Save Our Sons And Daughters.

We meandered through the tents and noises, Roman soldiers scattered about, beggar boys running, fish spread in the market.  Women told stories of Daniel and sold leather with candles or oils or cheese to taste.  The camel stood matted and chewing, the goats rubbing against the fence.  Jewish boys twisted the cradle while the inn keeper nodded no room.  "Did you hear, a baby has been born?!" the people said, one after another, as if in a whisper, as if in awe.  Almost with mesmerized wonder, questioning where or how but beckoning to see.  So we followed their nudges, their coaxing, their marvel, enticed and allured at what it could be.

The doors opened to farm-like, with oxen and donkey braying next to sheep.  But it was the glory of voices that awakened, almost trilling and willing us to see.  "Noel!  Noel!"  They rang, haunting and joyful, filling the sky with soprano and alto.  Amazement and wonder, they proclaimed:  a baby!

And there, cradled by mother, wrapped in white linen cloths, was he.  Literally, tiny human-boy baby, held; hardly weeks old, snuggled but all-watching, savored, bundled, He.

We watched the wiseman tarry their gifts, their eyes a glow to see him.  We watched the children set their coins; sacred wasn't missed by these.  The songs of the angels carried with honor, esteem they shouted in their "Hallelujah" and "Glory!" For unto us, they said, was both this baby, this tiny human: He.

~ ~ ~

I sat on my kitchen floor, later that evening, spooning soft orange squash into my son's mouth, Christmas carols enchanting my lips, singing softly, then loudly as the music played.  The modern classic tumbled off my lips, like the food from Judah's, "Mary, did you know, that your baby boy would give sight to a blind man? Mary did you know, that your baby boy would calm a storm with his hand..."  And I couldn't help but reminisce and roll back through the morning tour of Walk Through Bethlehem, with new, stark, powerful, almost piercing intensity, as the words caught my chest and belted now loudly, through me.

"Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water?

Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters?

Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?

This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you?!"

And then I stopped.  I put the spoon down.  I almost flinched in recognition, in new understanding.

This baby boy would save my son and daughter!!

When we had walked through Bethlehem earlier, the journey kept me wide-eyed and interested, peering and peeking, but when the babe in a manger was revealed, all I could partake in with wonder, was that he was real.  Real.  Like not a doll, not a plastic manger piece, not a pretend carving or bumpy-empty blanket, but real-life flesh and bones, little pursed lips and blinking eyes.  So the god-birth aside, I could only gape at the actual human-form baby.

Yet now the words trickled through my spine like sparklers igniting.  Knowledge anew, faith enhanced, life-giving bright lightning.

Save our sons and daughters!

This baby boy, this manger wrapped child, was born to save my son and daughter!  This baby boy was He!  The game changer.  The one.  The man.  Born in human flesh but the power to conquer it.  Tiny ears, crinkled fingers, rounded toes, yet pounding through hell and all adversity.

And it hit me fresh.  This babe a manger, this reason for Christmas, this new celebration, was everything.

Save my sons and daughter!

Out of this language, this line, this child, everything in heaven and earth would be uniting.  No longer would my children be stuck in sin, in doubt, in despair, in death, but would breath the hope and life and joy of eternity!  My children!  My children!  Saved from death, to life in eternity!

And then my eyes started simmering with tears -- save my sons and daughters -- from death to life, to eternity...  Means to meeting Jan Wever, their grandmother, waiting for them with expectant arms and hot brimming tea, in heaven, for eternity.

Oh joy and gladness erupted from me!  The singing turned to coarse screaming with every bit of gumption and loudness and rejoicing I could exalt, and Judah could bare!

Save our sons and daughters!

This babe born in a manger, this Christmas-child, this innocent life, would conquer it all.  And now, no longer, nothing could separate us from love of God, which is in the Christ, Jesus, the son of God [Romans 8].  And nothing would separate my son and daughter from the meeting of my mother with her grandson and granddaughter!  Not heaven or earth, life or death, situations or geography, near or far, alive or dead.  She would meet them!  They would hug her! They would hold her!   They could talk with her! They could play with her!  Because this baby in a manger came to:

Save my son and daughter!

The chorus burst into bridge:

"The blind will see!

The deaf will hear!

The dead will live again!

The lame will leap!

The dumb will speak:

The praises of the Lamb!"

The music blared, my son stared.  My arms raised out in exclamation and praise and worship.

This is why we worship this babe in the manger.  This is why we pause and stare.  This is why he shakes the kingdoms.  This is why I celebrate Christmas this year.

For this babe in a manger, this ten-toed wonder, will save my son and daughter.

- - - - - - - -

Paired reading: Isaiah 9: 2-3; 6-7

Christmas Card to Heaven.

** The writing and pattern and sounds don't really flow/make sense... 

but i'm still 'sending' this, unedited, unre-read, 

because its what I'd want to say, today... **

If I could send a Christmas card to heaven, I'd write her and this is what I'd say:

The children are flourishing!  Mom, you'd love to see!  You wouldn't imagine Camilla's giggles and squeals and wide-open eyes and smiles and face -- curious and learning, asking "why?" and questioning me.  Wanting to know about cement trucks and health care and teaching and Presidents and me.  Asking the opposites, "happy or sad?" and "healthy or sick?" and full conversations to follow.  Paragraphs, believe me.  The car is never quiet, the house is never still, she's as rambunctious as ever, but now mostly in her brain.  She sits quiet at story time and listens intently, she eyes friends and neighbors and still loves to hold my hand.  She asks questions about God and faith and belief and heaven.  Where is He?  Where is that? and I just pray for to believe.  We call them "sprouts" to see.  She's a transforming metamorphosis, from crazy to curious, loving dolls and dollhouse and some independent play.  She's a daddy's girl and Nan's favorite, reliving Michigan memories and the CYMA (ymca).  Her best friend is Kalea, and together they giggle while play.  She loves church and Bible Study and Jesus and Moses. And surely, mom, she would love you, too!

Judah is fascinating, learning something new each day.  Proud of standing and clapping and waving and saying "mama."  This month has been amazing, moving from 8-9, watching his eyes light with knowing and his body create the energy to follow suit.  His ears are so much better, the tubes have seemed to work.  He's still smiling and gummy, but now has one tooth.  His favorite thing is music, he hears the word to dance and now is our "Mr. Piano Man."  He makes sounds of anything, drums the toys and tamborine; his second favorite is the Sesame Street and clearing that little house clean.  He climbs up on Camilla's kitchen, emptying every box and bucket, then smiles that one-tooth smile knowing the mess is seen.  He doesn't care to read, but will open and close everything -- from the coffee pot to books to trash can.  He's loving unwrapping the toilet paper and time with Grandpa makes him gleam.  His eating is still frustrating; butternuts squash the staple, some smoke sausage and turkey and rice in-between.  He rarely likes to sleep, and naps are overrated, for why sleep through the night when there is mom or dad to be seen?!

Mark is dad and husband and blue-shirt wear-er.  The HOA President and small-group leader.  He wears so many hats you'd be amazed and proud and wondering and see him waring...  He's watering the grass and writing emails, grilling steaks and pushing Camilla on the swings.  He tries so hard at everything, and about that you would beam.  He's still handsome and stunning and polished, though those gray sweatpants are cozy too.  He's got a new job -- at Sealed Air -- and is working again with purpose.  He's got his passion back, and loves the people there too.  It's good to see him thriving, exhausting as that may be.  He still takes me out on dates, and we're even planning a weekend away!

We've had lots of adventures, that's what our family does.  From airplane museums to zoos, apple-picking to hot-air-balloons!  We've driven to pick pumpkins, taken the train to see the bears, swam many Saturdays at the YMCA and driven to Michigan too!  For Christmas we "visited" Bethlehem, but spent summer at Smith Mountain Lake.  Nan and Grandpa built a pool, so that will be on next-years to-do.  We've stayed busy and connected with Community Group, what chaos and commitment to add that in too!  But we want friends and Jesus followers pushing us onward and upward too.

And me, mom, I'm always swirling.  Full or wondering or wishing or wanting.  Exhausted with these endless hours, and yet still somehow thriving.  I know I'll look back and see pictures of Judah's grins or remember Camilla's giggles.  I'll find my rosy-glasses and forget how hard it really is.  But mostly mom, this Christmas season, right now I'm just missing you.

I'm missing you, with your hugs and caring, your Christmas cooking and carol-singing.  I'm missing your applause and clapping, somehow words to say you see me caring.  I'm missing Smith surprises, bustling with games on Christmas day, or holidays filled with gyms of people, joy and echoes bouncing along the way.  I'm missing you with your Christmas sweaters, your lipstick, your quiet time for tea.

I'm missing you for all the years you loved us all together, as one, as a complete and real family.

I'm missing you mom.  So I'm sending a Christmas card to heaven.

Love and hugs always, Mom.

Love,

Me

Teach Her To See.

I'm sure this is niave.  
The two-year-old mother, 
with hope-filled dreams.

But, Lord help me please, 
to teach her to see.

The garbage man waving 
in the blue-truck seat.  
The teacher bending 
to talk on one knee.  
The waitress refilling 
the coffee cup twice.  
The Bible Study teacher 
smiling so nice.  
The mail lady chatting 
with envelopes in hand, 
the blower-carrying 
lawn-mowing man.  
The story-time reader 
at the library each week, 
the dad who helped 
put shoes on her feet. 

I want her to see 
the background, the effort, 
the work, the toil 
or daily routine.  
That others put forth 
beyond just what is "seen".

So often she sits, 
with yells from her seat,  
for whatever she thinks 
she urgently needs.  
I stop, I pause, 
I bite my teeth, 
to show her, to stop her, 
to teach her to see.  
To ask her, to lend her, 
the eyes that open, 
to look who is ready, 
and then stop and see: 
her mommy still standing, 
still cutting or scooping, 
still pouring in kitchen 
to serve all the needs.   
I ask her to look, 
to wait, to listen, 
and then take those moments t
o teach her to see.

I want her to see, 
the world big or broken.  
The child who cries, 
the laborer who laughs, 
the tasks done around her, 
the people, the hands.  
To see them all working, 
or all having needs, 
and find her place serving 
or getting dirt on her knees.

In this world of so many, 
my heart tries to teach her, 
so many people, 
beyond just her needs.  
Now Lord please enable, 
this mother-heart trying, 
to equip her and show her, 
to teach her to see.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*written originally as prose, with cadence*

I'm sure this is niave.  The two-year-old mother, with hope-filled dreams.

But, Lord help me please, to teach her to see.

The garbage man waving in the blue-truck seat.  The teacher bending to talk on one knee.  The waitress refilling the coffee cup twice.  The Bible Study teacher smiling so nice.  The mail lady chatting with envelopes in hand, the blower-carrying lawn-mowing man.  The story-time reader at the library each week, the dad who helped put shoes on her feet. 

I want her to see the background, the effort, the work, the toil or daily routine.  That others put forth beyond just what is "seen".

So often she sits, with yells from her seat,  for whatever she thinks she urgently needs.  I stop, I pause, I bite my teeth, to show her, to stop her, to teach her to see.  To ask her, to lend her, the eyes that open, to look who is ready, and then stop and see: her mommy still standing, still cutting or scooping, still pouring in kitchen to serve all the needs.   I ask her to look, to wait, to listen, and then take those moments to teach her to see.

I want her to see, the world big or broken.  The child who cries, the laborer who laughs, the tasks done around her, the people, the hands.  To see them all working, or all having needs, and find her place serving or getting dirt on her knees.

In this world of so many, my heart tries to teach her, so many people, beyond just her needs.  Now Lord please enable, this mother-heart trying, to equip her and show her, to teach her to see.

Broccoli in Teeth.

"Now go and sin no more."

We call it love.

We call it grace.

We call it mercy.

We call it many things, but we do not call it what it is -- sin -- because we are afraid to actually call it out.

We shrug it off.

We brush it away.

We laugh it aside.

But we do not call it out.

Our brother or sister in Christ, standing there in their sin, and still we leave them be.

Because we are afraid of relationship.  Afraid of retribution.  Afraid of ruffling feathers.

Are we not also afraid of leaving someone in their sin?

Both sins of omission or sins of commission.

The Bible very clearly shares the story of Jesus speaking to the adulterous woman, loving her in her sin, but then freeing her of her sin by admonishing it and then instructing her to walk away from it.

"Now go and sin no more" speaks Jesus in John 8:11.

As Christ-followers, we are called to come along side others to make them more like Christ, to challenge them to be imitators of him, holy and dearly loved.

And yet we so often let this act of pruning, this iron sharpening, this willful growing, instead become slothful disobedience to his command to lend others become more like Christ.

We let them sit with their selfishness, their blatant choices, their blaring decisions.  We let them ease away from hard-work, service, and sacrifice.  We let them speak slander, mock purity, and store up storehouses of sinking treasures.

Becoming like Christ can often come through pain and discourse, scratching and squeezing.  It is uncomfortable to be molded, or whittled, like clay pots or broken trees.

Yet we let our loved ones lie.  Leaving them in their sin, their selfishness.  We call it many things, but we do not call it out, or call it sin.

We allow instead, fellowship as a false facade.  Relationships teetering to keep harmony in tact.  Passivity disguised as kindness.  Fear displayed as meekness.  Enabling masked as caring. Trepidation hiding truth.

All the while, leaving our fellow Christ-follower living in their sin, like having broccoli in their teeth.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Read more:
Speak the Truth [in Love].
Truth in Relationships.
Slow to Speak.
* Note: good discussion regarding the difference between "hurt" and "harm" in the Boundaries book by Henry Cloud and John Townsend
** Broccoli in teeth analogy taken from Amber Porter, speaking at Every Little Step; Church at Charlotte, November 2016.

Resounding Gong.

Pinterest tree.  Perfected decor.  Matching outfit.  Sparkling candle.  Toasted wine.  Braised Ham.  Fluffed potatoes.  Golden Turkey...

Obedient children.  Spotless house.  Romanced husband.  Warm dinner.  Folded laundry.  Curled hair.  Lipsticked lips.  Jeweled ears...

"....{____} but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal."  I Corinthians 13:1

I was talking with a friend last week, speaking through the holiday commotion of relationships, intersecting with meals to be made and schedules to be coordinated, when she landed on this verse, speaking, "I am a gong!" She had murmured all her efforts for relational energy, abundant generosity, billowing hospitality, and then still stepping back to feel falling short.

... but have not love! Paul writes this cutting wisdom.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angles, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.  If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing."

The Scripture is a still a searing, double edge sword, isn't it?!

If I am generous... If I am hospitable... If I quieted my tongue... If I served selflessly... If I quoted verses...  If I {_fill-in-the-blank_}...

... but have not love!...

I am nothing.  (vs.2)

Wow.  Ouch.  Pause.  Stop.  Breathe.

The Truth of Scripture serves as a bleeding filter to all our sinful work, motives, and energies.

... but have not love!...

So, then, Paul concerns himself with following up his calling-out with definition of what love is:

"Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking., it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preservers."

Ironically, this week in Bible Study, this is what we focused on.  This famous passage from I Corinthians 13.  So known, so recited.  So hard.  We took apart each piece of the definition and filtered it through the lens of our families and applied the sections of description through our interactions with our children, our spouses, our relatives, our people.

That magnifying lens causes a step back, revealing wide-eyes and piercing hearts.

... but have not love!...

Our efforts to complete tasks or perform duty can often be weighed on by the angst of envy, years of bitterness, fallible toil.  Record of wrongs tics as slander falls off lips.  What appears done in solitude and constraint is the actually product of a critical spirit or cynical heart.  Moreover, the labors done bear little resemblance to the fruit of the Spirit, as motives contradict the heart.

If I bought the groceries...  If I paid for private school...  If I traveled the distance... If I switched my holiday plans... If I played the game... If I made the craft...  If I washed the sheets... If I bought the toy...

If I decorated the tree... If I sent the Christmas card... If I sung the carole... If I hosted the party...

...but have not love!...

I am nothing.  I gain nothing.

I am a resounding gong, a clanging cymbal.