Holes in the holidays

For the last three Christmases as we unpack ornaments to dangle them from our tree, the decorating has carried a ribbon of melancholy. So many of our decorations come from my mother-in-law, a year-long Christmas lover. Three years ago just before her favorite season, she passed away unexpectedly. Her memorial reception was actually decked out for Christmas in her honor. My husband, then 28, was deeply stricken. And my younger two children weren’t old enough to have any memories of her.

But by far, we’re not the only ones who feel holes that the wind blows through at Christmastime. I have at least three friends who will grapple with their first shared-custody Christmas this season, a heartbreaking reminder of the past year’s trauma and loss in their families. Another friend will endure only her second Christmas without her mom, a wound that still feels painfully fresh. And though it seems slight and small in comparison, I wince at yet another Christmas without one of my sisters who lives overseas, now coupled with another sister’s last Christmas before she heads to Thailand for two years. Despite the glimmer in my kids’ eyes; their storybooks with magical, picture-perfect tales of Christmas redemption; and a Christmas tree that nearly always makes my heart lift, reality tears at me.

Grief seems to swell at Christmas, when, more than any other time, hopes are high for above-average beauty, happiness, and perfection. But frankly, on this earth, my hopes will nearly always fall flat as an under baked soufflé. Not to be a pessimist, but after people brought sin to God’s flawless, “very good” magnificence in the Garden of Eden, we were each destined for lives full of gaping, searing holes. And even those of us who’ve found the ultimate Missing Piece—my overseas sister’s Hebraic tattoo probably says it best: we’re finally satisfied—we’re still in the land where vicious kings wipe out entire populations of baby boys; where people kill the Son of God in God’s Name as his mother looks on and a sword pierces her own soul, too.

We’ve still been created for another place. One Advent has been fully realized, and another still finds us “in lonely exile here until the Son of God appears.” Still waiting for Heaven.
As I sit and type, I’m praying for you moms who are nearly bent over inside with pain past, present, or future. I’m praying you’re swept up by the Prince of true Peace who’s even greater than your grief—and by his hope that lifts both your head and your heart.

May you be truly satisfied this Christmas.

The biblical view of things is resurrection—not a future that is just a
consolation for the life we never had but a restoration of the life you always
wanted. This means that every horrible thing that ever happened will not only be
undone and repaired but will in some way make the eventual glory and joy even
greater. (Tim Keller, The Reason for God)

A blogger's prayer

This prayer was very moving to me as a blogger--and a great Kingdom perspective on why, and how, we blog. It was a great reminder to bring our writing back to Jesus and the Gospel whenever possible.

Single-issue voting?

This week, my Revolutionary War-intrigued son was completing a place-value project for math that involved the number of American casualties incurred since our country's birth. At the risk of sounding callous, I'd actually assumed it would be more; as my husband roughly tallied the numbers we viewed, it was very roughly around one million lives lost in war from the Revolutionary War to the present. Considering our present-day-only population of around 307 million, this seemed like a precious and graciously limited price, though still tragic and horrific, to pay for the generous freedoms in which we bask. Proportionately, I assume that many countries have paid much more dearly. But my husband was amazed: For comparison, in the last thirty years, over 45 million babies have been lost to abortion. Forty-five million. If I'm right, that's about five times the city of New York.

This grieves me deeply. I was impacted recently by an intriguing interview between author Randy Alcorn and Mars Hill pastor Mark Driscoll, covering some interesting topics, including abortion. Alcorn pointed out Planned Parenthood's slogan: "Every child a wanted child." He wisely noted that he agrees with this premise, but (in my paraphrase) that Planned Parenthood's conclusion from this premise—taking the lives of the unwanted children—and ours as Christians, which involves changing our culture's value of children and life, among other things—are dramatically different.

He then pointed out something that I won't quickly forget. He noted that some Christians don't have a problem voting for pro-choice candidates because other issues are so important; and there are, indeed, a lot of crucial issues that should not be minimized. But, he asked, would you vote for any candidate who thought that it should be legal for parents to take the life of their three-year-old? Never. Any other issues would clearly be secondary. In this way, how we vote does reveal our true value of the unborn.

I firmly believe that God loves deeply the women who are faced with these agonizing, life-changing decisions and are often utterly alone. I have known and truly loved some of them, and my mom's gently counseled many of them. At a Teen MOPS group the other night, I was reminded of the great courage required of women who choose to keep their babies, and by those who choose to give them up for adoption. I believe God offers forgiveness to women who choose abortion, and I am convicted that as followers of Jesus, we need to be known far more by what we support: healthy, whole women who have options and support; children and families; life-uplifting morality; help and preservation.

But, particularly after watching that interview, I will be a single-issue voter. Because I believe that even those other key issues that are life-preserving--the environment, the poor, the war, the healthcare system, among many—are affected by a person's view of life and the goodness and sacredness of the One who gives it.

World Fest 2010: Don't miss!

This Friday, September 24th, from 9-3 is World Fest at the Clinton Presidential Center and Park downtown. It's a student-focused cultural festival that seems to get bigger every year! Check out this link, particularly the FAQ's and the photo gallery to get a good feel for this FREE event.

Whine, whine, whine.

It started last Monday, when we were headed on a nine-hour trip to the grandparents' in our slammin' minivan.

Problem: 16-month-old does not sleep in the car—at least without utter exhaustion—and is not entertained by DVD's.

Problem: We are in a wonderful stage of him testing his/our limits—if I'd really like to throw a fit for half an hour or longer, what will you do?

I am not particularly fond of the role of court jester, particularly in this situation, when few objects entertain him more than 30 seconds (there are a lot of 30-second intervals in nine hours), he's seated behind me, and he's pretty much just mad for nine hours.

One of my more well-hidden sins (yeah, I know, I think it's well-hidden…) is my ability to be a martyr. On the outside, I'm giving, but on the inside, I can be complaining or blaming. Basically, I choose in my heart to complain rather than truly give cheerfully and freely, wholeheartedly—pure-heartedly. Basically, I'm giving, but I'm not. And that's a problem. A sin problem. What I wanted to do in the van: COMPLAIN.

Yet God has been reminding me in less-than-subtle ways recently how He feels about complaining—you know, the whole "made the Israelites wander in the wilderness for 40 years" thing. Inward or outward complaining, I have come to regretfully realize, is the opposite of peace. Faith. Submission. Contentment. Joy.

So I asked my husband to hold me accountable not to complain the whole trip (sigh). But you know what? To my small-faithed amazement, God gave me what I needed. The kids and I all thanked God together as we pulled into Slice of Paradise, aka Grandma and Grandpa's.

Then I got to thinking: If godly men can seek to go a year with monogamous eyes, should I seek to go a year without complaining?

I think I need to go for it.

Trust me, God continues to give me plennnnty of test runs, opportunities to make a choice. Will I give in? (And what will I do when I inevitably mess up?)

And as someone recently pointed out me, early Christians went to their deaths in the Coliseum by singing. Paul and Silas, too, sang in prison—not our sanitized version, but the ancient-Roman, flogging, rat-infested, who-knows-when-you'll-be-released, there's-a-good-chance-you'll-die-a-painful, unjust-death prison. So practically, when I'm facing a disgusting or mundane or exasperating task, I've started to sing. I am intrigued: It has been nothing short of flabbergasting how it changes my mood and my focus.

So friends, keep me accountable: Here's to a year of joy.

Watch out, world.

B.'s worksheet, on what he likes to do with his friend: "Chase girls."

I show my husband this, and he gives a fond, reminiscing laugh, telling my son: "You know you're good when you get *them* to chase you."

Working away (from God)

I'm thinking it's time you know something I am really very bad at.

Resting.

Just sitting down, doing little but savoring something God created me to enjoy seems to necessitate a sturdy roll of duct tape (with a strip for my mouth—and one for my brain, if they make those). At first that could sound like I must be quite the woman of character—a hard worker; persevering; a servant. But my (occasionally irritated) family or close friends know better. The same God who created me to work and take care of my family also repeatedly associates Himself with rest, commands me to rest, made me to rest not only every seven days but one-third of every day. And I have a reputation for not listening.

While many of the reasons that I can't. Seem. To stop. Working are very good ones (waaaay more demands than I have resources, longing to serve God with every bit of the resources He's given, helping people, wanting to be the Proverbs 31 woman to my family, etc.), I also have some very bad ones.

• Working late into the night, eating lunch standing up, etc. can feed my martyr complex: It's that strange sensation that if I'm uncomfortable or suffering to some degree, I am a better person. (This is quite wrong. I am working through Gary Thomas' Pure Pleasure right now, and believe me, I need that book. The subtitle: Why do Christians feel so bad about feeling good?)
  


• Working to serve others can make me look good, or can put me in the "giver" position, rather than the humility of receiving (Martha and Peter are my biblical colaborers/co-OCDers in this). It feeds my insatiable pride, self-righteousness, and idol of others' respect.
  


• Working
  can attempt to replace my validation from God alone as I feel more important and worthy and in control. In that way, it subverts the power of the Gospel in my life—I depend on something else to save me, to make me "saveable" in His eyes other than Jesus' work. I try to bring something else to the table. Working can cement the idea that I am earning God's favor (wrong again; Christ's work gained my favor with God).
  


• Working can replace my faith in God's ability to provide for me and give me time to accomplish what He's asked me to do—and nothing more, which really is that: when I'm doing "more" than He asked, it's stepping out of His will, doing less than His best for me. My labor can become an active worry (though in my mind, it's more of an active concern, or concerted effort), laboring and spinning rather than trusting, like the lilies, that God will supply my needs; after all, each day has enough trouble of its own. It can proceed from fear rather than faith.
  


• Working can turn me into a profound "elder brother" like the one in the parable of the Prodigal Son, one lacking compassion, full of arrogance and contempt as I labor beneath a burden of my own making. If you have an inkling you could identify, by the way, the last message in this incredible series is a don't-miss message from Tim Keller.
  


• Working can keep me from sitting at Jesus' feet, so to speak, taking the time to listen and enjoy God like Mary did. It can take the place of some truly great gifts and knowledge of God's goodness—the sheer joy of Him. I've missed moments of prayer, of laughing, of enjoying my kids that I will never redeem in this life. I've foregone opportunities for relationships and for adoring God rather than chafing under a burden I've created in His Name.
  

Now in my case, this may be a little bit of a "generational sin" too—my forbears have, in my very limited perspective, lashed their hands to the plow, so to speak. This is not an excuse; it is an explanation. But realizing this, will I choose courage and humility to break its bondage?

More to come on a more "solution-oriented" post as I think through this. I hope.

Meanwhile, please pass the duct tape. It's getting late.

Author's note: This post will also appear in a new blog for moms, Breathe.