It was supposed to be a beautifully decorated church--and it was.
It was not supposed to be about a new bunny we had bought for a Christmas present for Danny.
We were trying to keep it a secret.
It had been doing fine the day before, but now it looked like it wasn't going to make it.
We were afraid we were going to lose it, so we had to spill the secret and take it along on our way to church to nurse it back to health--we hoped.
It was supposed to be about a gorgeous poinsettia and little golden jingle bells to be played along on the song the pastor's wife had the children practicing, "Come On, Ring Those Bells." And it was.
It was not supposed to be about the Sunday School Superintendent and his wife and seven kids not getting their act together in time to leave on time for Sunday School--and being ten minutes late already, with one thing after another going wrong, and feelings strained,
and then backing up the vehicle over the nice, sturdy cage we have for when we get chickens or bunnies.
Crunch! Scrape, scrape! "Daddy, stop!"
It was not supposed to be about pulling forward again, only to find out that the cage is hopelessly stuck under the vehicle--mangled and bent.
It was not supposed to be about suddenly trying to find out whom we could blame for this disaster--
like who in the world left this thing behind a vehicle?
And then remembering that leveling blame is not the answer to such a fiasco--and having to apologize.
But it was about remembering that the Christmas program was not about us.
It's a good thing it wasn't
We weren't perfect enough to worship or extol.
But the comfort was that we were not going to be up there singing about ourselves,
extolling ourselves,
worshiping ourselves-
the late, frazzled, frumpy, flustered, a-little-bit-nutty, very imperfect Lucases.
Remembering it was not about us, was the only way that this imperfect mom overcame the frazzled moments enough to still enter into the service with all her heart.
Because it was supposed to be about including someone who did not have the imperfect but loving home that our children have.
The boy who had stayed a couple days with us that week, and tussled with our boy just about his age.
The boy whom we had taken for a hike in the bluffs, and some time romping at the park nearby.
Just some country time, some boy time, some fresh air and outdoors--
and a bit of lovin' from some pretty ordinary country folk.
It was supposed to be about sharing food in Christmas colors with grandparents and Dave and Ruth's family who were at Grandma's for dinner--rolls, and peanut butter pies with chocolate stars that were drizzled on a little too thickly, and red-white-and-green broccoli salad.
It wasn't supposed to be about our middle boy ending up getting more and more feverish and ill, and then having to sit in the recliner at Grandma's holding the little bunny close to him and tearfully watching it die.
Christmas Sunday was supposed to be about being with people we love and enjoying each other.
And it was.
The boys and girls played games together and we all talked and talked and made do without much of a nap.
And Sunday evening was supposed to be about a candlelight service--
with renditions from "A Cowboy's Christmas Prayer," to poems from the deep south--and Christmas refreshments at the pastor's open house afterward.
And it was.
It was not supposed to be about a dear friend in a special recliner chair provided for her in the front corner of the sanctuary--too helpless to hold her own candle.
The irony of the imperfections of the most perfect Christmas Sunday.
The irony of the total helplessness--one person totally at the mercy of another.
And yet--the total beauty of the true spirit of Christmas--
-the young lady who was caring for her, holding her hand with one hand and her candle with the other.
Like the hand of God--reaching out to ours--
in our grief over a small creature going limp in our arms--or saying goodbye to a close loved one right during Christmas season.
Like God reaching out to us when we are having to give up our defensiveness--
and letting us know that His right hand is plenty strong enough to defend us--and His own name.
Like God reaching out to our hand and holding it--
letting us know that even though we are not always on time, He is always on time.
That even though we don't always get everything just right,
He is the righteous Judge, the One knowing our heart--
and still holding our hand.
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