A: for Advent

I don't write enough.  I don't write enough to finish my novel or blog all my ideas.  I don't write enough to appease my sister, my mom, my husband, or my closest friends.  I don't write enough to be faithful to a calling on my life.  And I don't write enough to feed my soul.

A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet.  I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't.  And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would.  Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A.  So here we go.  (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016.  We'll call that a win.)

This has been a hard advent.

Family members have given up watching the news.  Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill.  People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children.  Life is hard.  And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.

Some advents are.  Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open.  It's more of a "Hey, you guys!  One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"

But this year.  This year it's more of a pleading.  A "How long do we have to wait?  I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week.  Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"

My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together.  I loved them even more this time, reading them with her.  The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent.  There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed.  She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going."  She smiled and nodded, and we read on.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .

He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach.  Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."

"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.

"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . .                                    {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}

This has been a year, friends.  Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body.  Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.

Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.

As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.  

It is, isn't it?  This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth.  It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming.  This might be the death of us.

At least that's how it feels.

But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."

And then there's Hope.  

I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."

And my answer was, "Hope." 

My happiness is Hope.  This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps.  But I also wanted to see if I could do it.  And so far I have.  Because my happiness is Hope.  It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.

On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness.  So . . . I give you Hope.  I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope.  Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.

A Letter of Apology

A letter of apology, to my oldest daughter--

Dear one, I owe you an apology.  And I am very, very sorry.

There are so many places where I fall short in the eyes of the world or in the eyes I see in the mirror.

I am afraid when I should be brave.  I don't write enough.  Our house gets messy, and I fall behind on the laundry.  You know I hate to cook, so we eat out too much.  I have trouble saving our money, and we have more debt than we should.  I don't work out enough.  I eat too much ice cream.  I stay up too late.  And I sleep in too long.  I watch more TV than is healthy, and I let you do the same.  I don't spend as much time with Daddy as he deserves.  I choose other things over spending time in prayer and reading my Bible.  I yell at you for crazy things.  I have a hard time controlling my temper.  I don't like vegetables.

But somewhere along the line I did you a disservice.  Somewhere, somehow, I let you believe that those things are how I see myself.  I let you believe that I don't think I'm enough.  And then, that translated into you believing you aren't enough.

And, oh, my precious one.  You are.

You.

Are.

Enough.

You have those beautiful blue eyes and a great smile that makes them disappear.  I love your apple cheeks everyone says are mine.  You are smart and funny and caring.  You live up to your name because, like grace, you can make beauty out of ugly things.

I still remember when your preschool friend Lily's baby brother died right after he was born.  You waited for Lily to come back to preschool, and when she did, you held her hand and sat by her.  Because she needed you.  You were three, Baby.  Three.  But that shouldn't be a surprise, because I remember how you looked at Jerry lying in his casket when you were less than one year old.  You probably thought he was sleeping, except you looked at him like you saw him differently than the rest of us did.  And then you turned to Miss Nancy, and you reached for her to give her the love you had tucked in your tiny baby heart.  And, just last month, I watched you work through your frustration to figure out how to draw an elephant just in case you needed to remind our family that you have their backs.  Nobody loves more than you do, honey.

I love how much you love Ivy and your friends and reading and messy rooms and Marie Grace and Trixie Belden and sleeping in and riding your bike and Paris and not working hard.  I love that you don't like to fly but you still want to see the world and go to France some day.  I love getting to know the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

And I am sorry for not telling you that enough.  Because I am proud of who you are.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your mom.

You are enough, Baby Girl.  Enough.  And you always will be, no matter what.

I wish I could see myself through your eyes, and I wish you could see yourself through mine.  Then you would sit up tall.  And you would take on the world like a mighty warrior.  Like a beautiful, mighty warrior.  Like a girl who loves like no one else can.  And you would proud to be you.

Epic Mommy Moments

In my ongoing effort to cultivate a healthy  (ie. generous but realistic) self-esteem in my three daughters, I regularly talk to them about what they have to offer the world and all the things that make them special.  My mom started this with my oldest niece.  From the time each of my mom's five granddaughters was born, she would tell them a special "I love you" followed by a question: "And why do I love you so much?"  The girls have been conditioned from their earliest words to shout, "Just because I'm ME!" in response.  It has caused many laughs, see the "Just because I'm YOU!" and "Just because you're ME!" phases, but it has also grown to include the same response to others who ask a similar question, like when I asked my youngest daughter the other day.  I said, "Do you know why I love you like crazy, forever and ever, no matter what?"  Her answer warmed my heart, because she nailed it.

I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard.  There are enough dream stompers in the world.  I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers.  So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!"  I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school."  I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."

My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."

Because I have those ghosts.  And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears.  And it's exhausting.  So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.

To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"

And I told them the same is true for them.  Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand.  There's freedom and confidence in that.

There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself.  To be great.  And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer.  A dream follower.

So that was a win.  Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.

Then a while back I read a blog post written from a father to his daughter. It really was great, and one of the things he said there is that he works hard to help his girls understand that while they are pretty and should try to take care of themselves, the most important beauty they possess comes from within. It's in their hearts. 

I like that question he asks when he tucks his daughter in at night.  "Honey, where are you the most beautiful?"

Well, what kind of mom would I be if I didn't take that opportunity?  So the other day I talked to my girls about that too. And it was an epic conversation that went a little something like this:

Me: "Girls, where do you think you are the most beautiful?"

Oldest daughter: "Um, my hair is nice."

Middle daughter: "My eyes?"

Oldest daughter: "No! My smile!"

Me: "Those do look nice. But really it's on your insides."

Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.

Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"

Me: "Well, not exactly.  I mean in your heart."

Oldest daughter: "Not too much better.  That's really gross and bloody."

Me: "Well, not your heart, really.  Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around.  But your inside.  You know, how you treat people and stuff."

Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice.  So I guess we have beautiful guts."


You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4.  And they get it!  They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts.  And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves.  They really get it!  My work here is done.