Invasion of the Christmas Elephant

There is a giant blow-up elephant sitting on my front porch.

He sits, smiling, glowing softly with a red stocking cap on his head, his ears flapping happily in the winter wind.

He sits, tied tightly to the bench in front of our picture window, and greets the neighborhood with his Christmas grin.

In the corner of our living room, just beside the picture window and the Christmas elephant, is our Christmas tree.

A real blue spruce with the smell of pine needles, it sits. Full of wild colored lights and red candy cane garland, magically and sublime, it sits.

Strung with a set of Bob the Builder lights, and another set of Jungle Animal lights, it sits. Full of Mickey Mouse and African elephant ornaments, it sits.

The window in front of the elephant is covered in Christmas-themed window clings. Shepherds and a manger, snowmen and snowflakes, Christmas trees and trains, all stuck haphazardly on the windows. Four Christmas socks hang from the wall, different sizes, slightly crooked.

But truthfully friends, it all comes back to the elephant on the front porch. He sits, and every time I pull in the driveway or look out the window he is there, ears flapping, giving me that big smile.

My three year old fell in love with this Christmas elephant last year, and when I did not buy it for him, he continued to ask about it. All. Year. Long. Until finally his grandma found one on sale this year. And now he sits on our porch.

He sits there, and in some strange way, in the quiet of my exhausted heart, in that sweet moment at the end of the day when it is FINALLY quiet in this house and I can hold a thought in my head, he represents everything that is both wonderfully happy and magically insane in my life as a mother of two boys.

Our Christmas Elephant

This elephant sits on the front porch, and represents all the joy of toddlers who love silly things and make me re-live the childhood wonder of this season. In his smile is the sweetness of little boys who smell like syrup and laughter, and who give sloppy kisses and demand mommy snuggles before bed. In his soft glow is the touch of their child skin, the soft padding of their little feet going through the house, and the magic of making memories.

He sits there, and his constant presence also represents the way my life is no longer my own, because I have been invaded by little people who have entirely taken over my heart and home.

He sits, and in his crooked flapping ears I see the way that everything is crooked, from our broken blinds to the cracked Santa lamp and the way the Christmas lights are drooping off the tree because the boys try to play with them.

He sits, and in him I see all that is insane about being a mother, and the general way that being the mother of two toddlers makes you lose all dignity in every way.

When I look at him, I see the way they peel the window clings off of the windows with an evil glint in their eyes. The way they won’t go to sleep at night without an hour of monkey business. The way they mash their food in their hair at dinner, wipe ravioli 

fingerprints all over the walls, and then flood the bathroom when they take a bath.        

The Face of Naughty

I see the way they try to stack furniture into towers and turn our home into a toddler apocalypse. The way they break things, scream for more cartoons, and have emotional breakdowns over chocolate milk and pop tarts. The way I feel like taking a shower with the door locked is a luxury vacation. The way they leave me feeling like a porcupine or some kind of road kill by the end of the day, pecked to death by vultures.

But alongside the insanity and loss of dignity, this elephant sits and reminds me that in this season, it is more important to be silly and joyful than to be serious and organized. He sits and tells me to keep a sense of humor, because it is simply just hard to stay mad when you see an elephant with a Christmas hat smiling at you from your front porch every day.

He sits, and invites me into childhood silliness, the place where monkey noises are hilarious and bodily functions are simply hysterical. The place where tickle fights and dance parties rule, where we go on long treasure hunts for acorns and use plastic straws as pirate swords to make each other walk the plank.

He sits, and something in his glow invites me into slowness, simplicity, and joy. He invites me to be a child, to receive the beauty of grace, of snow falling, grace falling.

He sits, and in all his happiness mixed with motherly torture, he is temporary, and so he reminds me of this too. He reminds me that the magic and the joy, the insanity and loss of dignity, they are all a temporary season.

And in him I see it all clearly and simply, the beauty, the wonder, the sweetness and joy laid over the exhaustion, a blanket of laughter laid softly over my weariness. The temporariness of everything. And I am grateful.          

He represents our life here in this home, just as it is, real, raw, hilarious, full of warmth, and uniquely ours. He is the perfect snapshot capturing all that is today with these precious little people and our undignified family. This is a season worth being grateful for.

Having kids keeps me grounded. I love to reflect deeply on the meaning of Advent, the incarnation, and all the mysteries of our awesome God. I feel that God is found in these things, in His Word, in the deep caverns of Christian tradition.

But the greatest, most profound thing to me today about the meaning of the season, is that God is also found right here, in the silly, smiling, flapping elephant on my front porch. He is found right here, coming to us just as we are, loving us just as we are.

Our lack of dignity is not troublesome to our God who was born in a manger that probably smelled like animal poop. Our droopy Christmas lights do not offend our God.

And even more than outward appearances of orderly lights and ribbons, God comes to our undignified and stinky hearts, too. He knows the truth. He is onto us. And so He comes, right into the yuck of our selves.

Our God is an authentic, drop-the-PR-campaign because I came here knowing the truth about you and I want to have a real relationship with you kind of God. And then He does real business in our hearts and we are never the same again. Aren’t you glad?

So I am left to be grateful, for our Christmas elephant, sitting there, and all he represents. He is a happy glowing reminder of grace that is life right now given by a God who is here with us just as we are. He is a word of gratitude for God’s blessings and favor. He is the comfort of knowing that God gives good things to His children.

He says do not struggle, but rather just be, and receive, and see the grace falling around you, and love and be loved this season.

I hope you are having a profound, enriching, occasionally silly and always magical Advent season so far, enjoying God with you in the realness of life!

Watching the snow fall...

Advent: The Way God Comes

When I was growing up, one of our family traditions was to drive out to the Christmas tree farm as a family and chop down our very own tree for our home.

            

As is the case with many family traditions, this one was a steady mixture between the magic and wonder of the Christmas season, and the comic relief of trying to make special memories in the complex context of family life.

           

My sister, and I would wander around the Christmas farm in subzero temperatures, sometimes for hours, marveling at the beauty of the snow glistening on the pine trees. Mom would be ever cheerful, and Dad would grumble. Fingers and toes would become numb.

            

We could never come to a collective agreement on a tree. Finally dad would give us an ultimatum and we would have to force a decision. Then he would saw the tree down by hand and heave it into our vehicle. Mom, still happy, wished dad would be happier. We were all cold.

            

At home, we would all get warm and watch with rosy cheeks while dad figured out how to get the tree cleaned up, through the front door, and into the stand. By the end of the night the tree was up, decorated to capacity, and the house smelled like pine. Whether or not dad thought it was worth the work, all of his girls were very pleased.

            

For the rest of the month the tree stood in its corner, lit up, full of magic and mystery, hope and excitement, wonder and beauty, begging you to linger a little longer. It was the presence of Christmas in our home. These are those real-life, perfectly imperfect kind of memories that we cherish close to our hearts.

           

This year we decided to carry this tradition into our own family. On Monday afternoon, I awoke from a nap, grumpy. The boys awoke a moment later, grumpy. There was not a flake of snow to be seen, but I drank some stale old coffee, and we piled into the truck and drove off to the tree farm.

            

Little Theo and I exchanged opinions about tree shapes and sizes. Remi bobbed around, thrilled to be running in an open field. My husband told us to hurry up. Like my mom, I worried that he didn’t realize the importance of this experience.

            

We picked a tree, and the boys watched their dad cut it down. Then, my husband picked up the tree, lugged it over his shoulder, and promptly turned to walk to the truck. He nearly took my head off with the tree, and hit me in the face with it, but I suppose that worse things have happened.

            

Little Theo got to ride on the back of the tailgate with me, and both boys got to see how the tree-shaker works. My husband did all the hard work of getting the tree into the house, and by the end of the night it was lit up, decorated, and standing in the corner, bringing wonder and magic into our home.

            

The tree will be with us for the entire month, an ever-present reminder of God’s presence promised, God’s presence coming, God’s presence born to us in Jesus and dwelling with us until He comes back again.

           

Each night, as it grows dark outside, we plug in the lights of the tree, and our home is filled again with that mysterious, soft, still warmth. When the kids finally fall asleep, and my husband is outside in his shop, and I am left alone with the sparkling lights and the lingering smell of pine, I can’t help but feel called, beckoned, invited into its rest. I can’t help but think…yes…yes this is how God comes.

            

God comes again, and again, new every day, and every night. God comes softly knocking on the heart, inviting you to linger a little longer in His presence. God feels like cherished childhood memories and like safety and warm fire places. God smells like pine needles in my home.

           

He comes into our homes and into our hearts, the ever-present One dwelling with us. Ready or not, He comes. Sunshine or rain, snowflakes or sleet, He stays. He is with us always, offering us light always, our soft place to land, always. Teaching us to love each other, always.

           

God comes to me after my long day, He enters right into my weariness and my aching head. He softly says Come child, sit, rest, bask in my Word. And by the soft light of Christmas lights on the tree, I do.

            

God enters into my grumpy, and into the way my coffee tastes stale and old. He dwells among our pre-nap and post-nap grumps. He is with us when my 2 year-old is screaming at midnight because we won’t let him sleep in our bed. He is with us when my 2 year-old is screaming again at 4am for the same reason. He is walking beside me when I am red-eyed and sleep-deprived, little people clawing at me before the sun is up.

            

God dwells with our family, in our home, among the crumbs that always seem to be there and the chocolate milk fingerprints on the walls. He enters into my impatient mommy heart when I have nothing left for these little people, and He gives me a little more to give, a fresh dose of grace for their sake and my sake. He walks with me through my fears and my worst moments.

            

He comes and cuts right through my PR campaign, and reminds me that He knows the truth, and loves the true me. He sprinkles my conscience with His blood, reminding me that I am free to be His true child, with total freedom to love and to serve.

             

He dwells with us and changes us, and in the lull of the Christmas tree lights it seems so clear that He is always offering us a Word of hope and healing in a very raw world, always offering us grace that renews and rest that restores, enough for each day.

           

It is hard for me to wrap my mind around this God-with-us, God-with me. The sense of wonder that comes with this season, the sparkling lights, the crystal snow, the music, the magical crisp feeling of nighttime silence after the snow falls…it is overwhelming.

            

 I feel flooded by grace, wrapped up in grace like a warm, soft blanket surrounding me. Nurtured by God’s Word and the constant reminders of His presence, I feel quieted to my very core.

            

This is how God comes, to me and to the whole world. Quietly, like the biggest understatement there ever could be. Softly, like the glow of a candle.

            

He comes simply, into an unspectacular manger, a cold night, a tired mother, a clueless sin-sick world. No pomp and circumstance, no glory, just God entering into our space, coming to us just as we are. Born to die for our redemption, born to suffer for our healing. 

            

Tonight I write this reminder to myself. When the pleasant haze of Christmas has passed, when the decorations are down and the tree is dead, when this soft warmth has shriveled back into winter cold and nothingness…Christ still comes.

           

He comes when fear sets in and tries to paralyze. He comes when depression brings exhaustion. He comes when sin infests the heart. He comes when the broken world seems too much to bear. He comes to walk beside, to love, to cry, to guide.  

            

Those times will come, and even tomorrow may be a new kind of hellish valley. But the great thing about Christmas is that this reminder of Christ’s presence is just so tangible, so real. We taste it and touch it and live in it. It bombards us and overwhelms us, wraps us and holds us and quiets us. What a foretaste of our eternal inheritance! The God who came as a baby to die for the ugly broken world will come to our hearts again and again, and will be faithful to return, wiping every tear, making all things new.

           

Friends, in years past I would always suffer from Holiday panic. Anxiety and depression almost always gripped me as I thought about all the activity pressing in on me. This year, there is only one thing that is different. God has drawn me to shift my focus onto Him, not just in theory but in reality. He whispers stop child, stop looking around. Don’t worry about that. Just look to me, think about me, dwell in me, let me heal you with grace and mend you with my Word. Come to me as I come to you, fix your eyes upon Jesus and be at peace.

           

And it is much better this way, just expecting God to come.