The Real Christmas Tree (2013)

And you shall call his name Emmanuel 

“Well, that’s different.” I thought to myself as I drove by the large cross stuck in the front lawn.  “Wait!  Is that blood?”  By the time I asked the question we had passed the house.  “That was strange,” I said to no one in particular.  Everyone in the car ignored me and the conversation turned to Christmas lights and holiday travel.   “Can we drive by that again?  Go around the block.” Straining my neck to see through the back window, I tapped my friend on the shoulder, “please?”  My friend sighed, “No Karen, let’s leave it, I don’t want to turn around.”  She looked at me apologetically.  “It was weird; you can see it next time.  It’s not hard to miss!”

My friend had a point.  It wasn’t often you saw a bloody cross posted on a main road.  I had never seen anything like it.  It was 1989 and I was spending my first December away from home.  Victoria was a beautiful city and I was enjoying watching it dress up for Christmas.  Lights, banners and ornaments were bursting from shop windows and sidewalk spaces.  Tinsel, ribbons and lights were everywhere; why did I care about one strange cross on someone’s lawn?  “Fine,” I sighed.  “But let’s go home that way if we can.”

 I made it back to the same spot a week later to ensure I had seen what I remembered.  I was right; it was a Christmas display unlike any I had seen.  To call it ugly might be unfair: solemn, stark and disturbing, but not ugly.   The cross was large and the wood aged by the island’s constant winter rain.  I remember the cross being draped in a white banner and red paint smudges where Jesus hands and feet would have been.  There was a white flood light at its base which caught the words, “And still He came.”  It was barren, simple and disconcerting.

I lived in Victoria for ten years and every Christmas I went out of my way to view that display.  It appeared at the end of November.  I wondered if the owner of the house on Shelbourne was tempted to scrap that cross and put up a Christmas tree instead.  “Leave the cross for Easter and decorate a tree buddy,” I thought. But every year, the cross would faithfully appear and to be honest, it brought a secret thrill to my soul.  I was unable to articulate it at the time, but I knew I was witnessing a form of rebellion.  This hideous cross was cramping Christmas’ style.  Something was screaming and I could not hear it clearly.

At this point in my story you need to know I love Christmas trees.  I do not love plastic trees.  If you have an artificial tree I can still love you, but while you are not looking I will lay hands on your tree and pray that next year your tree will live.  I am not put off by you telling me you hate pine needles in your carpet.  It means nothing to me that the plastic tree is the best thing that happened to your Christmas.  I don’t care if it was $3000 and you got it for $18 at a garage sale.  I am not fazed by the fact that you are allergic to trees and they make you sneeze.  I will still sit by your tree and agree with it in prayer, “Dear Jesus, next year make this tree a real boy.”

I tell you this darling friend, so that you are able to understand what I am going to say next. Would you walk with me a moment dear heart?  Could we use the language of pictures, memory and experience to allow the Lord to prepare our hearts for Christmas?

I have many precious Christmas memories.  I was given the gift of a childhood by my parents and I enjoy Christmas. But as I get older, I notice a battle brewing between the Christmas tree and the Cross.  I noticed the battle 24 years ago, when my friend on Shelbourne placed that unattractive cross on his front lawn.  He defiantly decorated it with red smudges and the words, “And still He came.”

Christmas can be difficult.   When the year draws to a close, the world of media starts it full on assault on our sanity.  The airwaves scream the message that a perfect Christmas is available for a price.  Satellites bombard the planet with messages of sales and sequins, trinkets and tinsel that will usher in great happiness and joy.  Decorate your Christmas tree, put presents under it, adorn your house with lights and the sickening loneliness of the season will disappear.  Worship at the altar of perfection and strive to belong to a class of happy folk.  Make the most perfectly, perfect Christmas tree and all will be well. 

The problem is the perfect Christmas tree doesn’t have room for me and many of the people I know.  My friends, who love Jesus daily with their weaknesses, don’t have lives that make perfect Christmas possible.  One has a mother who is a raging alcoholic, while the other struggles daily with a mentally ill brother.  One of my teachers is grieving the loss of her husband while another is in a season of such tempest, she fights hourly to hold on to faith.  Many of them are working hard to restore shattered relationships and set a good example for their children.  Grace, addiction, despair, unanswered prayer, hope, intercession, these are the words that decorate my community.  Thank heaven, thank Jesus, there is a tree for the likes of us to gather around and worship at this Christmas season.

Our Christmas tree is the cross.   Those who love Jesus and are suffering during this Christmas season are welcome underneath this tree.  Fear not, your brokenness will not diminish its glow.  Your shameful relative has a place in the very heart of Him who bled and died here.  The God of this tree is big enough to deal with your anxiety and pain.  We worship here because Jesus decided to leave the glory of heaven and to condescend to become Emmanuel, God with us.  He came knowing we would fail.  He came knowing that you would despair.  He came because He loves you.  He came knowing that He would be betrayed.  He came knowing that He would die a gruesome death.  He came knowing….and still He came……

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. Luke 2:8-14

I pray you have a blessed Christmas.
xoxKaren
PS. pixabay photo
https://pixabay.com/en/cross-wooden-cross-christianity-2303388/
   

Lack and Longing (Repost 2015)

Dear Friend!

I am posting mid week because my friends make me happy.  This post is originally from 2015.  I do pray you will get to a service this weekend.  Thinking of you this weekend.  Drive safely.  Be kind.  Share your cookies.

xoxK

Delivery!

“I have to drop my son off first, I’ll bring her by around six.  Maybe I can pull it together and bring dessert.”  
“No worry.  We have more than enough food.  See what your time allows.”  With that, I hung up the phone, feeling pleased with myself.  Some people find life easy to organize.  I don’t.  Any plan that I manage to pull together feels like a major victory.  I had just created an impromptu hang out time for three teenagers on a Friday evening without needing to drive.  I was impressed with myself.  I set myself to food preparation and scanned the living room.  “Girls, time to tidy up!”

I turned on the Christmas music as the girls started cleaning.  There was a knock on the door half an hour later and my girlfriend flounced into the  living room.  “Hello! We’re here,” she announced needlessly.  “You are,” I agreed.  Her arms were full and she started to place plastic cups on my table.  “Ta da,” she sang merrily.   “I made you all dessert.  Well, I tried to make you dessert.  I thought I had two pudding mixes, but it turns out I only had one.  So the girls can each have a taste, unless you have pudding.  If you have pudding, you can add more!  I’m sorry, I should have checked my pantry before I started!”  I giggled.  If anyone in my life was going to show up with an unfinished dessert, it was her.  “And the empty cups?” I inquired, knowing exactly what the answer would be.  “I was making dessert for everyone!” She repeated herself slowly, as though I were daft.  “Those are for you and your husband.  Do you have anything that can go in there?”

Moments like these, provided by friends and family make me insanely happy. This friend in particular, has a knack for doing the unexpected.  God alone knows how we have maintained our friendship over the past decade.  We communicate differently.  I could tell you that I am an auditory learner and she is visual, but the truth of the matter is I am sensible and she is a lunatic.  Misunderstanding stalks us.  We are constantly skirting disaster.  She once called me to request I pick up her daughter and then looked at me quizzically an hour later when I arrived to get her.    

The fact that she presented me with an unfinished dessert wasn’t offensive in the least.  It was a delightful gesture filled with good intent and insanity, exactly what I expect from her.   Friends aren’t bothered by lack of perfection, they are able to see the heart behind the finished product regardless of the outcome.  I find such grace a wonderful part of the Christmas season.  

Perfection is defined as the condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.   Christmas is the time when the standard of perfection is raised over friends, family and finances.  For one month, any imperfection is viewed as damaging a holiday which needs to be free from all forms of stress and strife.  Real life could not be farther from the truth.

Christmas outstrips the resources of many.  The ability to buy fabulous gifts, interact without strife and maintain a positive outlook is possessed by few, especially during the holiday season.  Real life has a way of upending good intentions.  When delusions of Christmas grandeur threaten to upset your peace of mind, it is worth taking a stroll through the story of the nativity.

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child.  And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth.  And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

The Shepherds and the Angels

 And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.  And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.”  And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,

   “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”

When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger.  And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child. And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them.  But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

And at the end of eight days, when he was circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb. Luke2:1-21

Suspend if you can, the perfect Christmas and reflect on scripture for a moment.  A young woman, pregnant outside of marriage.  A young couple, with no family members willing to share accommodations.  A baby born in the presence of animal dung.  A new mother with no one to tell her that her baby is beautiful.  No soft cotton outfit to put on the newborn.  A shady bunch of farm hands showing up out of nowhere and no cheese plate to share.   Nothing about this picture meets the criteria for social etiquette. Not a lot about the setting says celebration.  

Heaven however, finds the event glorious.  

Perhaps dear friend, you find yourself outstripped by Christmas this year.  If you are feeling the lack, the longing and the lacerations inflicted by life, could I invite you to take a look into the stable where our Savior was born?  I want to remind you of a simple truth: Jesus did not condescend to come to earth so that you might have a merry Christmas.  He didn’t come for the tree, the lights or the gifts.  He came to bring you hope.

Jesus came, so that you might experience forgiveness when you are rightly accused.  When you are unable to bear one more minute, He came so that He could help you endure.  If you are faced with the inability to cope, he came so that He could get you to the other side of your circumstance.  He came, so that when this world wraps up like a gift, He can right the wrongs and bring the perfect peace and justice you long for.

So dear friend, I wish you peace in the darkness this advent season.  That you might have the eyes to see heavens’ joy.  The heart to hold on to the hope He offers and the grace to sing no matter where this season finds you.

I am thinking of you this week,

xoxKaren

The Center Peace

Thank you for my flowers friend!

The Christmas bouquet caught my eye as I rounded the corner, distracted I almost ran my cart into a group of shoppers awaiting samples.  Dodging a grandma with three littles munching goat cheese on crackers, I parked my cart and wandered closer to give them a second look.  They were pretty.  Roses, greenery and a delightfully hideous gold pine cone accent.  I loved them!  A store bought center piece hadn’t graced my table since 2008 when I was given one for helping at a Christmas party.  A square vase provided the base for a flurry of pinks and reds.   Hidden in the blooms were plastic Christmas candies, realistic enough to catch the eye of anyone under 4 feet tall.  I loved that center piece; it kept me happy right into the New Year, when life took a turn toward difficulty and a season of suffering. 

Frugality, once learned, is force capable of silencing many a heart’s desire.   I checked the price tag and immediately dismissed the idea of buying them.  The budget allowed for some new things this Christmas, but splashing out on flowers wasn’t one of them.  Turning my attention to admiration and appreciation lessened the desire of ownership.  I spent a few moments looking at the velvety petals and walked on.  Flowers are amazing. If I could spend 5 minutes as another creature, I would turn into a honey bee and hang out in a rose bush (a rose bush that had been checked and had no spiders).  What a glorious thought.  The image of fuzzy bees foraging in flowers kept me preoccupied until I made it out of the store.  I returned home, unpacked the groceries and made myself some tea.   

I browsed news headlines as I sat and it didn’t take long for a sense of disbelief to settle over me.  Like many people, I find the amount of incivility in the news headlines astonishing.  The rudeness and vitriol seems unprecedented. Attack by twitter has become the norm and public anger is so fast paced I’m not sure any of us are coming out of this unscathed.  How does one conduct oneself in a culture of rage?  Is it possible to make a difference?   I sighed.  It was time to get off the computer.  Sitting at the table, I pulled out a pen and paper.  I needed to make a to-do list.  For the first time in over a year, I was having dinner guests and I was more than a little nervous. 

It wasn’t the cooking, I had my menu planned and didn’t give it a second thought.  One of the joys of being over 45 is that you know if dinner fails ordering takeout isn’t shameful.  My uneasiness came from my choice to have company in my home again.  My hiatus from entertaining was deliberate.  It was my response to unkindness targeted at my family at one of the most joyful times afforded by the Christian calendar.  To have people over for dinner was a big deal, it felt vulnerable and I didn’t want things to go sideways.  I wanted to provide a peaceful meal in celebration of the holdiay.  

I fussed and putzed the afternoon away, getting things ready and cooking.  When the house was clean, the candles lit and everything presentable I called my family together for a quick prayer.  “Lord, help.  I really don’t want this to go badly.  Please have mercy. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, it could be a really bad idea.”  To which everyone rolled their eyes and said “Amen.”  Sometimes I pray quickly, don’t know what to tell you.  As my guests rolled up, I had a momentary panic, wondering if being social again was a wise idea. 

Was the table big enough? Would I say the right things? Would I give my guest food poisoning?  Would they be put off by the fact we drink from Mason jars? Should I have bought the centerpiece to make the table look better? A million stupid things flew through my mind before my friend walked up the walkway.  “Hi!  We made it.”  She smiled and handed me a gift as her crew bustled through the door.  I barked directions to my girls, grabbed coats and kicked shoes until I realized I was holding the same flower centerpiece I didn’t buy from the store.  It had made it to my table after all. 

I Heard the Bells On Christmas Day

I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play;

In music sweet the tones repeat,

“There’s peace on earth, good will to men.”

And in despair I bowed my head:

“There is no peace on earth,” I said,

“For hate is strong, and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor does He sleep,

For Christ is here; His Spirit near

Brings peace on earth, good will to men.”

When men repent and turn from sin

The Prince of Peace then enters in,

And grace imparts within their hearts

His peace on earth, good will to men.

O souls amid earth’s busy strife,

The Word of God is light and life;

Oh, hear His voice, make Him your choice,

Hail peace on earth, good will to men.

Then happy, singing on your way,

Your world will change from night to day;

Your heart will feel the message real,

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~

I’m thinking of you my friend, as rage battles around us.  Praying you will find the peace you seek this Christmas.  Asking God would give you good will towards others, as this seems to be in short supply.  I pray you might have the courage to do something new, like share a coffee or bring a neighbor a plate of cookies.  Maybe get radical and sing a carol on the bus. I'm hoping that in the presence of injustice you would know that God is not dead, nor sleeping.  He sees malice and we are speeding toward a time when we will need to give an account of our deeds.  He cares about the small things and will give you the strength to endure.

Enjoy the Christmas lights.

xoxK

Matthew 5

It was the wrong week to watch a murder mystery, even the classic, Murder on the Orient Express.  Not because of the movie itself, or the acting but because the world has changed since I read it with my girls for English 5 years ago.  The years spent raising children have a meter of their own.  Days and weeks warp, as if contained within the lives of children is a 4^th dimension that can transport their loved ones back through time with a simple look or smile. By this chronology, 5 years is a lifetime.

Throughout those years, my husband and I spent time talking to our children about the importance of friends: making friends, managing friends and maintaining friends.  Lately, the conversation has turned to the less discussed ability human beings have to make enemies.  The conversations are difficult yet rich, revealing the truth that regardless of how you obtain enemies it is certain that you will make enemies through your friendships.  That can be a startling realization for a young mind. 

An enemy is defined by Webster’s as, “a person who hates another: a person who attacks or tries to harm another.”  How can something as comforting as friendship usher into my life someone whose intention it is to harm me?  This question has come to the forefront recently, as survivors share their stories wherein the pretense of friendship was stripped away leaving harm, pain and fear.  It is difficult to explain these situations if you do not believe in evil or acknowledge the presence of hate (its socially acceptable name).   

Social media and our online lives seem to have made the task of being hateful easier than ever before.  The ability to publish words and opinions, without even talking to those whom we disagree has become our meat and drink.  Why even this week, world leaders have traded insults, engaging in name calling as if it were an advanced form of foreign policy.  It might be comforting to imagine a new leadership will wash away the incivility that dominates our culture, but lately I have come to realize that overt corrosive public hatred is now an acceptable form of communication.

I know.  I’m slow.  Hate in all its forms has been around since the beginning of time, (or slightly after the beginning of time depending on how you measure these things) but to watch global vitriol increase is frightening.  Like the bird in Tinkerbell who hatches and then tries to jump back into its broken shell, sometimes I lack the courage to act in certainty and in opposition to my fear. When fear looms large, hate cannot be conquered.   

Which brings me back to the movie I shouldn’t have been watching… The movie centers on the theme of human revenge in the face of evil.  The apex of the narrative involves is a reenactment of a murder; the consummation of human revenge.  The hatred illustrated was all the more disturbing given the events which took place this week, wherein evil culminated in mass murder.  This violence took place in a church in a small Texas town, new territory for this deranged hatred.  Hundreds of lives lives shattered by violence.  The words, “Human justice is sometimes not enough,” spoken by the character of Poirot carried a weight of truth.  Human systems cannot bring justice to such evil.

My prayers this week join with the countless voices who are crying out for comfort for those who are mourning.  So many in the past few years...  So many who have faced injustice and hate through the decades...centuries.  I am praying that as a church God might grant us the grace to boldly love in the face of hate, to overcome evil with his goodness.  That somehow, our faith would make it past our own front door out into our world.

To those who have served their countries, we thank you for your service.  To those who have lost loved ones, our hearts ache for you.  We are thankful for your courage.  May Jesus, our friend, sustain you and comfort you in your suffering.

And even in our sleep,
pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
until in our own despair, 
against our will,
 comes wisdom through the awful grace of God  ~Aeschylus~

xoxKaren

Keeping Score

Anatomically correct hamster on white and lavender

Oh friend! 

It has been a week.  Every time I turned around, someone was doing something weird, surprising, or both. You need to come over and have tea soon.

Monday morning found me with errands to do, so I assigned work to my youngest and left her at the kitchen table with instructions to remain seated until her math was completed.  I returned home, put the kettle on and we sat sipping tea correcting her assignment.

Math question: How many minutes are in one day?  Write a multiplication question and show your answer.

Me: "Darling, I see you have the answer for your question, 1440 minutes in a day.  The answer is correct but the work isn’t there…. How did you get your answer?"

Child: (looks at me blankly, as though I’m missing something) "Well, I just asked Echo."

Me: look of amazement, mouth open

Child:  "What? It was way easier Mummy, really."

Life 1, Karen 0.

Tuesday morning I was out the door early to take a youngling to physical therapy.  Rehearsing the situation won’t get us that far, but even I was surprised when I found myself entering the PT room to tell the physical therapist I found her rude.  No one was more mortified than my daughter who had turned scarlet and actually had her hand over her face.  That took some sorting out I assure you.

Life 2, Karen 0, Physical Therapist 10 (she phoned and apologized bless her sweet pagan soul.)

Mid-week I heard someone was trying to scalp tickets to the Homecoming dance. 

The home-school Homecoming dance. 

The Christian home-school Homecoming dance.   

Yep.  I want that to sink in, so we are pausing there.   

Not disparaging the kids I love the most but Christian home-school dances aren’t generally the hottest ticket in town. That was until this year.  When my girlfriend told me that someone was trying to move a dance ticket for an extra $25 I knew I was witnessing something from the book of Revelation.   Not clear if it was a trumpet, lamp stand or a horse but whatever it was clear knocked me over in shock.  Maybe my Canadian roots are showing but trying to make an extra $25 off someone’s lack of planning seems a bit capitalistic even for the right wing conservative crowd.  

That was Wednesday.

No wait!  I was rude to someone that afternoon!I had to text her later to apologize for being such a troll.

Life 3, Karen -1

Thursday started with a minorly major catastrophe that I brought upon myself.  If you were intending to bless a child by doing their laundry, you might be forgiven for taking the clothes in the laundry basket (on top of the washing machine might I add) and sticking them in the wash. It wasn’t as if I damaged anything by doing her laundry, unlike last week when I threw a purple shirt in with the whites and turned everything mauve. Apparently, the clothes in the aforementioned laundry basket were clean and I had washed them a second time much to my beasts' consternation.  She came into the room to give me a hug, “Mummy, I totally release you from needing to do my laundry.  You are nice to me but that is why I do my own, so it doesn’t go missing.”   I smiled and bit my lower lip. 

Actually, my girl does her laundry because some years ago I had a laundry crisis wherein almost every pair of underpants in the house went awol.  When I found them 24 hours later in a laundry basket in my car underneath a garbage bag of coats on the way to the junk store, I realized that for sanity’s sake, my girls should start doing their own laundry, or risk public humiliation. To be released from laundry duty by a child who started her journey in cloth diapers was a bit galling bless her precious twice washed socks.    

Life 4, Karen 0 (I had 3 cookies at tea time when no one was looking.)

Friday was all about biology.  In a conversation not to be repeated, nor the participants named, it turns out that a hamsters’ testicles do not reside under its arm pits. Not much to report except that by the end of the day, I had texted my husband diagrams of hamster privates.

Life 5, Karen 0, Husband 3 (because he didn’t ask for a divorce) Hamster 2

I could continue throughout the weekend and mention the gossip train that sideswiped my Saturday.  Then I would need to confess swearing at the bird on Sunday when it tried to jump into the washing machine.  Repeated failure gets boring and uncomfortable, especially when it is my own. 

And so, dear friend, life is rushing along, precious moment after moment.  I have no idea if I am effecting change, staying afloat or succeeding from one day to the next.  Do you ever feel like you are moving quickly but getting nowhere?

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

"Come unto Me and rest;

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down,

Thy head upon My breast."

I came to Jesus as I was,

Weary and worn and sad;

I found in Him a resting-place,

And He has made me glad.

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

"Behold, I freely give

The living water; thirsty one,

Stoop down and drink and live."

I came to Jesus, and I drank

Of that life-giving stream.

My thirst was quenched, my soul revived,

And now I live in Him.

I heard the voice of Jesus say,

"I am this dark world's Light.

Look unto Me; thy morn shall rise

And all thy day be bright."

I looked to Jesus, and I found

In Him my Star, my Sun;

And in that Light of Life I'll walk

Till traveling days are done.

Thank goodness we are not alone.  We have the friendship of one who is infinitely wise and eternally compassionate.  He understands the mundane, sees our failures and blesses our efforts.  I pray, that as you make your way through this week, you might know his presence in the ridiculous, the raw and the raging.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren   

**For those of you that don’t home-school, imagine someone trying to charge an extra $20 to get into the community center’s Christmas craft bazaar to buy crochet Kleenex holders.  It seemed a pretty bold move for a rather selective group of folk.

Plans and Puffins

Behold the noble Puffin...

I was sitting with a group of ladies when I heard my phone ring.  Picking it up, I plugged my left ear and said, "Hello?"  There was quite a bit of swearing going on the other end of the line.  Swearing and yelling to be more specific, so I thought it would be wise to move outside with my phone before one of the tender homeschooling mama’s I was sitting beside heard what my friend was suggesting her ex-husband do with his new motorbike.  “Hold on babe,” I muttered.  “Let me go outside so we can chat better.”  Truth was we were nowhere near chatting.  My friend had a lot more poison to get out of her soul before chatting would be possible.  I walked out the door into a well-timed gust of wet. It was cold and grey, a Northwest fall special.  The rain was falling heavily and splashing up from the pavement in order to soak my feet twice and the wind was blowing the whole mess sideways.  I headed for an alcove and waited for a break in the storm, figuratively speaking.  

“Yes, I know. No, I’m not.  No, you didn’t.  No, you shouldn’t…”  A running list of affirmations and directives fell from my mouth as I tried to keep pace with the crescendo of disappointment I was hearing.  I practiced deep breathing in order to keep my blood pressure down, my dear friend was really letting loose and I realized that something had upset her deeply, this was more than an unfortunate incident, this was a wounded heart.  

We talked.  I shivered. We talked some more.  Finally, the crux of the issue became clear, “I spent so much time... snup... days, years, to have things end like this…why did I even bother?  Snup! Where did God go?  I’m not even sure I heard him in the first place. Snup! Snup!”
“Umm….Seriously, are you hiccuping right now?  Did you just cry until you have the hiccups?”
“Snup!” My friend said some rude words while crying and hiccuping some more.  

“I was tracking with you, until the hiccuping.  Then I got distracted.  Do you need to hold your breath?  Can I go inside now?  You can’t hiccup and yell at the same time can you?”  I like to believe I exhibit a strong balance of compassion and practicality. As it turns out, my friend was not finished hiccuping or venting and we talked for a while longer.  Disappointment with God figured heavily in the conversation.  

I got off the phone 20 minutes later feeling blue.  Letting the wind propel me, I walked the parking lot while I prayerfully handed the entire incident back over to the Creator.  One of the best spiritual disciplines I was taught was to spend time after difficult conversations in prayer.   Processing disappointment with God is hard work and I have found it helpful to spend time acknowledging my inadequacy in front of the one who created both puffins and accountants.  The former being something strange I really like, a swimming bird, and the latter being something I really appreciate, a human who likes math, yet want to stay far away from. 

While I acknowledge that disappointment has made me more compassionate, I still dislike the experience.  Disappointment is defined as the feeling of sadness or displeasure caused by the nonfulfillment of one's hopes or expectations.  My biggest problem in dealing with disappointment is that I need to acknowledge that life isn’t about me.  It is amazing how often I want the world to cater to my expectations.  Equally as staggering is the amount of times the world refuses to play along.  It’s rough.

At the center of it all lays the issue of faith.  Am I able, when life deviates far from what I expect, when it causes unbearable suffering, to process the disappointment honestly with my faith intact?  I confess I found that difficult when I was my own highest authority.  Without a creator, we cease to have purpose or meaning beyond ourselves.  Puffins are a weird bird that decided one day it would be great to go swimming and accountants have a lot to answer for in choosing that whole math thing.  

So I’m thinking about you if you are processing disappointment.  If you are one of the many, who look at your life and wonder if there is a way forward after failure, or if you are simply tired because so much of the journey seems to tilt uphill.  I pray that you might come to know Jesus listens carefully to those whose prayers go unanswered.  That although your well-crafted plans have come to naught, His plans for your eternal good, so different from your own, are moving forward, fashioned in his faithfulness.

Praying for all of us this week,

xoxKaren

A Cacophony of Clothing

Yep.  Sold in a store near you.  Someone wanted money for this. 

Hello Friend,

How are you holding?  Fall is settling into my corner and I miss our walks by the seaside.  They helped me make sense of the world, which seems to be hurling toward the book of Revelation at a break neck pace.  As a Canadian, American politics was hard to understand with your tutelage, without it, I’m simply lost.  I was keeping pace until that Moochi fellow reenacted the Fall of Icarus with such staggering devotion.  At that point I became overwhelmed.  Though it was barely 10 weeks ago the tone of my surroundings have changed so much it has altered my prayer life.  I offer the Lord fewer solutions now, realizing we have crossed the event horizon of social incivility.  Media of all forms has become a blood sport and I find myself limiting my exposure to its war cry.  I am spending more time with those I love and enjoying the care those relationships provide. 

It’s nice.   

My recreational time has been overtaken by the demands of raising teenagers, which was how I ended up at the mall recently.  Any of my children will tell you going to a shopping mall is a gift of sacrificial love on my part.   I simply detest the places.  One of my children however, spontaneously acquired the shopping gene, so to prove my undying love, we spent an afternoon window shopping.  

This is where it gets complicated.  I love spending time with my girls.  I enjoy discussing life issues, reshaping problems as opportunities for hope and encouraging their souls to look for joy.  This parenting goal is challenged the moment I set foot in a store whose objective is to clothe my children.  Clothe did I say?  I’m sorry, I should have been more accurate.  What would you call it if a clothing factory vomited on the floor and then offered to place its fabric remnants on your child?  That’s the word I’m looking for… 

This week I have decided to become a fashion blogger, because frankly, Christian mommy blogging has its limitations.  What makes it all the more awesome is the fact I’m radically unqualified to blog about fashion.  My friends will tell you my fashion style is rumpled or nonexistent.  This means, anything I will say is based on observation and sheer ignorance.  I’m excited as I feel I meet the standard set by the internet at large: opinionated and uninformed.  

The first thing I noticed was the vibe of the store.  The place possessed all the despair and broken dreams a sweat shop can afford.  Cheap and sad, most of the clothing hailed from the same unimaginative muse.  Like the $20 barmaid Halloween costume, the clothing was dipped in a tawdry layer of sexuality that was both bizarre and depressing.  I wandered aimlessly looking for something … anything pretty.  I realized I was in the wrong place.  This store had given up flattering for flattening.  Skeins of spandex spun into every garment so that young forms and curves could be forced into the shape of a garish doll, identical and tired. It was like a physical manifestation of a teenage identity crisis.    

I walked to outer wear which was a wise move on my part.  My mood picked up immeasurably.  Walking around in disbelief I suddenly realized I was feeling better.  The wailing of cheap sex had been silenced by racks and racks of fuzzy faux fur.  Unclear of what I was seeing, I asked my daughter, “What exactly is all this stuff?”   “Coats Mum!” was the reply.  “Get out! This is amazing!”  I was rewarded with an eye roll.  So in the vein of a fashionista, I would like to introduce you to a few of my favorite coats this fall season. 

Though not as stylish as velour tracksuits, I see potential here. 

I call this one “Low Carb Cookie Monster” in honour of all my friends on the Keto diet. Do you recall how smug you felt when you realized Cookie was a puppet and was therefore unable to eat the cookies he threw about the room?  Not only is this coat really ugly and shapeless, it is the colour of Cookie Monster himself, minus the fuzz length.  How many humans look good in this shade of blue?   I’m not certain but if you know what comes after the phrase “C is for cookie…” this is your coat. 

This could only be improved if it came with a cinnamon scented liner. 

This garment was brought out for fall and I call it Pumpkin Spice Muppet.  There really aren’t words to describe it.  Think Ewok meets Beaker’s hair and you are working your way there.  I spent a lot of time staring at this one trying to imagine who would look at home in it.  I decided that our hamster James would do it justice though the sizing would be a problem.  A Sphynx cat might also appreciate it as a bed.  The makers of this fabric are laughing their way to the bank.  Back in my day we used this stuff as craft material.  We cut it into long rectangles, put two googly eyes on it and sold them as caterpillars at the church bazaar.   Clearly the coat visionary didn’t know this fabric wasn’t made to become clothing.  

To understand why I like the next coat you have to meet a member of my family.  My daughter found him at the dollar store and fell instantly in love with him “because he was so soft and fuzzy.”  His sole function is to come on family trips and have his picture taken.  Meet Scruffles: this is Scruffles at Lake Tahoe this summer.  

Fortunately Scruffles didn't need to get into the water because I don't think he can swim. 

Imagine my surprise when I saw Scruffles in coat form! My shock was matched only by my middle child who screamed and launched herself at the coat rack.  It took a while to get her put of there and a complicated discussion ensued as to how many Scruffles were harmed in the making of these garments.  I made a mental note never to take that child shopping again. 

Scruffles family

We wandered some more, bought sugar dipped dough and chatted.  By the time we returned home I was tired, not physically but mentally.  I was unclear how to convey the importance of self-worth when so much of the clothing available to this generation is worth-less.  Unclear where to find self-respect when it has been exchanged for rabid self-righteousness.  Unclear how to encourage thoughtful discussion when many would rather rage than engage and venting anger has become the norm.  

Where was Jesus in the whole mess?

Funny, when I type that, a whole bunch of Christianese phrases jump to mind.  “He is high and lifted up.”  “Ruling and reigning.” “Large and in charge” and a whole myriad of phrases that aren’t all together helpful.  As the world gets noisier and troubles increase, we are faced with a choice.  From where will we pull our strength?  Will we pop a phrase in our computer and hit enter and come before the Google god?  Or will we hit our knees and come before God himself?  With what, will we clothe ourselves?  Will we put on articles provided by the world, faux fury and frustration? Or will we hold to the simple gospel that every person is found wanting and clothe ourselves in the grace Jesus provides? 

It isn’t easy.  

So I’m praying for you dear friend.  While so many are in a season of loss and grief that you will be able to come alongside in compassion and understanding as opposed to offering trite soundbite sentiments.  That you would have the strength to bridge the spaces between your neighbors and listen with understanding.  

Thinking of you this week,


xoxKaren

Child Care

How can there be too many children?  That is like saying there are too many flowers.
~Mother Teresa~

The first time I went to Children’s Hospital I got lost. It was fall and the rain turned everything grey.  Culture shock hung off me like a trench coat, heavy and physically limiting.  When I realized I would have to drive a six lane highway to get there I almost lost my nerve.  Off ramps where a new experience in my world and I lived in fear of exiting the freeway by accident, only to end up 2 states removed from my original destination. 

Thanks to map quest (remember when we used to print out directions?) I planned my route and made it to the campus on the edge of Seattle.  My miraculous victory was short lived, I remember sitting in the parking lot, two littles in the car, crying because I was supposed to be the functional adult.  I felt uncertain, unqualified and unprepared.  It was horrible.

Summoning my nerve, I grabbed my cotton clad poppets and stuffed their sweet chubbiness into strollers and harnesses.  Sippy cups and cheerios were slung into their appropriate holsters on my person as I turned toward the building to do battle with my fears.  Drying my eyes, I hid my face in my baby’s hair, took a deep breath of her fresh soapy scent and walked through the doors that slid open as I approached. 

The presence of God is a difficult thing to describe.  Mostly it’s because people who are foolish enough to use those words are an odd bunch who shout hallelujah at weird times and wear a lot of denim.   I’m going to try not to go there.  But when I walked into the hospital, I felt a peace descend over my fear and I could breathe again. 

I still must have looked rough because I was asked six times between the parking lot and the 4^th floor if I knew where I was going.  Each time, my answer was the same, “No, not really.”  My eyes would start to sting again and I would blink furiously trying not to cry as hot tears escaped anyway off my nose and onto my baby’s head.  Scolding myself furiously for my tears, I detoured to the bathroom in order to cry in a stall: the huge one, with the space for a small excavator.  Soon tears were a luxury I couldn’t afford as I battled my nylons, baby front pack and my baby’s sock that, due to an uncanny sense of timing, came off her foot and got lost somewhere in my skivvies. 

I was an emotional wreck with a baby sock lost in my knickers. 

The day was unforgettable for the wonderfully awful way it started.  It became an awfully wonderful day because I had discovered a community of amazing people.  I have returned several times over the past decade and each time, been touched by the amazing staff and family’s that grace its halls.  I am grateful I was referred there so many years ago.  After a few visits this month, I wanted to say thank you to those who work with children in particular.  I have friends who foster children from broken families and those who nurse them back to health in their times of illness.  Courage and steadfastness are not the half of it.

I am thankful for your ministry. 

Thank you for your faithful service.  Ministering to sick children isn’t for cowards.  Sometimes I hide in my community, doing battle with illness and death only when it is absolutely necessary.  I counter it with prayer and casseroles not knowing what to say and retreating whenever possible.   Thank God there are those who battle daily with gauze, sutures and hope.  I came face to face with the reality of long term illness at my last visit, as a sweet child came round the corner in pajama clad feet, sucking her thumb as the nurse took her for a wagon ride down the hall.  It felt like she rolled over my heart as she came by.  I was profoundly thankful for those who minister to these little ones.  For their courage to continue to care for such children.

I have been impressed too, by their kindness.  Crisis has a way of bringing out harsh words and short tempers.  Yet this group of caregivers seems graced with the ability to bring gentle words to frayed hearts and minds.  Their continued patience with families who are stretched beyond their ability to cope is amazing. 

If you are someone who works with little people, I wanted to thank you for your ministry and to remind you that the Lord sees your sacrifice.  I’m not certain what we would do without those who care for children in difficulty, our world is richer for your service.

Kindness is just love with its work boots on.  ~unknown~

I am praying for you this week and always,

Karen

Cool as a Cucumber

  

I opened my purse and dumped it on the hospital bed, looking for something that might ease my low grade tension or high grade boredom.  Tylenol, scripture cards, gum, eye drops: anything would have been helpful.  It was 2:00 am and my daughter, finding respite from pain under the blanket of sleep, opened her eyes surveyed the mess beside her legs and stated, “Mum, that’s a cucumber.” 

“Yep.  You are right.  That’s a cucumber.”  I agreed, moving it aside in search for something less organic.  Eyeing the vegetable once more she gave me a puzzled look and retreated into unconsciousness.  Given the amount of drugs in her system, I could have told her she was dreaming and to go back to sleep but she was entirely correct.  We were stuck in the Emergency Room at 2:00 in the morning and all I had in my purse was a cucumber. 

If I had a choice, I would have packed something more useful but choice isn’t found in many ER’s so we, like all those admitted this evening, were making the most of it.  Despite my abundant imagination, I couldn’t come up with a scenario featuring a cucumber unless my daughter suddenly decided she wanted a hand sanitizer and cucumber facial. I stared at her pain creased face and sighed.  I was feeling outclassed again.

I wasn’t overwhelmed 12 hours earlier, when I stopped by a friend’s house and for a quick visit.  The height of efficiency, I had combined errands and managed a half hour chat before she left on a flight the next morning. On my way out the door she handed me a baggie of cherry tomatoes and a cucumber like any reasonable gardener does.  Rubbing my eyes, I wondered where the bag of cherry tomatoes had gone and prayed I hadn’t left them with my clipboard of paperwork at the front desk, like a horticulturalist addict dropping seeds and baggies of gardening smack wherever I went. 

I decided the late hour was getting to me and headed to the bathroom to wash my face.  A trick I learned from my husband, who believes most all hormonal issues can be dealt with by a metaphorical reboot, hence the face washing ritual.  It actually did the trick and I headed back to our green cubical, reminding myself to stay cool and that losing my patience now wasn’t going to speed things up.

This week, I’ve spent some time thinking about the discomfort of being in a situation and feeling desperately unequipped. The drive to the hospital was hell, the noises my daughter made seemed to bypass my auditory system and translated directly into unsafe driving.  I blew through 3 yellow lights (if red is a shade of yellow) as I navigated dark streets trying to close the distance between our location and my daughters promised relief.  I couldn’t fix a thing. 

Ever been in that place my friend?      

Perhaps you went to work expecting support but received only slander.  Maybe you were in the relationship until “death do us part” but your partner bailed at “death of size 4.”  At times we walk into situations expecting civility and are met with cruelty and condemnation.  When faced with unkindness, Christianity can seem as useless as a cucumber in an emergency room.  What good is the power of God if I’m not allowed to hurl it at someone’s head to stop their aggression?  What good is my faith when it doesn’t stop the pain? 

In these situations, I’ve only ever seen two options: to move toward God or move away from faith.  My highest priority when I’m in pain is to get out of it as quickly as possible.  When that doesn’t happen, I get angry and blame the Lord for not waving a magic wand and turning my obstacles into chocolate creams.  Rarely does rejoicing or thanksgiving come to my mind when confronted with suffering, I need to coax -  yay force - myself towards faith in these moments.  It isn’t my default setting.  (I think that’s a maturity thing, we can’t all be as amazing as John Piper.) 

But praise God there is an alternative to my limited carnal thinking. There is a God who sees my suffering despite my fussing and is willing to condescend to coax me along.  Though the steps I take might be small, God is big and able to sustain all those who are suffering and come to him for help.   

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.  2 Corinthians 1:3-4  

If you are feeling like your faith is limited, or that you are ill equipped to handle the situation before you, allow me to remind you that there is a God who fights for you and will continue to walk with you throughout your trial.  Though you might not see a purpose in your pain does not mean God has forgotten or abandoned you in your time of need.  Your weakness does not negate his strength or his plans for you.

I couldn’t come up with a use for that cucumber at 2:00 am but at 12:30 pm it was quite a different story.  Lunch was sparse, plans for grocery shopping having been interrupted.  I had half a container of cream cheese and a sleeve of Costco bagels I liberated from the freezer.  As I set to work toasting and slathering my daughter looked in the fridge and asked, “I don’t suppose we have any vegetables anywhere?”  “We do!” My eldest replied from her nest on the couch, leg propped up on two pillows.  “Check mum’s purse, it’s where she stashed a cucumber.”

May you things that were formerly useless become useful this week.

I’m praying for you,

xoxK