Twas The Weekend Before Christmas

Twas the weekend before Christmas, and all the through the house,

There's a mother much stirring, perhaps a bit like a mouse. 

She's tearing and cutting and taping galore.

She's hidden away in a room with locked door.

Yes, this is gift wrapping weekend! And I bet so many of you are doing exactly the same. I don’t have many visions of dancing sugar plums in my head, but I always envision this wrapping task being finished much earlier in December. However, here I am in my kerchief and still wrapping gifts. The guy in his cap? Well, he doesn’t enter the wrapping scene so much. He does, however, get the credit for buying most of the gifts. So it all works out pretty swell for me. We have our lanes and we stay in them.

Gifts for Sally and Samuel and Meg and my mom.

Another for Karen and Kallie and Tom!

So wrap-away! wrap-away! wrap-away all!

Unless you were smart and had it wrapped at the mall.

I know for some it can be a mad dash. Mayhem. A crazy Christmas scramble. I remember those days waiting for the kids to be in bed so we could get it all done. I’ll never forget those late hours on Christmas Eve when we’d finally have a chance to pull out all the presents and arrange them around our tree. The excitement and expectation of it was ours on that night before Christmas. The children may have been asleep with their own holiday dreams, but Rick and I were the midnight elves reveling in our creation of the Christmas morning magic. It was both exhausting and exhilarating. 

We’d finally crash into bed for a few hours of sleep — there was absolutely no long winter’s nap at that point in life—and we’d wait to hear the pitter patter of tiny feet and the clamor of excited kids pulling us from our bed because Santa had come!

It’s quite different now. 

With grown children and no Santa believers in the house at the moment, we wrap gifts and place them under the tree at a more leisurely pace. And yet here I am the weekend before Christmas and still wrapping. Everyone will be home this year and even though we limit our buying, it continues to add up to a lot of scotch tape and bows.

But I love it so much. I love picking the papers and the real ribbon. I love creating the color scheme and making it all pretty. I know everyone has their own plan for this. And there is absolutely no right or wrong way. I realize my color coordination might be a considered a bit weird by others. Yes, it’s the gift inside which matters most, but the wrapping itself, I’ll admit, it brings me joy. It’s how I am wired. It fills my creative cup. 

When we moved to the South a couple of decades ago, I found out that some people down here don’t even wrap their gifts. It’s part of the Santa gig. He just brings them and there they appear come Christmas morning. Talk about magic! I’ve never been so sure about that particular practice, but I did question why it was all of us northerners were adding this extra wrapping step. The South hasn't gotten everything right, but maybe they were on to something with this whole no-wrapping thing.  And, I suppose that’s a whole other blog post.

But for me, the wrapping is part of the expectation. Because is it not that expectation of a gift that we all love? What is this? What could it be? What does it mean? What will it reveal? Is it really for me?

We might not all be Santa believers, but we are most certainly anticipators. All of us. I'm sure it is woven into our basic DNA. We eagerly wait and wonder and expect and hope. And that is what these gifts under our trees show us about ourselves: regardless of age or anything else, we love to anticipate.

Perhaps God created us this way so we might someday understand the expectation of a babe born in Bethlehem. A baby also carefully wrapped. A baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. A God come down and wrapped in flesh. The most beautiful present our world has ever received. The best news ever gotten. Our greatest hope lying in a manger. The weary world rejoices. This is the most amazing Christmas morning, but so much better. This is the expectation and the unveiling all rolled into one perfect present. 

This is the tired parents listening for the pitter patter of tiny feet and the cries of “Santa’s come!” This is the mad dash to the family room and the tearing into the terrific piles and the exclamations and shouts of joy. Dreams come true. And wishes exceeded. Times a million. And then, even then,  way better than that.

Because the baby come to earth wrapped in swaddling clothes isn’t just for a short moment on Christmas morning. It is forever. It is for always. It is for eternity. It is for everyone. 

It is the answer to that gaping hole of expectation in each one of us that no earthly thing—no matter how grand or great or beautifully wrapped or longingly wished for—can ever fill. 

It is the simple gift of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. A baby come for the sole purpose of wrapping us up in His great and never-ending love. 

Oh come, oh come Emmanuel.

Come to save the weary world. 

Come to be our heavenly hope.

“Come that we might have life, and have it abundantly.”  ~ John 10:10

This Christmas as you gaze at the gifts around your tree, take a moment to remind yourself of the most perfectly wrapped present —  Emmanuel.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” James 1:17

This post may be over, but the mother's still wrapping.

The children and husband on her door they are tapping.

"Mom, we picked up some pizzas for dinner, alright?"

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

A Limp, a Glass Angel and a Very Lost Sheep

Rick’s Grandma Charlotta has been on my mind a lot lately. It seems she steps into my thoughts almost every single day. A strange thing as she’s been gone many years and I wasn’t especially close to her in the time our paths crossed. When I met Charlotta in 1987--my freshman year of college and first hometown visit with Rick!--I immediately obsesrved a couple of things about her.

Right away I noticed sweet Grandma Charlotta had a tremendous limp as she walked. Her body would rock or sort of sway back and forth as she moved. I noticed it, but I am not sure I ever stopped to ask why that was. She was somewhere in her late 70s and I guess I just assumed that was the sort of thing that went along with being somewhere in your late 70s. 

Another obvious thing about her was her industriousness. She was always busy doing things. She lived with Rick’s family and cared for their home. She helped make dinners and threw in loads of laundry and seemed always to have someplace to go or something to do. She certainly never appeared to be bored. She walked downtown and drove her own car and even kept her own mobile home somewhere way out in the country. 

I remember hearing how she spent most of her summers living in her mobile home and working at her cousin’s nearby greenhouses and nursery. Yes, a woman in her 70s, with a substantial limp, and she was working hard outdoors all summer long. 

She was a quiet woman. She didn’t offer a lot of opinions or even insert herself into conversation very much. She seemed quite content to just sit in the presence of those around the table or the family room and listen to the banter and the younger generation's back and forth. With a slight smile on her face, she loved to just be present and taking it all in. She never overstayed or over-anything’d. At the end of the day, she would slip quietly from the room and retire to her bedroom without hardly a sound. Even with her limp, Charlotta walked softly.

She had a quick and quite beautiful smile, but I heard enough stories to know her life had been very hard. She worked long hours as a waitress in a diner for many years. She cared for her children and her husband and there was a good deal of heartache with both. But this quiet, sweet woman seemed to just keep going. Even with her limp. 

I am sure I never once heard her say anything about pain or discomfort or really anything disparaging of anything or anyone at all. She was pleasant. Industrious. Steadfast.

Her quiet strength and occupation were always apparent to me, but lately, I find myself with a new and even greater admiration for her. 

Strangely enough, it is her limp which is drawing her to my mind all of these years later. I haven’t said it out loud to anyone—not even to Rick—but I feel lately the way I limp around our home is reminding me of his Grandma Charlotta. On particularly bad days, I cannot walk without a strange rocking back and forth of my person. I have no idea why. It’s just the awkward gait that is now taking place in my body as both knees are in pain. I suppose it’s some kind of strange compensation my body is dictating to protect me from pain or further injury. I don’t really know. No one seems to really know.

Yes, I’ve seen several doctors and tried some treatments. Quite a few, in fact. I am currently waiting on approval for another new option. And we remain hopeful that this next thing might work, but in the meantime ... I hobble. Some days are better than others. Somedays I can mask it. Somedays, not so much.

I am still struggling with the fact that in the midst of my cancer diagnosis I must deal with such a debilitating and life-altering side effect of my meds. A few weeks ago when the pain was especially bad, we finally broke down and Rick ordered me a cane off of amazon. It arrived and, in a fit of rage, I literally threw the box into the back of my closet. And there it still sits. Of course I am having a difficult time accepting this new normal. So I hobble and hold on to furniture and walls and people and pretend that cane is not sitting buried in the back of my closet calling my name. 

Somedays I walk-limp around like Grandma Charlotta and go about my business and take care of the things of daily living and other days I find myself with enough anger to want to throw just about anything and everything against the sorry wall at the back of my closet. 

I am definitely not half as stoic as dear Charlotta. I don’t deny my pain. I don’t cheerfully pretend all is well. I don’t put on the happy face and charge-limp forward. Rick hears me grumble and complain. He sees me cry. He watches me debate if I need a pill for pain or another pill to sleep. He cannot help but watch me hobble across the kitchen or drag myself up the stairs every evening. He is living with a woman who has somehow transformed from a vibrant, active middle aged always-on-the-go-gal to a woman who feels like she's been catapulted somewhere in the middle of her 70s. Maybe her 80s.

I spend a good amount of time each week at my mom’s assisted living community and it is not lost on me that, these days, some of the residents there might be able to beat me in a foot race. Not such a good feeling for this always pretty competitive girl.

So I’ve been thinking a good bit about Charlotta McNatt. Thinking about her hard life. Thinking about the years of physical and emotional pain. Thinking about how she was a quiet, steady presence in Rick’s family home. She took care of so many things with hardly a word. She came in and out of rooms with hardly a sound. She never left a mess or a trace or any kind of dramatic imprint of her presence. I've thought also about how in all those years, though she was loved by Rick’s family, I am sure she at times felt a little bit invisible.

I might limp a bit like Charlotta, but the similarities probably end there. My family makes me feel very seen. My husband and even my children often express a good deal of appreciation and adoration. They love and honor me so well. They have not counted me out. They have not written me off. They do everything in their power to help me keep living vibrantly and voraciously. I know I am lucky and I couldn’t be more grateful for their incredible support.

Yes, truth be told, I am a little bit embarrassed by this new limp. Embarrassed that I have to be dropped off at the door or use my mother’s handicap parking sign or ask for help so often throughout my day. But I’m also grateful that my family continues to treat me like the same old mom I’ve always been. Yes, they are more tender and more helpful, but there’s such an enormous gift in their normalcy. 

It's been an especially frustrating couple of weeks as I've been doing my best to whip up all the holiday magic in our home. I love the details and decorating of Christmas. I love it so much. But the past two days I have had increased pain with every single step and it has made all the merry-making pretty maddening. 

Earlier today, as I was tweaking a few ornaments on the Christmas tree I noticed a small glass-beaded angel that hangs every year on our tree---34 Christmases, in fact! It is an ornament Charlotta made at one of her [many] church craft classes. She loved to create these little glass angels for the ladies church bazaar to sell each year. It was probably on our first Christmas married that she gifted this one to us. That little angel ornament is one of the only things we have left of her and it is absolutely no accident that I would come across it this morning. It reminded me again of Charlotta.

 And so today I want to take a moment to extend a bit of grace to those of you who are also limping around a little more lately. Maybe it is a real physical limp. Maybe it’s something else. Something more invisible. Some kind of pain or internal wound that has you feeling more hobbled than holy in this month of Christmas. Something making you feel more burdensome and less beautiful at this most wonderful time of the year.

I am sure, whether you have your own personal cheering section, or not, it is still possible to feel very alone in your pain. Alone in your limping. You might go about your business and take care of all the things like Charlotta did, but, even so, you feel fragile — like a mere wisp or a shadow. Like you could come and go and no one might even notice. Maybe you even feel completely invisible in your pain.

And, one thing I have learned in recent years especially, is that, when we are weary, the holidays can sometimes make us feel worse. All of that comfort and joy can feel fake or forced or, at the very least, pretty fragile.

I just want you to know you are not alone. You are seen. You are heard. Your pain is real. Your tears are precious. You might not feel like you have much comfort in this world, but you do have a Heavenly Father who loves you and desires deeply to have a real relationship with you. He desires to be both your comfort and your joy. 

He sees your limp. Even if it is invisible to others. 

He sees you. Even if you feel invisible to others. 

We have this beautiful glass-beaded angel ornament hanging on our tree as a remembrance of Grandma Charlotta. It is sweet. Very sweet. But far sweeter is the news the angels sang to the shepherds when baby Jesus was born in Bethlehem. 

“Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

Those simple, unsophisticated shepherds in the fields. They had canes or staffs too. They had rough roads to walk. Tough work to do. Unruly sheep. Hard ground. Cold nights. Long hours. Lonely days. 

Yet God chose those servants of the sheep to be recipients of the most incredible and important proclamation of Good News ever given to our world.

Do not be afraid!

I bring you good news!

I bring you great joy!

It is for all the people! 

Everyone! Even the simple shepherds. Even the lonely lady limping along. Even the one who feels invisible. Even the one in constant pain. Even the one who feels all is lost. Even the one who can’t seem to find Christ in Christmas.

I so often find myself amazed at the beautiful way scripture connects and communicates from one end of the Bible to the other. The shepherds and their sheep—they are some of my very favorite subject material and I love how they seem to constantly make an appearance. 

Because though God announced this good news to the shepherds in the fields way back when at the birth of Jesus, it wasn't until many years later that this same Jesus showed us what the good news actually looks like when He shared the parable of the lost sheep. 

“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not lead the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?

And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders rejoicing.

And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and and his neighbors , saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” Luke 15

Why could those angels proclaim this good news? “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

Because the babe born in Bethlehem would someday be that same Good Shepherd who would leave the 99 and go after the ONE who was lost, limping, hurting.

THAT is good news. THAT is great joy. THAT is for all people. 

The One does matter that much.

You matter. 

Your limp in life matters. 

When you feel otherwise, remember the Good Shepherd who leaves and searches and tenderly lays the lost sheep on His shoulders. 

The Good Shepherd who carries it carefully home and rejoices.

Glory to God in the highest, indeed. 

Grandma Charlotta with us at our college graduation - May 1991