then, I think about the twelve people Jesus chose as his disciples.  The ones who didn’t fully understand everything he said.  The ones who feared him.  The ones who felt they were on the same level with him.  The ones who didn’t obey him.  They ones who denied him, betrayed him, deserted him.

And I realize, the disciples and I have a lot in common.

Maybe I didn’t walk alongside Christ as he healed the sick or raised the dead or fed the masses.  But I’ve misunderstood him.  I’ve been scared of him.  I’ve wanted his control and disobeyed what he was telling me and refused to acknowledge him as my friend.  The truth is . . . I would have fit right in with that unlikely crew of people Jesus chose as his disciples.  Because Jesus didn’t come for the healthy, but for the sick . . . he didn’t come for the righteous, but for the sinners (Mark 2:17).  Jesus came to save, and in a statement perfectly fitting of who he is, he chose a messed-up bunch of people to help him spread his messages of love and grace. 

Huh.

Being messed-up is kind of a specialty of mine. 

I guess I really can be a disciple.  I can embrace the teachings of Jesus, and assist in passing them along to others.  And I can find encouragement not only in the Chosen One, but in those He chose.  Because although they were flawed . . . although they found failure time after time . . . they succeeded in fulfilling their purposes in the greatest story ever told.

I long to play a part in that story, even if it's only a tiny part, a part that doesn't get recognized by anyone but the One who wrote it.

"A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.  By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."  

John 13:34-35

Faith is taking

the first step,

even when

you don't see

the whole staircase.

 

Martin Luther King Jr.

 

Happy Monday friends! 

I hope you have a WONDERFUL week!



So that whole verse in first Peter about the devil prowling around like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour . . .

Yea. That totally freaks me out.

Honestly, I’ve known people who spoke about the devil trying to cause problems in their lives, and not so long ago, I kinda thought they were . . . you know . . . nuts.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe the devil exists, because I do.  Hard to deny Satan when the Bible mentions him dozens of times.  I just wasn’t sure how I felt about the idea of him hanging out in my house every day.  I prefer to imagine him up in the heavenly realms somewhere – trying to tiptoe past Jesus on those scrawny red devil legs of his and failing every time.

I don’t want to acknowledge the devil and the ways he attempts to work in my life, but lately, God’s been pointing them out to me.  And you know what?  It’s still totally freaking me out.  At the same time, God has opened my eyes in some seriously meaningful ways.

Suddenly, I have a name for those whispers of doubt that creep into my mind on a regular basis.  The ones that tell me I’m not pretty.  The ones that tell me I make too many mistakes. The ones that tell me I’m an awful wife and a terrible mother and an all-around horrible person.  You’ve heard those whispers, haven’t you?  They say your house is ugly and your husband is all wrong and your children will grow up to be convicts and God doesn’t really care about little old you anyway, so why on earth are you even entertaining the ridiculous notion of grace. 

Screw off, Satan.

I hear your messages of nonsense, but I have my fingers in my ears and I AM NOT LISTENING!

Now you think I’m nuts, don’t you?:)

I’m not the person who stands in her kitchen, has a fleeting thought of discontent because the black, filled-to-the-brim refrigerator doesn’t match the stainless steel dishwasher, (never mind the fact that tens of thousands of children will die of starvation TODAY), and instructs the devil to flee in a loud, commanding voice.  Not yet, anyway.  But I have begun to take notice of that lion prowling around me. No, he’s not the one making me covet things I don’t need and which can never bring contentment – I do that all on my own.  He is, however, the one that takes my sin and uses it against me.  Oh, he’s a nasty little bugger – sneaky and scheming and full of lies. And when the devil tells me I’m unlovable because I occasionally wish for matching appliances, I can now recognize the trick, and instead of believing him, I remind myself that God makes a habit out of loving the unlovable . . . that God loves me despite my selfish, sinful ways . . . that God loves me so much he sent his son to die in my place, covering me with grace that is never ridiculous, yet always miraculous.

A wise woman in my weekly Bible study once said, “Satan is the accuser.  God is the advocate.”

Who will I choose to believe?  My accuser or my advocate?  Will I entertain those whispers of doubt, or will I resist the devil, so he will flee from me (James 4:7)?

I choose to believe the truth.  And God is The Voice of Truth.  He is my advocate.  He is right here with me, always, relentlessly defeating Satan in a battle he’s already won.

Psalm 119:160  The sum of your word is truth, and every one of your righteous rules endures forever.

She drove me absolutely crazy. She made me laugh equally as much. She stirred up my life in a way I didn't know could happen, and I think, in the end, I'll be a better person for it. She was adorable, and oh so messy. She whined a lot, begged for treats a lot, barked a lot. And on October 24th, at only one year and eleven days old, I stroked her head as she went to sleep for the very last time.

I miss that Macie.

No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.

It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.

About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.

And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.

By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.

I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did.  I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game.  I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings.  I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families.  But I'll be forever glad I did. 

They brought Macie in to me.  Wrapped her in a towel.   Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.

At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.

She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do.  End the suffering.

The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.

With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends.  I should have given her more belly rubs.  I should have played tug with her more often.  I should have let her sit next to me on the couch. 

With her death also came important life lessons.  Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier.  Life is short.  Love big while you can.  Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it.  Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes. 

I miss that Macie. 

I suspect I always will. 

   

1 Thessalonians 5:17  Pray without ceasing.

It's one of the shortest verses in the entire Bible.   And despite my inability to fully comprehend many of the things in the Bible, this one's about as straight forward as it gets.  Still, all I can say about it is . . . you can NOT be serious.

Pray without ceasing.  Are you kidding me?  Do you know how many things I cease to do each day?  The list is long, my friends, I assure you.  And I’m not all that great at praying.  I do it frequently, as in many times a day, but no one would ever classify me as a prayer warrior.  Those people can pray.  They can recite Bible verses like I can recite old Madonna songs.  They can sit with their heads bowed interceding on behalf of others for hours.  They know exactly which name of God to call on for every situation.  Their words are flowing and beautiful and Spirit-filled. 

My prayers, while numerous, are a lot less meaningful.  My prayers go something like this:

“Lord, please let Charlie score a basket in the second half.”

“Lord, please help Libby do her own hair in a way that convinces people she really does have an adult living in the home with her .”

“Lord, please turn me into a C cup.” 

Just kidding with that last one.  I gave up on the God of chest size a long time ago.

I’m a bit more intentional when I pray at night, lying in bed next to my husband who has fallen asleep exactly 3.2 seconds after putting his head on the pillow.  I pray for the safety and health of my family and friends.  I pray for people I know who are sick and hurting.  I pray for my husband’s career.  I pray Charlie and Libby will be good friends and make good friends.  I pray for their future college roommates and their future spouses and their future children and grandchildren. 

These are all good prayers, I guess, and they're important to me, so I know without a doubt they are important to God.  But what if I’m not taking this whole prayer thing seriously?  What if my inability to call myself a prayer warrior is really evidence that I doubt God’s ability to truly move in people’s hearts?  To change me?  To transform the world?  Our God is a God of miracles, after all.  Yet, I’m not asking for miracles.  I’m so focused on my own little life and the lives of the people in my immediate circle that I never stop to ask for the REALLY big things. 

In Ephesians 3:20, it says, "To Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think . . ."

How incredibly beautiful is that verse.  

Why do I so often forget the power of God and his infinite capability?  God can do ANYTHING.  He can do the most amazing things . . . things I never even dreamed of asking Him to do.

Wow. 

The new year has begun, and like most people, I have a lengthy list of resolutions for 2013.  I want to relax more.  I want to read more.  I want to smile more and serve more and save more and I want to provide my husband with more meals that don't involve a blender (I'm afraid smoothies have become a frequent dinner choice around these parts lately).  I also want to pray with more purpose.  I want to remember what God can do, and pray with a more far-reaching mentality.  Because there are a whole lot of people in this great big world who need God's awesomeness and power.  There are a whole lot of communities and countries and continents that need me to remember just how much God can do. 

In Matthew 19:26, Jesus said, " . . . with God all things are possible."

This year, I want to remember the possibilities. 

This year, I want my prayers to go from "Lord, please let me make this green light" to "Lord, I could really go for some world peace."   

It’s worth a try . . . don’t ya think?

James 1:6   But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.

No, dear brothers and sisters, I am still not all I should be, but I am focusing all my energies on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven.

Philippians 3:13-14 (NLT)

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I still can’t quite believe it’s over.  All that thought and time and energy and money put into one of the most wonderful days of every year, and now . . . it’s already two days past Christmas.  The good news, of course, is that Christmas is really just the beginning of the celebration.  It’s the day Jesus was born – the day God became man so we could begin to grasp the depth of his love for us.  The rest of his short life was equally as amazing and, don’t worry, there are even more donkeys and angels.  YAY!

Christmas this year was a whirlwind for me, as I imagine it might have been for many of you.  There were family gatherings and parties mixed in with all the decorating, shopping, wrapping, and cooking in a way that makes me wonder exactly where the month of December went.  Honestly, I think I spent most of it trying to come up with elf tricks. 

And now that Christmas Day has come and gone, and I’ve had a full day to reflect on the most magical time of the year . . . I’ve come up with two moments that defined my holiday season. 

The first came on Christmas Eve, smack in the middle of a beautiful candlelight service.  My nine-year-old was sitting to my left, my dad on the right.  Everyone was dressed up and the air was full of excitement and the joy could clearly be heard in the voices of the congregation, our voices lifted to the heavens in praise of the One who came to save.  My eyes filled with tears, as they often seem to do when thousands of people are singing together about Jesus, and I could actually feel the magic of Christmas flow through me.  And then, my precious son, dressed in his holiday best and bubbling over with anticipation about the hours ahead, leaned over to me, and with wide eyes and a very serious demeanor, asked the one question I’ve happily avoided for all of his nine Christmases so far.

“Mom, what exactly is a virgin anyway?”

I probably shouldn’t cuss on a blog about Jesus, but man, I sure wanted to at that moment.  In church.  On Christmas Eve.  

Not to worry.  I simply told my son we’d talk about it later.  The problem, of course, is that now it IS later, and because my son has the best memory of anyone I know, I feel quite certain the chat I’ve never wanted to have is going to happen any minute now.  Awesome.  Next Christmas, he’ll probably lean over and want to know exactly what those “band-aids for Mommies” are that sit in a box on the back of the potty for a few days every month, and I’ll be trying to figure out how to explain tampons while everyone else is belting out Joy to the World.

The second monumental moment of Christmas 2012 occurred at precisely 12:07 on Christmas Day.  The reason I know the exact time of this disturbing event?  It was the time on the clock when all of my Christmas decorations, minus the tree, were officially down and packed into tubs in the storage room, not to be seen again until next December.  An entire year of therapy and THAT’S how much my OCD has improved?  You’ve got to be kidding. I’d like to blame my insanity on the fact that we were leaving the house at 12:30 and not planning to return for over a week.  But really, I’m not sure that fact offers much of an excuse.  The scariest part of the whole deal is the way I felt when I looked at the clock at seven minutes past noon and realized the only thing left to do to “undecorate” was to take down the tree (which won’t happen until after our trip). 

I was ecstatic. 

And that, my friends, is why I need Christmas.  Because despite all my efforts . . . despite all my plans and intentions and prayers and dollars spent trying to work through my mess . . . I need Jesus. I will always need Jesus.   

And He is here.

Emmanuel.

God with us. 

May he bring peace into your lives as 2012 comes to a close, and my he bring peace into mine as well.  The kind of peace that settles my heart when I know I'm on the cusp of an important conversation.  The kind of peace that allows me to find calm in the midst of clutter.  The kind of peace only the Prince of Peace can offer.    

Hallelujah, the King is here

Given for all men

For today the holy son of God

Is born in Bethlehem.

"Born in Bethlehem" by Third Day

 

Merry Christmas!  I hope you have a wonderful day celebrating the birth of our Savior with your family and friends! 

God bless you . . . every one.:)

 

So, here's the deal, friends.  You can't read this post.  You have to sing it to the very familiar tune of Jingle Bells (but with an extra verse between each chorus, because I just couldn't make it work any other way).   Go ahead now.  Belt it out.  And don't worry - no one can hear you.:)

 

Dashing through the Forum,

In my banged up SUV,

Cursing every minivan,

That pulls in front of me.



Who are all these people?

Where did they come from?

Don’t they know this is my mall,

Who invited them to come?



I’m running out of time,

There's only one day more,

How will I be super Mom

if I don’t hit every store?





OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

It’s almost Christmas Day,

Only hours left to go

SO GET OUT OF MY WAY!

 

 

 

I find a spot to park,

I grab my purse and run,

I’ll make it through this shopping list,

And boy will it be fun.



I find the things I need,

But the lines are oh so long,

I’m mad at everyone I see,

Why does this feel so wrong?



I wait and wait and wait,

I buy and buy and buy,

I add up all the money spent,

I think I might just cry.



OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

It’s almost Christmas day,

I should be filled with happiness,

But I want to run away.

 

 

 

Finally I’m done, 

I slump back towards my car,

Then glance up at the dark night sky,

And glimpse a shimmering star.



The bags fall from my hands,

The anger flees my mind,

Hope and peace consume my soul

As I watch that star just shine.



It’s not about the shopping

It’s not about my list,

It’s all about remembering

God’s greatest ever gift.



OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

Feel the wondrous joy,

All because in Bethlehem,

 Was born a baby boy.


I return home to my crew,

My spirits lifted high,

The stress is washed away,

For I'm focused on the why.



Our tree is filled with lights,

The stockings hung with care,

I pull my kids in close,

I have something to share.



"I love you more than words,

I love you in every way,

But no one's ever loved you,

Like God on Christmas Day."

 

OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

Thank you, God above,

You sent your one and only son,

And filled the world with love.

Shockingly, I've never won a Grammy for my songwriting skills.  Still, how'd you do?  Feel better?  I hope so. Now . . . after you go shopping tomorrow for the eleventh time this month and it takes thirty minutes to park and you wait in line for hours and you spend all your money on toys your kids will forget about in 47.9 seconds, sing it again.  And this time . . . let the whole world hear you. 

It’s number six on a list of ten. 

You shall not commit murder.

Did anyone teach him that commandment?

Did anyone teach you that commandment?

Most importantly . . . are you teaching anyone that commandment?

I spent approximately one-thousand days of my life working in a kindergarten classroom. 

Never once did I fear for the safety of my students or myself.  

Never once will a kindergarten teacher feel that sense of safety again. 

May God be with the people in Newtown, Connecticut, and with students and educators everywhere.

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.   




 

I’m so guilty.  I buy into it every time.  I promise myself I won’t, but sure enough, I get sucked right in.  It happens as soon as I see the wreaths go up on the neighbors’ front doors and the stores start playing Mannheim Steamroller and my kids begin questioning the magical abilities of our Elf.   It’s as if someone has flipped a switch inside me and I can’t find the darn thing to turn it off. 

When I feel the tug, I immediately brace myself, working with intention to keep the focus where it should be.  I put out the nativity sets and hang up the Luke 2:10-11 banner and set up the advent tree.  My intentions are just that, however . . . intentions.  And the next thing I know I’m driving all over town in search of new, more, different, more, brighter, more, bigger, more, better, more, more, more, MORE.

It might have helped if I had left our house alone.  Just a few years ago, our house was all red and sage and gold.  Christmas matched.  Now, our house is all gray and blue and cream, and when I pulled out the tubs of Christmas stuff from the basement last week, I couldn’t possibly imagine living with any of it for an entire month.  

So.  I compromised.  The foyer, which has a big, bold, colorful painting on the wall, is now graced with a big, bold, colorful sixteen-inch tall felt nativity set that I envision my grandchildren playing with one day.  It’s the most precious Christmas decoration you’ve ever laid eyes on and makes me grin from ear to ear every time I look at it.  

The former living room, which recently became Adam’s office because of his new job working from home, has one very plain Santa.  He’s wood, I think, very cream and grayish, and actually quite adorable because he’s holding a candy cane behind his back.  Still, this room used to be one of my favorite rooms to decorate.  This year, I’m closing the French doors and pretending it’s totally decked out. 

All of the red and green items I previously adored are currently confined to the kitchen, which is so neutral it can handle the infusion of Christmas for a few weeks.  On December 26^th, I’ll frantically shove it all back into the tubs from which it came with an obscene amount of pleasure, but for now, it looks fun and festive. 

The family room was a challenge.  It’s very much connected to the kitchen, but every time I tried to put something red and green near the gray, taupe, and cream, I broke out in hives.  Must have something to do with that OCD issue of mine.  Things that don’t match look cluttered and I am highly allergic to clutter.  I ended up keeping a hint of green – the Christmas tree sits proudly in this room, after all – but most of my decorations are of the silver, cream, and gold variety.  I think it works.  It looks all dressed up for Jesus, but doesn’t make my brain hurt.

The dining room – well, that’s where my new color scheme demanded a bit of new and different, which, of course, meant more.  I did some repurposing before I spent any money.  I made a wreath from burlap ribbon and some old fabric scraps.  I painted and glazed some wooden trees so they are now snow-covered trees.  Yet somehow, it didn’t seem like enough, and sadly, this is where the flip switched my friends.  Before I knew it, I was holding a receipt from Homegoods that was longer than most of my grocery lists.  That’s just pathetic when there are starving children in Africa.  And Asia.  And Haiti.  And Afghanistan.  And India.  And probably right down the street.

What is it about Christmas?  Why does it bring out my consumerism to such a massive degree I completely forget my income bracket?  And really, why am I blaming it on Christmas?  Christmas is simply an excuse.  It’s my reason for the temporary insanity that causes me to throw money at items that will sit out for four weeks a year.  The real question is . . . why do I feel the need to constantly collect things . . . worthless, insignificant things that have absolutely no eternal value?  None.  Am I looking for my worth in having a home beautifully decorated for the holidays?  Will I find my worth in the perfect tree or the just-right stockings or the ribbon that’s the exact shade I need? 

Surely, I’m worth more than a bowl of ornaments that match the pillow on my couch.  

I talk about Christmas and its REAL meaning all the time.  I talk about the “reason for the season” at church, at school, in the check-out line at Homegoods.  The real meaning of Christmas is to celebrate the birth of Jesus. In my head, I fully comprehend that fact.  But if I just think a bit deeper, if I look with my heart and go beyond the meaning to the purpose, I find something else.  Something so wonderful and amazing and unbelievable, I can hardly fathom its significance.

Christmas means God looks beyond my ridiculous amounts of spending and my silly concerns with decorating and my obsessive desire to please others and discover my worth in worldly pleasures.

Christmas means God thinks so highly of me, he sent his one and only Son to die in my place.

Christmas means God loves me so much, he was willing to sacrifice his child to save me.

Christmas means . . . God thinks I’m worth it.

He thinks you’re worth it too. 

“The world is made up of two kinds of people. The ones who

think they’re normal and the ones who know there’s no such

thing.” - Will McAvoy on The Newsroom

 

Our Charlie is the best little boy ever. I love that kid so much I think I might actually die the day he leaves the nest. I honestly don't believe I can survive more than a few days without him.  He's smart and funny and adorable and determined and, mostly . . . he's comfort. Life is just right when he's sitting next to me, drawing or reading or breathing.

 Still, sometimes I feel so bad for my little guy, because he totally reminds me about that whole apple falling from the tree thing.  Yea. It doesn’t fall far folks. It doesn’t fall far at all.

Poor kid.

My mother gave Charlie a snowman to put on his nightstand on Thanksgiving Day. It’s only a few inches tall, but it has those LED lights inside, so Mr. Snowman glows all sorts of fun colors when you turn him on. Now, before I continue, I need to tell you that we left to go out of town on the day after Thanksgiving and we returned home on Sunday afternoon. If you do the math, you will realize that as of bedtime on Sunday, Charlie had slept with the light-up snowman beside his bed for exactly ONE night.  And yet, just after he crawled into his bed to go to sleep for only the second night with his new snowman friend glowing cheerfully beside him, my poor little apple son had this to say:

“I love this snowman. It turns red, green, purple, yellow, blue and pink. That's the order every time. And it stays red, green, purple, yellow, and blue for four seconds each. Then the pink stays on for eleven seconds. And then it starts over with red again.”

I should probably also mention that right before Charlie quoted the above statistics, he patted the “special place” on his pillowcase two times.  He does that every night, right before he puts his head on it. 

Like I said . . . poor kid.

One day, I’ll have to explain to Charlie that apples don’t far fall from their trees.  And then, I’ll have to tell him what OCD is.:)  For now, however, I’m going to lie next to him in bed and watch the snowman change colors. 

Well, the leftovers have been put away, the guests have gone home, and football has become the main event.  I thought about venturing out to hit the post-feast sales, but my feet begged me not to, and apparently my feet are psychic, because - stop the presses – I’m sitting on the couch right now while my nine year old son rubs them. 

It was my first foray into hosting Thanksgiving and I’m quite pleased to tell you it was a rousing success.  After much debate over the menu, I think our feast was delicious.  People with anxiety spend way too many hours trying to decide between turkey tenderloins and an attempt at the whole bird, but in the end, my husband convinced me if we were going to do this hosting thing, we needed to do it right, and out he went to buy an entire turkey.  When he returned home with it, I convinced him that since he was so sure a thirteen pounder was the way to go, he could be in charge of said fowl. 

He grilled it, because how in the world would I cook the fixins if a turkey occupied my oven all day?  I admit I was skeptical (hey, even people without anxiety worry about the main course when they are hosting their family for Thanksgiving for the very first time), but my husband came through with flying feathers . . . I mean colors.  Even my children asked for seconds of turkey, and they are borderline vegetarians they eat so little meat.  The fixins were not bad either, if I do say so myself.

And now, with my crew safely gathered around, I can count my blessings.

I’m pretty good at remembering to be thankful for the big things - you know, those REALLY important blessings – the ones I thank God for every night because I know I could never live without them.  Adam, Charlie, Libby.  My family.  My friends.  Health.  Our home and food and freedom and Jesus.

But what about the little things?  What about all those precious moments in my life that I let pass me by without an ounce of gratitude for what they mean? 

What about the way Libby looks when she’s sleeping.  What about the way Charlie asks me to crawl under the covers with him at bedtime and then leans his head against my shoulder while we talk.  What about the way Adam’s eyes meet mine when one of our children does something cute and an unspoken understanding passes between us that no one else in the entire world could possibly grasp. 

What about hot chocolate that’s overflowing with marshmallows, the smell of burning leaves in the fall, water that becomes warm with the twist of a knob.  What about a sky glowing pink at sunrise, a text message from a friend at just the right time, a hug from someone you haven’t seen in ages.  What about a soft robe, new shoes, clean sheets.  What about electricity and pillows and dishwashers and toothpaste.

 
And what about the things that are harder to be thankful for?  What if I could find gratitude when I'm feeling anything but grateful.  What if, when my children are arguing, I could remember it's because God answered my prayers about becoming a mother . . . twice.  What if, when I'm stuck in traffic, I could remember it's because I'm lucky enough to live in a thriving city.  What if, when the laundry is piled so high I think I'll never get to the bottom, I could remember it's because I'm blessed to have plenty of clothing for every member of my family. 

I have so much to be thankful for.  Today and every day.  I don't have to look hard to find the many blessings in my life, because there are too many to count.   They are all around me, all the time.  I simply have to accept them as gifts, even when my first instinct is to think of them as burdens.  I have to choose to be thankful, and not just for the big things . . . the easy things.  I have to be thankful for everything, because every encounter, every circumstance, every day . . . is a blessing.    

May you and yours find much to be thankful for today, and every day after.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!