It all started when Mike and I decided a picture card was where it was at when it was Christmas and we had our first 8-month-old and we used a florescent lamp to light the situation because we knew we loved our little one but knew nothing of photography. It took a whole roll of film (yes, film, and drug store developing — the dark ages).


1995

1995: The little brown and tan appendage growing from the side of Adrian's head turned out to be a favorite bear of his that now resides in my underwear drawer because I developed an emotional attachment to it when my son outgrew his.



1996

1996:  This little outfit I hand smocked and sewed by hand (well, machine). I still can't believe it turned out fit for wearing. I purchased $60 saddle oxfords from Stride Right for a one-year-old who wore them with only this outfit and only three times. The ridiculous things we do to and for our children. Recognize the  bear? He's already becoming more prominent in our lives.



1997

1997:  The wonder of a childhood Christmas had finally arrived. See it in those eyes? He's not quite three and fully aware of all the delicious-ness of Christmas. I was very pregnant with his little sister. He looks so oblivious to the fact that his days of being the center of my universe were about to come to an abrupt end.



1998

1998:  Mike and I decided to get in this picture because it was the first time we felt like a full-fledged family, no more single child. We had the frenzied getting dressed for this picture and the frayed nerves and the snipping at one another to prove it, too. Oh the things that hide behind the perfect picture....  But from the looks of it, you'd never know. My daughter's dress and matching bow? Hand smocked and hand sewn again. It's still in the attic somewhere.

1999

1999:  Adrian wasn't the only one with his hands full. An infant plus a one-year-old equals chaos — cranky, tired chaos. Hence, the paci in the Christmas picture. Whada-ya-gonna-do? Nobody's clothes were hand made that year. I counted dressed and fed as a victory back then.



2000

2000:  This picture makes me cry. When they really were these ages, I was so busy trying to meet their needs, I completely missed how cute and precious and adorable God makes the next generation. I look at this picture now and can't believe God used me in any capacity to have anything to do with these marvels of His.

2001

2001:  Trust me when I say we worked very hard for this one. It was worth it.



2002

2002:  Mike and I got in on it again this year because so many of our loved ones were anxious to see Mike, the man who had cheated death after a very late-stage cancer diagnosis. He had just been released from the hospital and had his first chemo treatment under his belt. We were happy just to be all together that year, embracing a life spared as an unspeakable gift.


2003

2003:  There were threats of spankings before this was snapped, and that's all I'm gonna say.



2004

2004:  Not a one of my sweet children wanted to wear the carefully matched blue and grey outfits I picked out for them. I distinctly remember much fussing and fighting in order to capture this happy family for the Christmas card that year. You can see it on everyone's face but Mike's. He's still just blissfully happy to be alive. Cancer treatments had lasted a solid year, and that changes your perspective — you stop worrying about matching outfits.

2005

2005:  I'm not sure what I was more proud of this year: the new house we had built, the stockings it had taken me four years to cross-stitch that were finally finished, or my kids. It should be an obvious choice, huh?

2006

2006:  We came close to not having a Christmas picture this year; life was now moving again at break-neck
speed. We used this snapshot from a fall trip to the mountains. I was grieved by their everyday clothes and the fact that although she denies it to this today, it looks like Reagan had snipped the left half of her bangs right off. But for all this picture was lacking, the mountainous backdrop and the proud big brother more than made up for it.



2007

2007:  I wish I could freeze time here. We were past diaper bags and sippy cups and nap times, but hadn't yet hit the turbulent teens. I didn't know it at the time, though. That's how life is sometimes:  not knowing to cherish the ordinary moments because you don't realize they're extraordinary until afterward.



2008

I broke my winning streak in 2008 because we just never found the time to get a picture taken:  proof that life only gets busier and goes by faster as the kids get older.



2009

2009:  We hired a photographer to take some shots for the church website and for our personal use. The photographer introduced me to blogging, which, for better or worse, has changed my daily life more than anything else since giving birth to these three beautiful kids. She's no longer blogging.

2011

I didn't give birth on Christmas morning like Mary did, but I had eight month's worth of gestation filling me that year when it was the appointed time to contemplate Mary and her journey to an unaided birth in a barn. Three weeks after Christmas I made my own hasty journey to a birth that wasn't remotely how we had planned it. That was a little bit like Mary.

Noelle was early, and came fast. We almost didn't make it to the hospital in time. I gave birth without pain medication, and felt every part of nature's course. And that was a little bit like Mary, too. Noelle, a Christmas name for my kind-of Christmas baby, slipped into this world in the dark, wee hours of early morning. I'm not sure if there were stars shining.


I instinctively relaxed through contractions, but I didn't know what I was doing. The first time had been so different. My friend's apt attention was on the other end of the phone. I was securing plans to be away from the 2-year-old big brother for a few days, every minute and a half a contraction. I had to close my eyes, stop talking, and breathe slower. After it passed, I spoke frantically, racing the ever-shortening increments of time until the next wave of impending life began its crescendo. Plans were becoming futile.

But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the Law, so that He might redeem those who were under the Law, that we might receive the adoption as sons. (Galatians 4:4-5)

Since my own wild and natural birth, I ponder every Christmas the wonder of childbirth in the course of a young woman's life. She clings to her husband's hand, grasping his very life to anchor her here while she bears down to brings forth another.  This process, beyond any young girl, will not be denied, and she needs the steadying.

The urge to push overwhelms. A too-large baby makes a way where there seems to be no way through a too-small tunnel connecting confined darkness to unbound light. I thought I would die of it in a flash — the same flash when flesh tore through a ring of fire. I perceived my own possilbe demise; nevertheless I pushed without regard for myself.

This instinct, was it God the Father's when the fullness of time came for him? When he pushed his glorious, ready Son as a newborn into the fleshly world, a large God somehow making a way through small humanity?

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. (John 1:14)

To dwell means to pitch one's tent.  God bent low, staked the tent peg of sacred seed in the earth of a virgin womb and crawled inside the tent of human flesh. Think of it: God -- camping. He left Heaven for Earth, a stable now suddenly apropo. The Maker of the universe and Giver of life disrobed his rightful and heavenly majesty to disguise himself as a newborn in a barn.


In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it. He came to His own, and those who were His own did not receive Him. (John 1:4-5, 9)

He tunneled from unbridled light to the confines of darkness so His heart could beat just beneath our own. God camped.

No wonder Israel didn't recognize him.

But, oh, the wonder when we do!

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. (John  3:16)

We have a Christmas tradition around here of wrapping Baby Jesus and a Christmas ornament nail in brown packing paper with a shimmering gold bow. It's the first gift we open on Christmas morning as we read Luke 2 and place Jesus in the Christmas hay. We hang the nail on our tree, reminiscent of another tree and read of his sacrifice, the second one, because wasn't leaving heaven for earth a sacrifice too?




Right now, the first gifts are still unwrapped, alone under our tree.  I unboxed Jesus for a photo session the other night and just half-heartedly stuck him back into the tissue paper, box gaping open with tissue and Jesus' torso hanging out irreverently.

As I flipped the switch to light our tree this morning, I noticed the boxes neatly restacked under the bow looking conspicuously unmolested. Apparently one of my teenagers had carefully replaced Jesus, closed the lid, and gingerly nestled him, box and all, back under his shimmery bow.


A teenager, who leaves the towels on the bathroom counter, dirty clothes on the floor, and has no qualm about an unmade bed, carefully tucked Jesus back in.

It was September when I decided I'd teach the song to Noelle and Reagan and we would be a trio by Christmas. I dug the music out from the bottom of the piano bench and went in search of the demo CD. I had a plan and plenty of time. What I didn't have was interested girls, but I didn't let it deter me.

For two weeks I dragged them to the piano and CD player every stray, spare minute we had. They resisted. I was still undeterred.

They mumbled parts half-hearted, while I played the song to captive ears in my car on the way to church and stores and Grandma's house. They whined and complained, but I put my ear to their mouths to hear begrudged harmony and defied them to hurt my feelings. They glowered; I forged ahead.

Moms always win. They should know this by now.

I set it aside for awhile thinking that a short truce would soften their reluctance into willingness. It was supposed to be a pretty Christmas song not a battle of the wills.

Thanksgiving passed, and God prompted me to quiet rest and expectation this advent season. The tree winked at me in this endeaver, I'm sure of it. It still stands quiet in the corner, slowly dying.

Yesterday, with Noelle in her berry-colored choir gown, we hurried across town for her dress rehearsal. She was awash in tears, and it wasn't great timing, but I slid that CD into the dash. Noelle was sulking. My defenses were waning, and sulking is contagious. My car filled with dissonance as I recognized defeat.

This must be the place believers come were the last lyrics that played when I quietly pushed the CD off, thick silence penetrating the stale air. The lyrics would have waxed poetic of the stable, the cross, and an empty tomb had I not shut them up inside my dashboard. Noelle slumped into the window and quietly closed her eyes.

She had leaned into rest. This must be the place beleivers come, indeed.




Writing in community with God-Bumps and God-Incidences at Getting Down With Jesus and with The High Calling's community Advent writing. I wish I could link this with Deidra at Jumping Tandem, too, because I've been so blessed by her 25 Days to a Smaller Christmas. 

The thought came and went too quick for me to catch it. It was two weeks ago when lots of Thanksgiving plans were crowding my mind. By the time I talked with Dad after Thanksgiving, all I could remember was that I had a question for him, but I couldn't remember what it was.

The desire to try and track down the Christmas album we treasured as kids did resurface, though, once the holiday tunes were wafting through the air full force.

I didn't have much to go on: just I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus in a voice not easily forgotten and a faint memory of a story about an inspiring conversation between a Christmas tree and Santa.

The unforgettable voice turned out to be the 13-year-old Jimmy Boyd who originally made the song famous. The story was narrated by none other than Red Skelton. And, of course, this made me think of the wise men.

Now, I know you want to know how on earth that happened, so why don't you click on over to Laced With Grace today to find out. It's quite a trip down memory lane.

Fits and starts for over a year now, and I'm only halfway there. But why not continue to count anyway? So I start again, each day a new opportunity to discover the wonder and count the blessings.

If your brother sins, go and show him his fault in private; if he listens to you, you have won your brother. (Matthew 18:15)

Does anybody really do this?

I should have seen it coming a mile away. God, early Saturday morning, speaks into my heart as I breathe in the oxygen that my corner Christmas tree expels. God says softly, "Let this be a season of quiet rest." Even under normal circumstances, which fly at me with break-neck speed, this will be a challenge. Surely I should have seen this for the set-up it was -- it's classic. But I am obtuse. Less than one hour after that sweet time alone with God and our new Christmas tree, I learn that a brother has sinned against me.

The rest of my day was anything but quiet rest.

I was angry. I felt violated. I needed a sounding board, but my husband had just flown out of town. I reached out online for wisdom from others, I wrestled and replayed the offense in my head. I fussed and stewed turmoil right into my quiet peace. And that quickly, I was disobedient.

I pound out a sharp email, but don't hit send. My gaze keeps returning to the beautiful still tree that breathes in my living room. It mocks me. I stop, take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Breathe, I tell myself. The roiling storm slows to a simmer.  

I confide to a friend that I hate confrontation. I realize as the day progresses that my tension is actually because I'm sensing that God is prompting me to confront, but graciously, and I am resistant.

Then there is confirmation in my inbox and in my husband's tired voice over the phone when he says the word instruction among a flurry of others. It's the only word I remember after we hang up late. Angst is tiring, so I sleep well.

On Sunday, I draft another email, softer this time, and let it simmer, too, right through morning worship.

Our youth pastor preaches a sermon about the fear of the Lord. He takes us to Jesus' letter to Pergamum. Jesus is concerned about how this church tolerates false teachings that lead to immoral deeds. Jesus warns in 2:16, "Repent; or else I am coming to you quickly and I will make war against them with the sword of My mouth."

Jermaine probes to the heart of my matter, "Why would we tolerate sin in the church? Why shrink back when righteousness has been compromised? If we do not confront the sin among us, Jesus warns that he will come and fight himself with his deadly double-edged sword. Better for us to confront. Do we hesitate because we fear man rather than God?"

I say to you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that have no more that they can do. But I will warn you whom to fear: fear the One who, after He has killed, has authority to cast into hell; yes, I tell you, fear Him. (Luke 12:5-6)

I still hate confrontation, and I don't yet feel peace in my circumstances, but I finally know what I must do: the hard thing for righteousness' sake. I may have needed three confirmations because I am, after all, obtuse, but I'm glad God keeps speaking his will to me until my heart is quiet again and still.

Pray for me today while I dust off Matthew 15:18 and do the hard thing?

It's quiet here this morning. Adrian worked late last night. Noelle and Reagan shopped early Black Friday with a cousin and an aunt. They will all sleep in. Mike flew south at 5am for family friends and a funeral. So I sit alone in the quiet and resist the urge to turn on music.

The tree lights are lit. Part of me wants to sit, only sit, long and quiet. The other part wants music, chores, and the race and pace I know so well. To rest I must resist.

So I take myself to the tree and sit across from a new living guest in my house. After ten years of artificial, this tree smells of earth, pours sticky sap, and drinks in water. It stands quiet in the corner and breathes.


The nativity scene is on the coffee table awaiting the Christ child that will be born unto us Christmas morning, delivered to his manger, his mother's arms, and his mission.  The familiar participants look on with expressions that were meant to be responses by the artist, but with this empty bed of hay, their expressions oddly become those of anticipation.


This is how it was for four hundred years.

Quiet.

Life was freeze-framed with something crucial missing. A silent God quietly awaiting a cataclysmic event of his own making at the precise moment of his choosing. God waited, said nothing, did nothing. For four hundred years.

While generations are born and are buried. While nations rise and fall. While the earth spins its continued orbit. Four hundred springtimes and harvests, 146,000 dawns and as many dusks while God's prelude played silently.

Today, as the Christmas season begins, I decide it will be for me what God prescribed: a time of quiet waiting. Of course there will be things to do and preparations to make. I'm yet to buy a single Christmas gift. The challenge will be in what to let go and what to keep in order to maintain the quiet and expectation. It will mean resisting and saying no to some things.

I tend to want it all, especially during the Christmas season, but having it all is losing something crucial. This year I'm choosing quiet expectation.

They were fairly competitive, this bunch of young men who found a place where they could still be boys.  The softball diamond each weekend in the late 80's made for grand slams, sliding home safe, and easily knowing whether you were a winner or a loser after just nine innings.

Among them are my big brother, his best friend, my future husband, his two big brothers, our best man and his big brother. Youth, brotherhood, and competition made these guys a team.



Yesterday, we had a guest musician in our service. He didn't play on this team, but against it on a team that rivaled ours in athleticism and records. It's how we came to know Gerald Simmons. He was fiercely competitive in his softball and equally as zealous for the Lord. At the time, he was a budding music minister in a local baptist church that was experiencing a bit of revival. Back then he was confident about his game and his God.

But yesterday, he wept through his testimony, one he doesn't often tell. It involved divorce and middle-aged drug addiction that began innocently with pain-killers after surgery. The tale was rife with losing. Kids. Control. Companies. Dignity.  But there was a second wife who refused to accept defeat. She knew a love never backs down and always wins.

So Gerald wept when he said he was the the prodigal son from Luke's chapter about lost things.

Until then, I had always seen the story of the prodigal as the story of salvation, lost being this boy's condition before he humbled himself and returned to the man who could take care of him. But yesterday, through Gerald's prodigal story, I saw that lost things are lost because they once were where they belonged. Only when they turn up missing are things deemed lost. Gerald was the prodigal son. He was a winner who had become a loser. He walked away from God a son and came back hoping to be servant. What was lost now was his pride.

So Luke 15 is about lost things, but it's also about the finding. And the knowing who you are. It's about a celebration for winning after so much losing. It's about winning because you made it home safely. And yesterday, old softball rivals and brothers rejoiced in that.