A Spring of Joy

In mercy.

“Has Jesus returned yet?” Guest Blogger Joe, our college pastor, asked this morning in our Sunday School class, “If not, then TODAY is a day of mercy. And if he doesn’t return tomorrow, then tomorrow is a day of mercy.”

I’m so thankful for his mercies. New every morning.

In liberty.

We walked through the home of our nation’s first president on Wednesday night. Dinner at Mt. Vernon followed by a candlelit tour of the home. It was Brian’s company Christmas party, and we drove up, leaving the children in my parents’ capable hands, to spend two days in DC.

I cannot begin to tell you the sense of awe that fills me every time I see the Washington Monument rising up over the Potomac River. We drove through the parkway to the airport to pick up Monica. Yes, my Monica, who works with Brian (telecommuting from too far away!). Spending a blissful less than 24 hours together only added joy.

As we toured Mt. Vernon, I couldn’t shake the goosebumps. To stand in George Washington’s private study. To see his presidential chair. To hear of his love for family and home, but of his heart for his country. To see the key to the Bastille hanging on the wall, a gift from the Marquis de Lafayette. A symbol of liberty.

We are so very, very blessed.

I hope I shall possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain what I consider the most enviable of all titles, the character of an honest man. ~George Washington

That you can color your world whatever shades you choose, just some days the hues are brighter than others.

In the power of thanksgiving… and laughter.

While Brian was tucking her in bed, Bella looked up at him with those soulful brown eyes.

“Is Thanksgiving over Daddy?”

“Well, the holiday is over, but we can be thankful every day. I’m thankful I got to spend the weekend with my family and we could all be together.”

“And I…” a short pause, “…am thankful we can stand on our hands.”

In one day.

“Mommy,” her voice lilts from the middle of the van, “I wish plastic never got broken.” A pause, then, “And I wish all the soft things never got torn.” Another pause, then quietly she says, “And I wish nothing would ever make me cry.”

One day, sweet baby girl. One day.

In the magic of music… and singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs while we drive over dark roads.

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay,
Close by me forever, and love me I pray.

Carrying sleepy babies into warm beds, then sitting up late, white cat curled on my lap purring peacefully. Eating nachos and catching up on life with old friends (and new).

Yes, He is close by us forever.

The Macy’s Day Parade ended with children around Santa Claus singing how they believed. I had watched my children’s faces rapt with wonder as float after float, band after band, balloon after balloon went by on the screen, and now that it was over, I sat as I do every year at the end of the parade and cried. Not because it was over, but because it was beginning…

Thanksgiving. The Christmas season. It is my favorite time of year. But somehow this year, there is little excitement for me.

Perhaps it was because when I had walked into my grandparents’ house earlier Thanksgiving morning, my grandfather’s face didn’t light up. He didn’t even know who my Audrey was at first. Perhaps it’s because I’m writing this from the darkness of a hotel room. A hotel room 6 miles from my grandparents’ house. A house that I’m supposed to be sleeping in. Not here. But with Pap’s health so fragile, he needs the rest and the quiet that don’t come with three small children.

Perhaps it’s because we’ve all been sick for 2 weeks and I still just don’t feel good. (Thus the absence from my blog.) Perhaps it’s because of the depression, the weariness, the loneliness of spending weeks cooped up in my home talking to no one.

I am an idealist. I know that. And I am a woman of tradition, sentiment, ritual. I love all the treasures and routines of this time of year… and yet this year, they are all different.

Our new home is the perfect place to decorate and celebrate. Three weeks ago when I asked my Bri if we could paint the family room and get it together, he decided that any job worth doing is worth doing well, and completely gutted it. It will be gorgeous when it’s finished… when it’s finished. And it the meantime all our furniture is piled into the living room and there’s nowhere to decorate. No room for a tree. He should finish next weekend and we can hopefully begin to decorate. But i sigh and think, “Is it really worth it?” At that point we’ll be home for two weeks before we board a plane to fly to Phoenix to be with Brian’s family.

And y’all. I hate to fly. HATE to fly. I’m claustrophobic. I hate the crowds of the airport. I am terrified of the plane going down. And I will drag three small children through the chaos of Christmas travel… are we inSANE?!

It’s all changing. Life.

We will celebrate Christmas around our tree (if we manage to get one) early. Not on Christmas day. There will be no traditional brunch that I make. There will be no Christmas Eve service at our home church (although that’s even been changing, too). There will be no presents around the tree in Phoenix because we’ll have them here. Out of necessity (we don’t want to pay to fly the gifts home). And we’ll fly home the day before Bear’s birthday, and we’ll miss the Rose Bowl Parade and I won’t have time to prepare anything special for his birthday.

And I’ve cried a lot. Not because we’ll be with Bri’s family. I’m excited to be with them. I just wish we could be with them AND have all our traditions.

It’s because it’s different. All so different. And I don’t like different.

But my kids. They have no clue. They are THRILLED to be sleeping in a hotel room. What a fun adventure! They love that Daddy is painting and sanding and tearing up floors (mind you, I love it, too… I just don’t love the timing). Daddy’s a big, strong, smart man. They cannot WAIT to board that plane. To fly through the air. They don’t care when they open gifts, they are just excited to make lists and buy for each other. The whispers of plans, excitement over what they can do to surprise each other is contagious. They sing Christmas carols in their bedroom and talk about celebrating Jesus’ birthday. They are beyond excited to see their grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles in Arizona, and they are already discussing what to pack in their suitcases.

They are the ones with perspective. The perspective that I need.

Because they know it’s not about them. First and foremost, it’s about Jesus. It’s about believing… not in Santa Claus, but in the miracle of Christmas. It’s about family and being together no matter where you are and what you do. It’s about remembering and anticipating.

It’s not about me.

It’s about Thanksgiving and we have so much to be thankful for.

It’s not about me.

It’s about Christmas.

The perfect Gift.

The love.

The sacrifice.

The redemption.

The wonder.

So I will live these next weeks basking in the perspective of my children. I choose to focus not on what’s different because it’s different, but rather because it brings new possibilities, new adventures, new joys.

We are together.

We are family.

We are redeemed.

We are celebrating.

We are believing.