I wasn’t ready for it. A restless night of twisted sheets, being forced from bed to soothe a crying baby, and strange dreams of being a gymnast, practicing my skills on the bars, had left my body feeling tired, my mind distracted and dazed. But it came anyway. The start of the day. Breakfast, and packing lunches, and making beds. Changing nappies, and dressing wee ones, and preparing for the school day ahead.
Before my boys came along I worked as a teacher, but this is my first year of official home education. My first year of adding tutor to my already full job description of chef, maid, nurse, chauffeur, activity director, police officer, and kangaroo (for the Admiral, who, at a whopping 24 pounds, still wants to be carried the day long).
And so an hour later I found myself, still dazed and unprepared for a day of living (let alone living well), trying to have a discussion about odds and evens with the Captain, all the while jiggling the Admiral on my knee and trying to ignore the General, who had squeezed onto the dining room chair behind me and in his very high-pitched three-year-old voice was speaking non-stop about wanting some cake (although I’d told him several times over that he had to wait for elevenses).
I tried giving snacks, introducing different toys, and even (though I try to avoid it in the mornings) putting on the television so I could get on with the lessons. But still, each soldier in my little army remained intent on being inches from me, if not in direct contact, each asking for something more or different or better from what he already had.
My head seemed to spin faster than I’d spun round those bars in my dream. I longed to crawl back into bed and find the unconsciousness of deep sleep. Or even the still, quiet surroundings of an empty house, where I could potter about, making sense of my jumbled thoughts.
To my right, the living room was strewn with giant colored cardboard bricks and scattered sofa cushions, the abandoned remnants of my attempt to entertain the younger ones. My mind seemed just as disorderly as the house, and as I attempted to turn my focus back to the math lesson, the thought crossed my mind that it would be awfully nice to have a real nanny and maid, so that I could be left to teach the Captain, and do only nice things with the boys (and perhaps sleep in a little on rare occasion). But of course that seemed as likely as my getting around to organizing some kitchen cupboards and planting the bell pepper seeds as I’d hoped to do that day (not to mention the school subjects we had yet to get through).
But unrestricted sleeping hours and empty houses are not some of the frequent luxuries of mummies of armies of wee boys, and in the chaos I longed for some little escape, some little treat to bring me comfort, and temporary escape from the swirl of color and noise that surrounded me.
A square of dark chocolate, perhaps?
A cup of espresso, topped up with raw sugar and heated milk?
A few minutes to skim the news feed on my Facebook account?
These are the things I often turn to bring drops of sanity to my busy, noisy day, but yesterday as I contemplated what method of escape I would employ, I thought of a different way. Down the hallway on my bedside table sat my black leather Bible, which I hadn’t yet touched that day.
And I didn’t have time, not just then, to pour over it as I would have liked to do. But I did have the time–as long as it would have taken me to slip into the kitchen to devour a square of chocolate–to flip to the Psalms, and the sweet morsels of goodness found there.
O taste and see that the Lord is good; How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!
– Psalm 34:8
And I wondered as closed my Bible, felt peace wash over me like a cup a chamomile tea, what I’d been missing.
Although there isn’t anything wrong with coffee, and chocolate, and Facebook news, what had I been missing by reaching for them instead of the Living Water found there in the Psalms, so accessible, so available to me?
For while our SIN can be easy enough to spot (though at times it’s not), there are deeper, sweeter paths of closeness to the Lord which we can go a lifetime and not discover. And what if those paths, those changes I so long to see in myself, can be reached not only through long segments of time spent in the Word, but through little moments of calling out to God for strength, and reaching for little pieces of His word?
What change could even one pure morsel of eternal truth make to my day?
After taking the time to read from the Psalms, I went on to finish the school day, plant those pepper seeds, and even clean out my kitchen junk drawer!
What a difference the reminder of Jesus’ love and presence had made.
In Him is strength, beauty, refuge, truth, and the nourishment I need to help me view my boys, my home, my life in the light of eternity.
I know their fantasies. Whispered in the semi-dark of their living rooms, or over coffee on our girls’ night out, they’ve confided in me what they really want. And I’m not shocked. Not one little bit. After all, it’s what I want too.
A hotel room.
A cup of tea.
And a book.
No one else. Nothing else. For one entire day.
And that is the true, wild fantasy of mothers everywhere.
Not only strange, unusual mothers, but average mothers, like you or me.
A mother who endures drafty showers because someone has burst in to ask her to tie on their ninja mask. A mother who rarely sleeps through till morning, and must nightly peal herself from bed and lurch through the house to lift and calm a teething baby. A mother who must clean a food-encrusted high chair three times every day.
And that is to say nothing of the raisins that get squashed on the bottoms of her slippers, the puddles of water and crumbs that appear as if my magic on her kitchen worktops, the mountains of laundry that move in cycles around her house, and all the toys that she must daily return to their homes on the shelf. The little fingernails she must cut, the beds she must make, the toilets she must scrub. The meals she must prepare, the dishes she must wash, the floors she must sweep.
This, all this, a mother must do. And how she longs to do it well! With joy, and patience, and grace, so that her children and husband and any guests who enter may be strengthened and comforted by their time there, in this mother’s home.
And yet motherhood is not a part-time job. It’s not even a full-time or a live-in one. There are no vacation or holiday packages. No weekends or nights off. And so it’s not hard to see why a mother—a mother like you or me—could get a little tired. Find herself longing for escape. A time of refreshment. A break.
Like hiding in the closet, maybe, with a bar of chocolate. A trip to the grocery store all by herself! Or that hotel, maybe? A trip, a real trip away? How about England? A country estate? Yes? Then come with me!
A virtual trip to England . . .
to the quiet and the green . . .
Hear the bird song. Smell the lavender. Let the grass tickle your feet.
Stop at the tent for tea and scones. It’s all here for you, so enjoy!
There’s a concert, too. Did I mention?
Right here in the gardens, underneath the sky.
David Crowder Band. Ever heard of them? Listen, will you? to what they have to say . . .
How He Loves
He is jealous for me, loves like a hurricane, I am a tree Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy When all of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions Eclipsed by glory and I realize just how beautiful You are And how great Your affections are for me
And oh, how He loves us,
how He loves us all
And we are His portion and He is our prize Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes If His grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking
And heaven meets earth like an unforeseen kiss And my heart turns violently inside of my chest I don’t have time to maintain these regrets When I think about the way
Oh, how He loves us,
how He loves us all
Singer: David Crowder Band
Songwriters: John Mark Mc Millan
Hope you were refreshed by your visit. Come back any time.
For more than sunshine. More than chocolate. More than a new outfit, or a girl’s night out. His love is what strengthens. Renews.
Bask here for a while in the immensity of it.
For you will never find the depths of Jesus’ love.
The movement leaves me dizzy, for fast was never a speed that I’ve done well. Though words can come fast (from my lips or from my fingers), my moving and living, I’ve always done slow.
And it’s caused me problems, a little more than once, all my ponderings and perhapses. For time is sovereign in this world of ours, and doesn’t often leave room for the extras. The smelling of roses, the sighing over music, the browsing of books. And so while I start out ambling through my day like a Sunday driver, I end up racing half panic -stricken to make up for lost time and reach this or that place when I’m supposed to be there.
No, life doesn’t give us time enough for wonder. No, not enough time at all. Not like I thought it would be, those days before my real children came, when I poured over Victorian homemaker’s guides, all those black and white photos of ringletted children sprawled out on quilts to watch the clouds pass by, or gathered round the fire while their mother darned their stockings and read from Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
While we have our moments, our moments of creativity and laughter and peace, it seems to me that every day is more like a race. A mad rush to cross off my list, and get through the cycle I completed just the day before (with a few things extra, if I’m lucky).
It’s a mad rush, a frenzy, and the movement leaves me dizzy. For all day, every day, I move things. Move crumbs from tables and high chairs, from countertops and floors. Move clothes from hamper to washing machine, from washing machine to dryer, from dryer to drawer. Move dishes from dishwasher to cupboards, from cupboards to table, and back again. And the toys, oh the toys!
I move people, too. In and out of cribs and high chairs, pajamas and nappies, car seats and prams. The boys, they move, too. Round me in circles at times, trailing behind them their tears, their bickering, their shouts, till I feel like they’ve bound me and I might just crash.
And I’m running and I’m rushing, taking glances at my list, hardly stopping it seems at times, to eat or drink, let alone to wonder. Ponder. Enjoy.
Through the blinding light of these last few days—the unhindered light of the winter sun glaring off mountains of snow—I’ve tried to stand back and look. To breathe deeply and untangle the movement, the activity, and the noise. To find beauty, find truth, and remind myself why I do what I do. Where we’re headed, and why I dared to bring these little lives into the world.
For what is the point of making our home look peaceful and beautiful, if peace and beauty are not found in our hearts? And how can I ever find the strength to have patience in those moments of chaos, or have serenity, or joy, or wonder enough to pour out on my children, if I do not first take time to let myself be filled?
I don’t often have hours. For though I’d like it otherwise, busyness is the call of motherhood. But I’ve learned the importance of taking a few minutes—even five or ten—to feel God’s arms around me, listen to his voice, and ask his Spirit to fill me with his strength, his stillness, his truth.
Without him I so often end up on a merry-go-round of movement, my head spinning, and my day feeling as fractured as a mirror broken into a thousand colored shards, and I cannot think straight enough to put back the pieces.
And so that alarm gets set. A few moments to myself. I’m tired, yes, but those twenty minutes of quiet, just me and God, will make all the difference for the rest of my day.
I asked some friends to help me by sharing their favourite morning readings. Some are my favourites, too, and the others, I look forward to reading. A few are also available on CD, for drives in the car or mountains of laundry that need folded or ironed! As I said, I haven’t read them all, and so cannot comment on each one, but I’d SO love to hear your thoughts on ones you’ve read–or suggestions for more! Most can be purchased on christianbook.com
One Minute With God by Kathy Hardee
The Book Lover’s Devotional from Barbour Publishing
Running Into Water – by Angela Blycker
Jesus Calling by Sarah Young
Jesus Today by Sarah Young
Jesus Lives by Sarah Young
One Thousand Gifts DevotionalJournal by Ann Voskamp
Near Unto God by Abraham Kuyper
Morning and Evening by Charles H. Spurgeon
Because He Loves Me by Elyse Kirkpatrick
Comforts from the Cross by Elyse Kirkpatrick
My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers
Surrender: The Heart God Controls by Nancy Leigh DeMoss
Hinds Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard
Crazy Love – Overwhelmed by a Relentless God by Francis Chan
Forgotten God – Reversing Our Tragic Neglect of the Holy Spirit by Francis Chan
Reading the Biblewith the Damned by Bob Ekland
Expository Thoughtson the Gospels by J.C. Ryle
Fifty Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die by John Piper
Pierced by the Word by John Piper
Life as a Vapor by John Piper
Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ by John Piper
The Great Work of the Gospel by John Ensor
Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman
The Precious Things of God by Octavius Winslow
Spiritual Depression by D. Martin Lloyd-Jones
He is There and He is Not Silent by Francis A. Schaeffer
Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.
Dark mornings don’t call good mothers from bed. Don’t call good daddies, either. Not like beds, which call real loud. Hold us in their warmth and stillness, blankets wrapped around like strong arms that could shield us from every last thing we dread about the day. Entice us with our dream adventures, numb our bodies like a drug.
Yeah, it’s hard to leave that on late winter mornings, hard to meet cold floors with warm balls of feet, trade stillness for the swirl of to-do’s and the demands of little voices that never stop the long day.
And it’s easy to want to stop it coming, stop the start of another day. And too often this winter I’ve done that. I’ve listened to that call, counting times I’d been up in the night to comfort little cries, let myself stay a little longer, yanked the covers another inch higher, told myself that for today, whispered prayers, half-mixed with dreams and plans, would be enough. Enough to go on. To give me perspective. To put my thoughts just where they ought to be.
But creaking crib and cracking door always break the silence, and it all ends.
And so I start the day running, running late before I’ve hit the floor. Little things to be done–today like everyday–and so it should be no surprise, and yet I find myself overwhelmed, feeling fragile, incapable, and just a little bit insane. And then it’s not just my feet running, not just my hands trying to get it all done. My mind’s running, too, over what I’ve done wrong to make things turn out this way, and what I must be missing to leave our life feeling so fractured, so unharmonious, so flat.
Grey skies and that blue snow, these thin walls and the bitter cold, they hem us in like prison on those days. It’s a prison, and I’m running so fast, feeling so stressed that I miss three dozen precious little moments of my little men’s lives. Can’t see the beauty all woven through my day. Can’t see those sparkles of light, though I know my little men see and feel all the greyness of my frustrated tears.
And on those days even the words won’t come, though I sit down to write. Words, which have always been with me, forming patterns, rolling round my mouth as I make sense of world. Because on those days there is no sense, and so the words, they just don’t come.
It’s a hard thing, too, in the evenings, dragging myself away from the dreams of Pinterest, the drama of television, the softness of the couch. It’s a hard thing when the wee ones are down and my tea’s not cold, and I can put two sane thoughts together without any little voice to interrupt. It’s hard to leave that stillness, brush my teeth, climb into bed. But it’s worth it. Worth the rest. Worth the energy I’ll have next morning to be the first one up, with time to find some stillness there in the almost light of a new day.
His compassions never fail. They are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness.
~ Lamentations 3:22-23
Because though I’ve heard it, I still need it. I need it every day. Need to hear the voice of Him that made me, hear just whose I am, and what I am, and why. I need truth. Love. Strength. Light.
And so early to bed (and then to rise) is a worthy goal. Because good mothers need rest. Good daddies need it, too. And more than that we need to pause a minute (or a few), and reach out to take the hand of the One who walks right with us (though we sometimes forget it) through every hour of our day.
“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,” said Mr. Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things.”
It’s ba-ack. As if you hadn’t noticed, whether you wanted to or not. Whether you’ve been glued to the TV on Sunday nights or feel like screaming when you realize that yet another of your friends is still in mourning over Matthew Crawley’s untimely death, you must be aware that Downton Abbey has returned.
Downton Abbey,which garnered 9.5 million viewers for its debut episode of season four in the UK, and 10.2 million in the USA, making it the highest-rated premiere for a drama in PBS history.
Downton Abbey, that period drama lover’s ultimate feast of the eyes, the ears, and the imagination.
Oh, the costumes, oh, the settings!
Oh, the dialogue, oh, the quotes!
And we cannot help it, can we, if even just a little, stepping into the shoes of Mary, upstairs, or Anna, down. Can’t help but feel their small triumphs, feel their pain.
And it’s a little bit of all of this, I’d say, which drew me to Great Britain in the first place. Which always made me so pleased to be living there. The great natural beauty of that greenest of islands, and how history has dotted the countryside with its castles, and its churches, and its woods. And how you can hardly pass through a small town or village without passing by the birthplace or resting place of some literary genius who has brought to our language rich stories, and phrases, and words. And there is something, something about the tiers of society, the division of the classes, which has formed Britain through the centuries, and which has always drawn my curiosity and admiration. Not the exploitation of children and women and minorities, and the horrors that these abuses brought. But the idea that in this world, in this universe, there is something grander and finer than anything most of us know. Something worth giving our lives to. Something worthy of our allegiance and respect.
The idea of servitude is quite foreign to us here in the West. We see it as our right to aim for the top, make our voice heard, and live as we please. But it’s a thought, isn’t it, that most of us will never be the giver nor the recipient of such humble loyalty and devotion as there is between Mary and her Anna. Between Lord Grantham and his Bates. Perhaps between us and our spouse we might know such a relationship, but probably not even then.
And I can’t help but think, as I open up my Bible, read the words my eyes have passed over so many times before, that there might be something to that idea of servitude and fidelity. Something for me now, today.
It can be easy to think of God’s commandments as simply a good idea. An admirable option. We remember to see Jesus as our best friend, our older brother, but forget that God is a consuming fire, a King who requires our submission, our unquestioned obedience, our all.
He won’t ever force His will upon us, for a slave is not what He seeks.
The choice–to follow or to run–is, and always has been, ours.
But if we give but half a heart, half a life, how can we expect to fully receive all He wants to give us?
Be guided as He wants to guide us?
Be blessed as He wants to bless us?
Know Him as He longs to be known?
And after all, though God calls us to be His servants, it is not in the servants’ hall that He wants us to dwell.
When chauffer Tom Branson of Downton Abbey married Sybil, the family were eventually forced to put aside his former status for the sake of their daughter. They even stopped calling him Branson, let him sleep upstairs in the big house, and gave him a say in the running of the estate. But in the truest sense of the word, he never became fully a son, an heir.
It’s different, though, with us and God. He calls us His children. Wants us close.
So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir. ~Galations 4:7
Being a servant, yes, God calls us to that, but it is not something that He has not done himself. His entire life on earth, right up till His death for us on the cross, was spent in service to us. He gave the ultimate sacrifice, showed His faithfulness to the last.
So that is where I’m starting this January, this new year.
I’m throwing out my old New Year’s List.
Starting with a new:
1. Unquestioned obedience.
My face like flint.
It’s a step of faith, this giving of myself, giving my all in the day to day.
And it won’t be easy.
But with a God who is LOVE, who has already given all for me, I have nothing to fear.
For the Lord God helps Me, Therefore, I am not disgraced; Therefore, I have set My face like flint, And I know that I will not be ashamed.
Like the enormous branch out back that fell and crushed my poor lilac bush. The ice storm came (that was before the arctic vortex and heaps of snow), and I guess that big old tree got a little too burdened down. Couldn’t take the stress. Couldn’t take the weight. So down it came.
The rest of our Christmas, well it was mostly the same. A little too much heaviness to bear.
Plenty of decorating and buying and wrapping and baking and carol playing and even praying beforehand, all meant to create the perfect day, but sometimes all the planning in the world will still leave you with a mess.
Sometimes you plan but get it all so wrong.
Sometimes you plan but it’s out of your control.
That ice again, lovely as it was, had it’s wicked way.
Treacherous driving conditions.
Night out with the girls for a chance to laugh and de-stress? Canceled.
Many thousands without heat or power.
Christmas Eve service at church? Canceled, too.
Mum hosting Christmas dinner? Nope. With two days to plan, it’s going to be me.
But there was more . . .
A mix-up of the name-drawing.
A gift for everyone under the tree? Well, not quite.
Keys locked in a running car.
Tired children put to bed on time? Think again.
A tummy bug moving slowly through the house till we all had our turn.
All of us there round the Christmas table, feeling right as rain? No, not that either.
Sometimes you plan but get it all so wrong.
Sometimes you plan but it’s out of your control.
Yet all this, all this we could have easily born with a nervous laugh and with making due. All this we could have born if only a frazzled mix of folks from different parts of the country, different parts of the globe, hadn’t all been tossed together, till from our botched arrangements surfaced pain, sadness, regret from weeks, months, years past.
Like my lilac bushes, it seems we, too, can be frail.
Tender.
Like the flowers. Like the grass.
Tender,
so that when love and fear come together,
like with family and with friends,
we feel an aching in our hearts
and a burden just too much to bear.
Too much to bear alone.
And it all seemed such a sham. The presents and the tree. The music. All the talk of joy and peace.
Because sometimes you plan but it’s out of your control.
And sometimes you plan, but there’s something deeper, something realer, that you missed.
All our shattered plans for Christmas or for life, they can really shake our souls, leave us wondering how to hope.
How to hope, or why.
Leave us wondering if the New Year will bring us more of just the same. And if you’re anything like me then you’re tempted to whisk out a sheet of paper and start making lists, ask yourself what went wrong, and start planning so the future will be better.
As if we could fix ourselves, fix our families, with a list.
The only thing is, sometimes you plan but get it all so wrong.
Sometimes you plan but it’s out of your control.
New Year’s resolutions? Yes, I’ve got them. Organized drawers, eating kale, and the like.
But this year what I’m planning is complete surrender.
Submission like I’ve never known.
All I have, all I am, all I dream, brought to the feet of the only One who will never get it wrong and never let me down.
Because what my family, what my world, what I am missing is more of Jesus.
And because it’s only is His will that we can ever truly be free.
I’m taking His list. Making it mine. Turning my life right upside down.
And I’m starting with the Word.
Because not only is the Word with God, but the Word IS God. (John 1:1).
And it’s living, and it’s active, and it knows me, too (Hebrews 4:12).
I’m going to see what I’ve been missing.
I’m going to learn to love and live
like Him.
This is January.
The first day of the rest of my life.
Join me as I discover.
You won’t look back.
Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your soul.
And after this, I’m counting minutes–approximately two each day–until the hours stretch to bring the golden light of the summer sun. But for now, when I feel more than a little sorry for those Narnians and their ever winter never Christmas. When even the icicles hanging outside the kitchen window, and the layer of ice coating everything else, when even they can’t shine, my brain can feel as cloudy as this murky winter light.
Still, sometimes I see it–the beauty of eternity that begins today. These little souls, my little men, and the treasure that they are.
Other days I hit the floor running,
some crazy dance from room to room,
glancing occasionally at the clock,
and imaging the utter shock
my friends would feel if they ever stopped
and saw the state of this house.
On those days I find myself, at least once,
pausing–the whirlwind of Cheerios and Lego and foam swords and four little men swirling all around me, a now cold cup of tea in my hand–wondering,
what, oh, what, is going on?
There must be something, something I’m missing,
or it wouldn’t be
like this.
But what?
A little sleep, to be sure.
An intentional effort to count blessings
and sing praise
and speak truth.
Yes.
All that.
All that, and just a little more time
with Jesus.
Because though I have 2 million distractions, though the crumbs, and the laundry, and the children cry out to my clouded, foggy, weary brain, though the weather is bleak, and though I carry sorrows and disappointments in the deepest chambers of my heart,
none of it
none of it
should be an excuse.
An excuse to raise my voice or declare my dissatisfaction or remain in a dark, murky mood.
Because eternity begins today.
Our eternity began the day we were born.
And for those of us who love Jesus
that means counting those blessings,
speaking those truths,
and no matter how we’re feeling,
choosing to live like Christ.
The new year is coming.
Isn’t that a shock?
And what sort of year, I wonder, is it going to be?
I have my hopes and have my dreams,
but I realize that what I need
more than anything
is to spend more time with The Word.
With Jesus.
Pouring over His commands,
reading and re-reading his life
until His words and His ways and His will,
which are all Him,
become more of who I am, too.
For there is no better way to know what we’re missing.
There is no better way to bring into the darkness of our lives and minds
Because there’s a door, and though the Light shines through all around it,
it’s black, and it’s shut, and I can’t seem to turn the handle to see what’s inside.
And you wouldn’t think that anything could blind it,
make those beams seem a little less bright.
But somehow, the twinkly lights and inflatable Santas,
somehow, they all just DO.
Because after all, the whole world’s singing it. Belting it out like it’s no big deal.
Silent nights and angels singing.
Little towns and receiving our King.
And so of course–of course–it’s hard to awe.
Hard to grasp.
But what I can see with those golden beams shining–
when I cup my eyes to shut out the rest–
is the wonder, absolute wonder
that God would care
at all.
That He’s in love,
so in love,
with us, with the world,
that no matter what we say
or do,
no matter how hard and fast we’re running
in the opposite direction,
He’s there.
Eyes waiting to catch ours,
hand outstretched.
That He doesn’t just sit there
high on His throne,
calling, whispering
into the moments of our lives,
but He came down to join us mortals.
So close He could cook us breakfast
(like maybe toasted fish on the beach?),
so close He could kneel down in the dust
to wash the sheep dung from our feet.
He went to those lengths
because for some strange reason
He loves us that much.
Now that is something to wonder over.
Something to feel happy about.
That is a God we can worship.
A God who deserves our very selves,
who deserves our hearts.
What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; yet what I can I give him: give my heart.
~ Christina Rossetti
Avonlea x
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Happy Little Sigh
Finding beauty in the everyday
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We arrived late morning, just in time to see the tail end of the die-hard Black Friday shoppers toss another piece of plastic in their over-laden carts before struggling to maneuver them to the check-out.
I couldn’t help but wonder,
did they even like that stuff?
Did they need it?
Or had they been tricked?
But I was there, too, of course.
I was there, or I wouldn’t have seen it.
I was there, and armed with the page from the paper that showed the great deal on the bathroom set I was after. Bathrobe hook, hand towel loop, toilet paper holder, plus a few more.
And wasn’t I excited to keep the hand towel off the floor, where the children always leave it, and keep the toilet paper roll out of the toilet (or so I hoped).
But of course those items were just one of many on the long, long mental list of things I’d like for the house.
And of course once we’d stopped at the mall to let the children burn off some energy at the play area, and I took a stroll past H&M, I began think about my other list. The list of things I’d like for my wardrobe.
It’s intoxicating, you know, the mall is.
Every sense assaulted from every side.
Starbucks coffee, cinnamon rolls, perfume drifting from the department stores. The feel of silk, and faux fur, and leather. Nat King Cole crooning, and the Salvation Army bell jingling. The displays of clothes and furniture all looking so perfect, so much better than anything we have at home.
Couldn’t a person just get lost in it?
Caught up in the frenzy of buying
and trying
to fill the hole inside.
And while I went home looking forward to the giving
of the few gifts I picked up,
I also went home aching,
asking,
feeling anything but PEACE.
Because I know, though I never quite believe it,
that I am blessed beyond measure,
and that the more I have, the more I will want.
And though I tell it to my children,
what Christmas is all about,
and though we’re finding more ways of giving,
more ways of loving this year,
I find it’s still easy
to miss the point.
To miss the heart.
To miss PEACE.
I love the Christmas season.
Love it more each year.
Love the baking,
and the making
of sugar cookies,
paper snowflakes,
a wreath for the door.
Love candles glowing bright,
and singing Silent Night.
Love spotting a red cardinal
perched on a branch of lacy snow.
Or holly berries, and their leaves of thorns.
But what I needed on that day,
and what I need on this,
and what I desperately want my children to see,
is that the point of Christmas,
the heart of it all,
is found in His heart.
In the heart of Jesus,
and His love for us.
In His love we can let go of all the trappings,
all our unwritten lists,
all that haunts us in the wee hours of the night,
and we can simply rest.
Cling to Him, and be at peace.
“For He Himself is our peace.”
~Ephesians 2:14
As you light your second Advent candle this Sunday, remember the PEACE we have through Jesus. Hear Him whisper, “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.”
Avonlea xo
Happy Little Sigh
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“The Holly and the Ivy,” King’s College Choir, Cambridge University, England
That’s how long it’s been since we came here, to this old yellow house by the river.
A year ago, I stood looking up at the sky through the hole in the kitchen roof, counting on two hands the days till the baby would come. Trying not to care that I had to wash my dishes in the bathroom sink. Lay out our meals on a cardboard box.
At the storage unit in town a high cliff of boxes contained our stuff from two different continents,
two different lives.
I tried, but I never did find the baby clothes in time.
At night, on a borrowed computer, we tracked our stolen laptop round the city. Then lost hope when it left the state.
It had only been a year.
One year before that since we’d come back.
Started life again in America.
And even when life’s good, a person might have to mourn a little over that.
Over the loss of a country. Of a way of life.
Even without break-ins, and police, and counting loss.
And that’s exactly what I did for a while.
I counted my loss.
Sobbed over them like a teenager with a broken heart.
It was all too surreal, and I didn’t know where to begin.
And I can’t say when it happened.
Can’t say just exactly when
I felt the great relief of letting go of it all.
All the stuff.
All the demands I had for my life.
For years, I hadn’t dared draw too near. Not close enough to rest my head there on His knee.
I didn’t dare.
There wasn’t peace.
Then one night I dreamed.
He carried me in His pocket.
All linen and white.
And I was small, and I was safe,
and I went with Him through His day.
The roof has long been fixed.
I have a kitchen, and it has a sink.
Slowly, slowly, as we’ve done before, we’re making this house into a home.
But when I find myself surveying it all,
feeling pleased about the way the sideboard looks,
and the curtains, and the chandelier,
I remind myself
what I really have to be thankful for.
What I have–because of Jesus–that nothing and no one
can ever take away.
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“Don’t let your happiness depend on something you may lose.”
~ C.S. Lewis
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For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
~ Romans 8:38-39
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A Very Happy Thanksgiving to You
Dear Readers!
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Avonlea x
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Happy Little Sigh
Finding beauty in the everyday
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