What a thousand things taught me about love
The journey began November 14th. A number of you joined me here, committing to write 1,000 things I love about you, as a Christmas gift for our husbands. I so loved hearing tales of your commitment to count praise-worthy attributes about your husbands, of making it a daily habit to look for the good.
I did it. For 40 days I listed 25 things each day, and at the end I had a grand idea for how to compile them all into a special presentation.
Suffice it to say: Everything went wrong. I bought the wrong kind of paper. Our printer quit working. The new printer would not install on my computer so the only printing I could do had to be on Jeff’s computer. Which he has with him. All. The. Time. And when he finally left the premises and I tried to sneak into his office to print and everything went wrong, the printer jammed, the computer froze, the paper was wrong, my files wouldn’t convert to his Mac, the ink smeared. Finally, Christmas Eve, after I got it printed and spent one freezing morning out in the barn trying to mod podge the paper onto a small old door we would hang above our bed in our new house, it was too cold and damp and the paper bubbled up in a ridiculous mess making the entire creation look like something a preschooler slapped together.
NOT what I had in mind.
I had anticipated a grand presentation Christmas morning. The reality was me reluctantly handing over an odd, old, dirty door covered in pieces of paper peeling up and bubbling this way and that.
Yeah, not romantic at all.
So, you want me honest opinion? It felt frustrating. I spent hours–HOURS, on this project. Hours every morning writing the list. Hours on the computer typing it out. Hours formatting it. Getting the paper. Printing. Gluing, planning, scheming. And none of it really turned out as planned.
And then, as I stood in the freezing cold barn gluing “that stupid list to that stupid barn for this stupid Christmas present” (my words, in my head) with Heidi next to me in her snow suit, whining about when I would please be done so we could go back inside, it struck me:
This is exactly what real love is like.
Almost 10 years of marriage has shown us this. That it rarely looks like a Hollywood scene. That the craft usually doesn’t work out, the plans never go as planned, child sp-nkings must even happen on Christmas day. We get sick and stuff happens and some days we just don’t feel like praising, don’t feel like loving.
And yesterday my parents celebrated 42 years of marriage and I bet that back on that day when my dad said those vows he didn’t think he’d be caretaker to his hot bride when she’s battling Parkinson’s and he does all the cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, EVERYTHING, and loves her through suffering and sometimes I want to scream–Why is this all so hard?
Why is love so hard?
And Shawna’s husband is grieving this Christmas and love for him meant walking through the cruelty of cancer. Walking all the way to the bitter end. To death.
This is love.
And so when the 1,000 things don’t add up and neither does life and we’re tempted to shout, I didn’t sign up for this! THIS, this isn’t the love that I signed up for!
That’s when we begin to truly love.
That’s where self ends and love begins and until then we’re just practicing for the real thing.
When we just stand there, tears streaming down our cheeks, and open our arms again and say:
“Here I am. Again. For you. All I am and all I have is yours.”
That’s love.
And we do sign up for it, for someone, because Christ signed up for it, for us.
Greater love has no one than this: That he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
{Growing with you. Thank you for reading.}
*You may notice I’m feeling rather broken this week. It’s a good thing. Remember Why brokenness is a blessing? And again I am happy, though, to pour out my brokenness and pray you are blessed by it in the form of another E-book, offered for FREE tomorrow in this place. Let In Light is for EVERYONE, not just moms. 31 days of TRUTH to start your New Year right. I pray you are blessed. Would you mind spreading the word for me? Thank you much!
Why I need to linger at the manger {My black hands}
The kids were playing happily with their new gifts, and I had a hankering to get something done. The “doer” in me dies hard. What to do?
Packing? No thank you! Doing dishes? Not a chance. Cleaning this filthy house? I’d do anything to avoid that. My eye fell on the can of black spray paint sitting on the counter. Yes! I’d spray paint the barstools we’d purchased off Craigslist. I slipped into old clothes, set up shop in the carport, and sprayed until I ran out of paint. When I finished, the chairs looked great, but my hands? Black. Because it was so windy outside, the paint covered my hands with a thin grungy layer of black.
Everytime I looked down that day I was reminded of how I feel sometimes.
This may be an odd after-Christmas question, but: Do you sometimes just despise yourself?
I mean despise. Do you sometimes look around at your life and realize how repulsive it is? How filthy? No, I don’t mean you are some criminal or live some secret despicable life. I mean you live a real life. A “normal” life. Sometimes, I look around and all I can think is, “Who am I kidding?” Who on earth am I kidding? I look down at my hands and they’re a picture of me: Filthy.
Not to be a downer, but it’s the truth. The inclinations of my heart are wicked. I, who truly more than anything want to seek God and follow Him, I read the page in Romans 3 and the only thing missing is my name.
“None is righteous, no not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God. All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.”
I continually unearth pockets of pride in the corners of my life. (Every. Single. Day.)
I look down at my hands again: They’re still filthy.
And sometimes when I feel this way I listen to the slithering serpent’s suggestion: Hide. Run away, hide it all. You think you’re a light to those around you? Ha! There is no “little light of mine” to shine so quit holding your ridiculous arm in the air. Who are you kidding?
And for a moment the offer looks good. Run away. Hide. Quit writing. Delete the blog. Duct-tape up the windows so no one can see in. Get the bushel and crawl underneath.
But then, by some miracle. Christmas comes.
And I remember again that Christ came to a stinking stable.
A stinking stable.
It might as well have been my home.
And if I am hung up on my poor performance I have not understood His perfect performance. I have not understood the gospel. His resumé in place of mine. His beauty for my ashes. His joy for my sorrow. His riches for my poverty. His righteousness for my rags.
I can hang Christmas lights around my home but it still reeks of the sinners who inhabit these rooms. Without His daily grace we are utterly lost. He came into the filthiest places. Most of all mine. I will cling to this. And I will trust this, when I look down, in, deep, at my hands and at my heart, and see the absolute bankruptcy of my soul. I will not get lost in the darkness but turn, look up and hear:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Christmas may be over, but what if we lingered at the manger?
What if, this week, before we looked ahead to 2013, we lingered a little by His side? Like L’Enchante. And when we looked around that stinky stable we might recognize our own home.
Our own lives.
And we might find ourselves bowed low all week in humble thanks that He has entered our filth and is making us new. The tree will come down, the wrapping paper stuffed into trash bags, fir needles vacuumed, stockings stowed for yet another year.
But what if we stayed low, kneeling to adore Him?
What if we kept on receiving our King?
I really just want to stay here and adore Him. To linger at the manger and rejoice that He has entered my filthiest places and made me new. I know my home is a stinking stable and my heart is even worse, but He came into this place and He is here and He is mine and nothing can separate me from the love of God.
Joy to the world.
{Rewrote this from last year, because it applies this year as it did last. Go ahead and linger this week by His side. He is in the middle of your mess. Stop, bow, worship Him there. Thank you for letting me be real in this place. And thanks for reading.}
Oh Come Let Us Adore Him
“There is a beautiful story recounted every Christmas in the forests of the Provence of southern France. It’s about the four shepherds who came to Bethlehem to see the child. One brought eggs, another bread and cheese, the third brought wine. And the fourth brought nothing at all. Peoole called him L’Enchante.
The first three shepherds chatted with Mary and Joseph, commenting on how well Mary looked, how cozy was the cave and how handsomely Joseph had appointed it, what a beautiful starlit night it was. They congratulated the proud parents, presented them with their gifts and assured them that if they needed anything else, they had only to ask.
Finally someone asked, “Where is L’Enchante?” They searched high and low, up and down, inside and out. Finally someone peeked through the blanket hung against the draft, into the creche. There, kneeling at the crib, was L’Enchante – the Enchanted One. Like a flag or a flame taking the direction of the wind, he had taken the direction of love. Through the entire night, he stayed in adoration, whispering, “Jesu, Jesu, Jesus – Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
… The Enchanted One is laid waste by one pure passion. His single-mindedness leads him to a realistic assessment: anything connected with Christmas that is not centered in Christ – tree, ornaments, turkey dinner, exchange of gifts, worship itself – is empty gesturing. Bless are the shipwrecked, for they see God in all the trappings of Christmas and experience a joy that the world does not understand.”
From Brennan Manning, in Watch For The Light.
Oh come let us adore Him. {Merry Christmas and thanks for reading.}
*Today is the last day to get Plenty:31 sips of joy for moms everywhere for $.99 today! If you haven’t gotten your copy yet, head here and check it out. You can also borrow it for FREE on your kindle. (Even if you don’t have an e-reader of any sort, you can just download it on your computer to read.) Thanks!
In case you have any twinkly tongues tomorrow
As you give your family The Gift of Whatever tomorrow, remember that it’s usually the things we don’t plan that make the most special memories. Or, most often, the mishaps. I’m sure we all have our own holiday-mishap stories, but this one takes the cake (and renders it inedible):
I found a recipe for “Dutch Cake”, which I was so excited to make for Dutch’s 4th birthday, right before Christmas. I whipped up the recipe only to realize there was no way on earth that kids would actually eat it–it was hard and dry and only sweetened with molasses. I could just see the kids at Dutch’s birthday party staring down at the hard little rock cupcake and wondering what they’d done wrong to deserve that. No, I would not be the dud mommy, so at the last minute I used the Funfetti cake mix, forced myself not to think about the hydrogenated soybean oil contained therein, and whipped up a batch of cupcakes and homemade frosting.
So far so good. It would be a hit.
But then I thought it’d be fun to make something special for the family party we were having in the evening. I knew Dutch’s little cousins loved Cake Pops, so I found the directions and went for it. Mush cake and frosting, form into balls, easy. But then you’re supposed to dip them in melting chocolate, of which I had none, so I thought it’d be super fun to instead dip them in powdered sugar and serve them as “snowballs”–perfect for a December birthday!
Yes, snowballs! Perfect.
Now, did I have powdered sugar? Hm…wasn’t sure. I dug around and found a clear Winco baggie (I buy everything in bulk), squeezed it with my fingers (it squeaks and has a distinct feel if it is cornstarch), and it didn’t squeak so I knew immediately that it was indeed powdered sugar. I happily powdered up my special snowballs and we were all set.
After dinner the kids gathered around excitedly for their treats. I served the kids then got busy cutting cheesecake for the adults. I overheard my neice exclaim, “This doesn’t taste good!” but was quickly chided by her mom for being rude, so she hushed up and picked at the rest of her snowball. I was vaguely aware that the other kids just sort of picked at theirs as well, but I was busy doing other things. Soon they were off playing again and I thought nothing of it.
Later, doing dishes, apparently my sister-in-law nibbled on one and knew immediately what I had done. My brother came into the dining room, grinning:
“So you coat your snowballs in baking soda, huh?”
My jaw dropped. Of course! I had just for the first time bought baking soda at Winco in the bulk section and forgotten about it.
“No wonder,” My mom said laughing, “Dutch kept saying, ‘This snowball makes my tongue all twinkly.’”
Yes, twinkly tongues for sure! Poor kids, they were awful and made your mouth fizz something terrible.
Thankfully we had no reactions, and no fizzy bubbles came out their noses. It makes for a fun memory. So just in case you have any memorable mishaps tomorrow, I pray you can laugh and remember twinkly tongues. Thanks for reading. And thank You, God, got for the sprinkles of humor you give us each day!
*Plenty:31 sips of joy for moms everywhere is still available for $.99 today and tomorrow! If you haven’t gotten your copy yet, head here and check it out. (Even if you don’t have an e-reader of any sort, you can just download it on your computer to read.) You can also borrow it for FREE on your kindle with Amazon Prime membership. Thanks!