How to (really) prepare for Christmas
“Are you ready for an emergency?”
My stomach sank. What was it? Yesterday I had been having a low-key, relaxing morning. The night before I’d hosted our Renew ladies’ Christmas party. I was leisurely washing dishes and sweeping up crumbs, putting away platters, and letting the kids linger at their play. It was 9:26am and I was still in my jammies, enjoying the Christmas music floating through the house, relishing the idea that we had nothing planned that day.
Then Jeff called. I don’t know about you, but texting is the norm, so when my man calls, I know I’d better answer!
His first words: “Are you ready for an emergency?”
I waited, anxious.
“That luncheon is today.”
Oh no. Oh NO. No no no no no!
Months ago, we’d been asked by a dear local pastor, if we would come together and speak at a Christmas event at their church. We were so honored at the request, and gladly accepted. The invitation had come while we were on our road trip, and we were so excited to serve together in this way, so we mentally made note of it …
… Get that?
We mentally made note of it.
Now, understand: I speak dozens of times a year, we have a full life, we have lots of things on the calendar. We know how to schedule, people! We do a synch every week to make sure we have all our ducks in a row, make sure I know his stuff and he knows mine. We plan ahead. I’m a planner!
How, oh how, oh how, oh how did I MISS THIS?!!
This was 9:30am and we needed to be there at 11:30am. I had no plan for the kids. No notes. I was still in my JAMMIES, PEOPLE!
How could I have missed this? How could I be so woefully unprepared? The overwhelming emotion I felt was shame.
Shame at being so unprepared.
But then, I turned my attention to my Only Hope. The Only One I really have to please. And I poured out my feelings of shame and failure and feeling unprepared, and so clearly I sensed in my heart,
“You aren’t unprepared.”
Suddenly it all tumbled down, the truth, straight into my heart: I was prepared. I realized that every single day, every day when we wake up early, we spend time with the Father in prayer and the Word. Every single day as we abide in Him, commune with Him, fellowship continually with Him.
Isn’t that preparation?
And the revelation rang so clear and true in my mind:
Being prepared is a matter of the heart.
The truth is, I could have perfectly-scripted notes and be completely unprepared to speak God’s heart to His people.
I sat down with my Bible. I needed to look no further than today’s journal entry to see a message from God for His people. It was just my own personal study, my heart-wrestlings, the things the Father had been showing me that morn.
Sure, I hadn’t written it to preach, I’d written it to live.
And isn’t that just so much better anyway?
How often have I been “prepared” for something with everything external? How often have I worked to have my ducks in a row, but my heart has been misaligned?
Being prepared is a matter of the heart.
How often do we think that being “prepared” for Christmas is having all the presents wrapped? Lights hung. Stockings stuffed. Cards sent. House cleaned. Boxes checked off.
How about my heart?
When Jesus came to earth, there were some who were ready. Prepared. Their hearts had been fixed on the God, patiently waiting for the coming Messiah. They didn’t know when, how, where. But they were prepared because their hearts were ready.
On the one hand, God birthed His Son into a situation where nothing was ready: To two dirt-poor clueless engaged teenagers, in a filthy manger, in a barn. On the outside, nothing was ready.
But their hearts were ready.
The one item left on our Christmas To-Do List today: Let every heart prepare Him room.
Lord, let our hearts be prepared for You.
{Thank you for reading.}
For hearts that ache for kids
“Mommy?” You whisper into the darkness. “Can I have a rock?”
It’s the middle of the night and it takes me a moment to realize what you mean.
I smile. “Of course.”
I pull back the covers, slide out of bed, creep across the room in the dark. Out in the hallway, I don’t see you, but I peek into Heidi’s room and there you are, arms full of snuggly animals, standing beside the rocking chair, waiting for me.
I slide back into the cool, hard, chair. It creaks loudly as I pull you onto my lap and ease back. You barely fit now, tall and lanky and almost 9-years-old. Your long legs hang off the side, your head rests up on my shoulder. I try to wrap an arm under you but can’t reach, so I just bear-hug you around the middle and lean down so my cheek rests against yours, so I can breathe your breath.
I close my eyes and can’t believe I’m rocking you. You! Almost exactly 8 years earlier, you weren’t even one, and oh! you wouldn’t sleep. I tried every trick. You wouldn’t sleep. And so I tried to rock you. Desperately I tried to rock you. I held you tight, leaning back and forth in that chair, praying you’d sleep. And you fought it. Screamed. Cried and cried and cried and cried for nearly an hour until we were both drenched with sweat and tears and … I gave up. And you just stared at me, and I felt so lost and whispered to God, “Help us.”
So many times, that prayer, through these years.
And tonight I’d whispered that same prayer to the Father. Just seconds before you slipped into my room, I’d been lying awake, unable to sleep, praying, thinking of you. Tears, too, had slipped down my cheeks as I consider 9-years-old and all that’s changing and unknown and silly things like Will you ever be able to tie your shoes or light a match?
Will you make friends? Get married? Be a good father? Thrive?
What will you say, someday, when you look back on your childhood?
Will you love the Lord when you are 20, 50, 80?
We keep rocking. The chair is loud and creaky and you’re whispering to me how you like the sound, “It’s like a radio.” And we keep rocking, and I think how I would never have dreamed back then, when you were screaming at 11-months-old, that you’d be this walking documentary boy, an absolute wonderment. And I silently thank God again and again for this moment, that you want me to rock you, and how precious this is and into the darkness you whisper:
“Mommy?”
“Yes, love?”
“Your titanium scissors surely aren’t make of titanium. They are just steel. Titanium is used more in name than actual substance. People just like to think things are made of titanium.”
I don’t own titanium scissors, but I smile. I love you, son.
Eventually we tiptoe past sleeping sister and back to your room.
“Will you snuggle me?”
“Of course.” I slide in next to you and pull the down comforter up, around us, under our chins.
“I can’t believe they use tiger and lion bones in Chinese medicine.”
I smile and touch your cheek.
And in a few seconds, you’re asleep. I watch you for a bit, and commit all my questions to the Only One who holds us in the palm of His hand.
Your Father and mine.
I love you, son.
{For hearts that ache for kids, for prayers and sleepless nights. We serve a God who knows and hears and answers. Thanks for reading.}
What Daddy does
“Please can we do the dance party?”
Heidi had been begging all night. We were finishing Christmas cards, the kids and me in an assembly line of cutting and gluing and licking and sticking. We’d just finished, it was late; we still needed to do bath and snack.
“Can we please do Joy to the World?”
For several years it was simply, “The whistle song.” We’ve been playing it as long as they can remember, and as soon as they hear the familiar whistle, they jump from their seats and begin dancing. It’s remarkable to me that treasured holiday traditions can be as simple as the same song, a melodic thread through all the years.
We didn’t say a word, but Jeff slid out his phone. Within seconds, the familiar whistle filled the air.
“YAY!!!”
The kids went wild. Gyrating, jumping up and down, kicking and pumping their arms. I’m not sure any of it could be called dancing, but it’s what we do. I pull out some Jazzercise moves and spin circles with Heidi, but Jeff goes so over-the-top in his dance flailing that we can’t keep from falling down, laughing. At some point the kids wander off to get props, and Jeff, who had pulled his hood over his face to add to the comedic effect, was unknowingly left, dancing all alone. I was laughing so hard I could barely breath, but I had to capture this pic, because, it struck me, this is what Daddy does.
Daddy doesn’t love to dance. Daddy could think of a thousand other things he needs to do on a Thursday night, other than have a Joy to the World dance party with his kids. Daddy could insist on keeping his cool, but no — Daddy busts a move like nobody’s business and lights up their eyes–and life–like no one else can.
Daddy’s are crazy, over-the-top like that.
And then, that Saturday, he’s home. And after completing my honey-do list, he comes with us to the park. And he plays hide-and-seek so stealthily that he switches hiding spots nearly a dozen times and has Dutch thinking he’s lost his mind. Nearly twenty minutes later, when he finally emerges, Dutch is so excited at the thrill of the hunt, he can hardly contain himself.
Daddy goes all out for his kids.
And then we settle down and swing, and Daddy pushes them, willing to endure the endless “higher!” and “not that high!” And then, when a child is getting squirrelly, and is asked to settle down, and that child doesn’t listen and goes barreling down the paved hill wearing bulky boots, and when that child trips and crashes headlong into the jagged asphalt, a scraped and bloody heap of tears, that Daddy doesn’t say, “I told you…”
That Daddy leans down low and gathers up his boy. Pulls him carefully into his arms.
“Oh buddy, I’m so sorry. That was bad. Where does it hurt?”
And he lets the sobbing boy put his strewn treasures — sticks and rocks — into his big jacket pockets, and lifts his son into his arms, and carries everything home.
He always carries us home.
Even when He warns us of the way and we don’t listen. Even when we fall headlong because He knew we would.
He still picks us up and carries us home.
Why do I ever doubt the love of my Father?
This is what Daddy does, and so much more.
“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!”
1 John 3:1
{Oh! That we would know the extravagant love of the Father for us. Praying we do, more and more, this week. Thank you for reading.}
What a wise woman builds…
This week I re-read Proverbs 14 and was struck again by the power of this verse:
A wise woman builds her house, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands.
Prov. 14:1
When I was 10-years-old my family built a house. My dad did the building, but we all contributed. I carried 2×4′s and swept up messes and my brother drove nails and my mom did whatever Dad asked. I can still picture my mom holding up plywood while Dad shot it full of nails. (I also remember, on a freezing cold morning, when he nail-gunned his hand to the plywood. That was a day.)
But my mom was always there holding something up.
Can you imagine if she’d been doing the opposite? If she’d been walking around the house tearing down fixtures or taking a sledgehammer to whatever work Dad had just finished. Or now, can you imagine if I walked around our house with a baseball bat smashing windows and knocking over furniture?
A wise woman builds her house.
It doesn’t say “A wise woman builds her business” Or “a wise woman builds her church” or “a wise woman builds her friendship-base” or “a wise woman builds her blog.” All those things are wonderful, but our first order of business, ladies, is building up our house.
There’s a reason God’s put this verse on my heart.
Because I need to be reminded.
Why is there such a constant temptation to build up everything except our homes? Perhaps because our homes are so mundane, so ordinary. The home is a humble kingdom, to be sure. It needs a queen who is small in her own eyes.
So if the woman’s not building, what is she doing?
Tearing down. How? With her own hands.
How sobering is this? Woman, we have so much power. The words we speak, the attitude we embody, the choices me make a thousands times a day. Everything we do is either building up or tearing down our house. With our own hands.
Am I creating order and beauty or chaos and confusion? Am I building up or tearing down?
A simple question to return to each day: Does this activity benefit my home and the people who live in it?
There are myriad reasons why houses fall apart. But this verse highlights the most important factor:
Our hands. We can blame society, peer pressure, culture and bad TV. But our hands are what build up or tear down our homes. Our words, our attitudes, the work we do each day. So the question for us:
What are my own hands doing today? Am I building up or tearing down?
{Come what may, let’s commit to building up our homes. Amen? Thanks for reading.}