Christmas Is Not the Season for Guilt Trips

Christmas is not the time to be on a guilt trip because you couldn't find the perfect bow for your gift

 ... or the perfect gift.

Or because really too much was going on at Christmas time, like a birthday right before the holidays.

 It's not the time to remind yourself that you must be getting old
to have a 19-year-old in the house.

It is the time to let the little children enjoy the player piano at Grandma and Grandpa's house before they move to their new house--on Old Dutch Mill Rd.

 Grandpa said he grew up on Dutch Mill Road in New Jersey, and now he's moving to Old Dutch Mill Road in Colorado Springs.
How coincidental is that?
Christmas is not the time to feel guilty for playing games with the kids and cousins--or not playing games. Christmas is just not  the time for guilt trips.

Christmas is the time to have a good time. I appreciate my sister-in-law Ruth so much. She is so free with showing love and has been such an understanding support to me.

 Christmas is the time to laugh a little more--and take pictures of each other taking pictures!

 Christmas is the time to get a kick out of the enthusiastic energy of a little five-year-old pumping the pedals of the player piano with great gusto.

It's the time to take in an extra boy and give him a good time.

 Christmas is about skipping a Sunday nap so you can visit a brother you don't see often.

It's about dad helping Mom with the dishes on Christmas Eve.

Because Christmas is about joy and love,
not about guilt trips.

When a Chicken Ends Up Under the Christmas Tree

Ever had a chicken end up under the Christmas tree?

 To our consternated questions of why this black and white dappled chicken was running around our livingroom and flapping over the presents under the Christmas tree, we received the answer that she had accidentally fallen into the water bucket in the pen and needed to dry off.

Last time a chicken got wet like that, she ended up frozen next morning.

  So the children brought this one into the house to dry off!

Poor thing got put into a box to keep her out of trouble.

 We'd rather be under a Christmas tree any day--than shut up in a box somewhere drying off wet and ruffled feathers.

Or fur.

 Life's storms take us sometimes by surprise.

 The winds howl, and the snow flies 60 miles an hour through the air, and ice chunks slide off the roof, and the new trampoline guard poles break in the fierce wind.

The wind whips the bird feeder and the birds have all hidden away somewhere. 

 Drifts pile up in front of your car and you feel like you have no way out.

 You can hardly see the bluffs out the window, out beyond the amarillys bud,

out where the blizzard winds whip white everywhere you look.

 And you take comfort that even the Maker and Creator of the Universe,

the One Who stills storms, 

Himself took refuge in a stable,

 just like the one Sam herded the new little calf into to take shelter from the stormy winds.

Does a chicken belong under the Christmas tree?

And does a Babe belong in a manger?

He takes the things that are backwards and mixed up and upside down and topsy turvy,

and makes something beautiful out of them. 

The Word became flesh, and the Words still live--

even when a tired mom finds herself awake instead of asleep--and kneels down by a chair in the 

light of the Christmas tree in the middle of the night.

She finds herself then reading about the virtuous woman in Proverbs, whose candle goes not out by night. 

who speaks words of kindness, who watches over her family and never wastes her time,

who knows that what she makes is good (whether it be a garment for Christmas, or a meal, or a baby, or a story or a plan)

who looks forward to the future with joy.

The Imperfect Perfect Christmas Sunday

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.

I Don't Want Your Grace to Be Sufficient

Dear God,

I don't want Your grace to be sufficient.

I just want this pain to go away.

I don't want Your grace, I just want this situation to get fixed.

 I just want this problem to resolve.

I just want this annoying person out of my life.

Dear God, I don't want your grace or anything.

 I just don't want to have to practice or have to take lessons.

I just want to play pretty music automatically.

I just want to always do everything right.

 I don't want lessons in character building or patience or humility or relationships.

I just want everyone to like me and approve of me--without me having to go out of my way to be friendly or act nice or speak to them kindly or forgive anyone or cooperate with people I don't like. 

 I just want cookies and cranberry bread and pretty red ribbons and sparkly stars. 

I don't want to go out in the cold and sing for people suffering from arthritis--

especially when my own heart is aching inside.

 I just want to stay home and listen to my favorite music.

I don't want to go sing for someone who can't get out of her chair on her own.

That would just add to my list of woes in my life.

Dear God, 

I don't want to suddenly go out of my designated, planned way 

to Christmas carol to those ugly, blobby old people sitting outside that nursing home smoking. Phew! It stinks. 

Dear God, people just stink!  

Why can't I be a hermit?

 Dear God, I don't want you to prune my bare, brown, dead branches.

Can't you see how ugly I appear?

 Don't you understand that it hurts when you cut parts of me off?

Dear God, why can't a second work of grace cure all my problems?

Why do you have to keep pruning and clipping--and making me cry?

 Dear God, why do I have to face temptation? Why am I tempted to be bitter about that person who has hurt me so bad?

Do I have to search for that way of escape, 

in order to bear it?

I don't want a way of escape. I don't want to have to actually 

bear

something. 

 Dear God, I guess I've made up my mind. 

I don't want Your grace.

I just want my comfort zone.

 But, God, I- I have to admit,

I'm finding it hard to say Amen.

 I'm a little afraid to say Amen, God.

I'm a little afraid that if that is really what I want, I'll be walking this long, lonely path

called life

all by myself.

I can't afford to walk this path alone, Lord.

And maybe, walking it with You means that I'll have to attend lessons in humility, and practice sessions in forgiveness and love, and lessons in what it means to walk in the other person's shoes 

until I understand where they are coming from. 

Maybe walking this path with You will mean that I will have to submit to things I won't like

or enjoy.

 Maybe it will mean ongoing pain.

Maybe it will mean that I will have to let go of my ongoing prayers for release from this ongoing pain, and instead get a grip on Your promise of

sufficient grace.

 Maybe it will mean that I will have to gulp back tears when I read this verse in Jeremiah 66:9 NCV),

"I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born,"

says the Lord.

Dear God,

is the something new that you want to be born,

is it a new me in some area of my life that needs to be remade?

Dear God, I can't remake myself into someone who is just a little more

like Christ,

without Your grace.

Dear God, I'm willing to stop focusing on all this pain,

and instead look for the way of escape in order to bear it.

Dear God, I am willing to learn to lean harder on 

Your grace.

You said it would be sufficient.

God, can Your sufficient grace be sufficient for even this?

Dear God,  You said it would be. 

And now, Amen.