Sacred Mundane: The Blog

I remember that 2010 Christmas so vividly.

I had gotten up early. Everything was ready. The baby Jesus doll was hidden. Gifts were wrapped. Cinnamon rolls were formed, rising, ready to bake.

My 4-year-old son was the first to rise. He shuffled downstairs, carrying his new Lightning McQueen car he’d received for his birthday just four days prior.

I bound over, excited. “Good morning, sweetie! Do you know what today is?”

He rubs his eyes, scrunches up his face. “Can I play with my toys?”

I continue: “It’s Christmas! Isn’t that exciting?! And now you get to look for baby Jesus!”

He runs over to the couch, hides his face in a pillow. “I don’t want to look! I want to play!” 

“But … after we find baby Jesus we can open your presents!” My mind races. We’re supposed to be at my parents’ house at 10am. We still have to do baby Jesus, open gifts, and deliver hot cinnamon rolls to a family down the road.

My son starts to cry. “I don’t want to open presents! I just want to play with my toys.”

This is unbelievable. I shake my head. What child doesn’t want to open presents? Why is my family always the one where nothing goes right?

I promise him there are more toys to be had, and we finally get him to the tree. He opens a box, a gift sent from a relative. It’s a package of socks. His face falls. Now I’m irate. Really? Come on people, I’m trying to get my kid excited about Christmas and you gave him socks for crying out loud!

“Mommy, I don’t want socks I just want to play with my toys!” Now he’s crying and I’m on the verge.

Eventually we make it out the door. My dear husband, wanting to cheer me up, suggests we stop at Starbucks. He runs in while I stay in the car. It takes him another fifteen minutes because the line is so long. Seriously, people, it’s Christmas! Go home and be with your families! By now we’re an hour late and it shows on my face. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I’m on the verge of tears. Why am I so irrational? It’s Christmas!

Eventually, we made it to the family’s house to deliver the cinnamon rolls. We’d been doing the Twelve Days of Christmas and it was our day to reveal ourselves.  Their whole family came out on the porch, all hugs and laughter and genuine joy. I noticed they were all still in jammies. I asked about their day, what their plans are, still struck by how happy they all were.

The mom smiled and responded, “Oh we just relax, stay in our jammies all day. We play games or do something fun. You know, whatever.”

Whatever.

Aha. That’s what I was missing.

The gift of whatever. 

When we give our family our expectations, everybody loses. We wrap up our ideals, our dreams of the “perfect” day, and then expect them to perform according to our plan. When they don’t, we’re frustrated. All in the name of the most wonderful time of the year.

What if, instead of giving expectations, we gave the gift of whatever. If we decided that whatever happened on a holiday, we’d be happy and thankful. That the only expectations we had were for ourselves, expecting ourselves to be kind. Expecting ourselves to be gracious.

Expecting ourselves to be willing to go with whatever.

Remember, the gift of Christmas has already been given. It’s Jesus! We don’t need anything else! So give whatever!

This gift of whatever might be just what our families need.

A fun, flexible holiday where the only thing that’s set in stone is the certainty of joy.

~

{I have to laugh at myself back then–I was so ridiculous! But we all do it, don’t we? Wrap holidays up in lofty expectations? I pray this Christmas you just get lost in the wonder of how good God is, who sent His Son into the world–The Gift for us. In the midst of presents and food and cards and parties (all wonderful things!) we would SLOW and quiet our hearts and ENJOY a season centered on Christ. Here’s to a Merry, Merry Christmas. Thanks for reading!}

There’s nothing wrong with the words, it’s just the way she says them.

Write those words out in pen and ink and they’d look just fine. But why spoken into the air–by her–do they feel like little jabs?  I can’t put my finger on it, but somewhere in my heart there’s a bee sting. I can feel it.

I come in out of the cold, kick off my boots and check the fire. It’s still lit but it’s cooled. I can see glowing embers down below, but the logs lay heavy on top and not much heat is coming out.

I grab the poker and remove the screen. This is my favorite part of wood-stove heat. Stoking the fire. I wield my poker and shove it deep under the logs, flip them over and poke around at the glowing embers beneath. Instantly heat rushes out, envelopes me in warmth.  It’s so hot I have to put the poker down, replace the screen and sit back a bit. I lean against my old quilted pillows, close my eyes, remember these words:

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. (Hebrews 10:24)

Of course.

We know this verse, know we’re called to spur one another on, but do we understand what it means to spur?

That word, translated “spur” is paroxusmos which literally means “to irritate.” Consider: How do you spur on a horse? By nudging it with your spurs!  That is, applying just enough pressure, or irritation, to get its attention and make it move.

Isn’t this how I’d just stoked the fire? By poking it. By digging, jabbing that poker down into the embers, letting sparks fly, flipping over the logs, stirring it up a bit with some strategic irritation.

Every day I partake in my beloved stoking ritual. I poke and prod and stir up warmth to keep our house heated.

To keep the fire burning. 

Aren’t we supposed to do the same for each other? And truly, isn’t that what this person had done for me? I’d felt a little unnerved, a little irritated. And didn’t this stir me up a bit?

Didn’t it flip over my log and expose the underside that desperately needed attention? Didn’t it turn a cold side over and let it find flame?

White-hot purifying flame that burns the impurities away?

It did just that. 

If we only love people who don’t poke us, would we eventually just cool, slow, stagnate? If we only love people who don’t irritate us will we ever have our superficial shallow love spurred onto something greater, some agape? 

True Christian fellowship always involves some form of irritation, sooner or later. 

Our lives are purified by people-pokes. Dozens of them. Isn’t it the loving hand of the Father who wields the poker? And hasn’t He ordained that we would live, grow, be sanctified and made like Him in community?

But all this poking is not what we had in mind when we signed up for “community” is it?  In the words of Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

“He who loves his dream of community more than the Christian community itself becomes a destroyer of the latter, even though his personal intentions may be ever so honest and earnest and sacrificial.”

Let’s be honest: Our dream Christian community doesn’t involve stokes, pokes, and irritations. We keep looking around for the people we want to love, right?

But real Christian community does the irritations. In fact, biblical Christian community does.  Because it doesn’t keep shopping around for lovable people to love, it embraces those in front of us, knowing God will use it all to make us more like Him.

And so, if I must be spurred, poked, and irritated, in order to keep the flame of love growing strong, growing real … then fine:

Let sparks fly.

~

{Who has irritated you lately? How might this have been the gentle prodding of a loving Father? How can you be spurred on toward love because of it? Thanks for reading, for grace, and for sanctified spurs — one saint to another.} 

Remembering this…

“Nap time, babygirl! Come here, please.” From across the room I could see her stiffen, prepare to protest. I gave her fair-warning. “Make a good choice. Will you say ‘yes’ or ‘no” to Mama?” There was no need to remind her of what a ‘no’ response would earn. She knows.

She stiffly, and slowly, walked over to me. Her mouth said yes and she made her feet move, but her face and demeanor were “no-ing” all the way. I picked her up, took her to the potty, and told her to go before her nap. She sat down, didn’t go, said she was done.

Outwardly obedient but deep-down defiant.  

I took her into her room for the rest-time routine. Rock, snuggle, sleep. I pulled her up on my lap in the rocking chair, but she pushed away. Again, silent, but stiff as a board and at arm’s length.  I carried her over, crawled under the quilt at her side. She lay still for a moment, then a mischievous look came across her face.

“I need go potty.” I knew it. Kids will use anything to control. To defy. I was choosing this battle and wouldn’t lose. She’s beautiful, but manipulation is not a beautiful quality when it’s all grown up.  I kissed her cheek and looked her in the eye.

“No. Mommy already told you to go and you didn’t. You’re not getting back up.” She fussed again, insisted she has to go, begins to pitch a fit. I think to myself how I don’t want to change wet sheets.

But I’ll change her sheets in order to change her heart.

“No.”

Her eyes widen as she realizes it’s a lost cause. She can’t win because I won’t budge. And almost visibly, right before my eyes, I can see the cracks, then the crumble. I can see her break.

She’s broken. She sobs.

And almost in the same breath-sob she reaches both arms out, wraps them around my neck.

She clings hard, pulls me close, and cries,

“Mama, I wan’ keep you.” 

She wants to keep me. These are the words she uses at night when she longs for me to linger. She squeezes me tight round the neck and holds on, says she wants to keep me. Won’t let me go.

I, of course, don’t pull away.

I draw her even closer into my arms. 

She’s soft. Pliable. She rests, relaxed in my arms. I hold her, my arms all the way around her little body as she rests in her bed. Even though I’m crouched over, quads burning, I stay there, my head on the pillow next to hers, kissing her cheeks.

Within two minutes she’s sound asleep. 

That’s me, I think. That’s me.

Why often do I stiffen, proud? Willing my feet and mouth to say yes to God but protesting no within my heart? Every time I choose myself, my own way, I push Him away, hold Him at arm’s length. He seeks to rock me gently, I stiffen and push Him away. He draws near to hold me. I talk to Him perhaps but my prayer is still just grasping for control. But then something jolts, cracks, crumbles.

This is how we break. This is why brokenness is a blessing. 

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Ps. 51:17)

Of course He won’t! Of course He never will. The same way that I hold my broken-spirit daughter, envelope her completely, engulfed in my love until she falls sweetly asleep. Until she rests in my love. 

Why do we push Him away? Our pride, the God-repellent, it stiffens within us, incites us to rebellion, but we must make it bow. Must make our feet and mouths and hearts say “yes” to God.

Then, no matter how far away He feels, He will envelope us in His love and let us rest secure. And resting secure we discover the truth:

Brokenness is the only path to wholeness.  

–

{Praying blessed brokenness–and wholeness–for you and me this week. Can you let go and rest in His arms? He loves you so!! Thank you for reading.}