December

Advent 2010
Dec 8 6:30 AM

"I am the root and the offspring of David, *
I am the bright morning star."
"Come!" say the Spirit and the Bride; *
"Come!" let each hearer reply!
Come forward, you who are thirsty, *
let those who desire take the water of life as a gift.


I am thirsty. Not only for the presence, and the stillness, but the understanding of true repentance. I am thirsty for a fuller, richer life that I feel is around the corner--that I sometimes glimpse when I stop in the afternoon and look up and see this place--this home--for what it is: a beautiful, busy nurturing ground, a haven for these sprouting humans, just showing green about the ears and not yet ready for the elements. I want: space for them to grow unencumbered. Space for us to have family time without feeling crowded by unwanted commitments and neighbors. I want to be able to see my family.
I want discernment, peace and resolution to this inner struggle.

The elements of your arrival were very unexpected. fantastical, even. a young unwed girl. a stable barn. shepherds and angels together; men from the east on camels. if you come in unexpected ways, fantastical ways, am i missing you if i am looking in the most expected ho-hum places?

I think I have now made my peace with full-time motherhood. I no longer wish, all that often, for the freedom of my unfettered self: though sometimes, a strain of a poem or a melody will send me reeling in to memory, and I am--for a moment--lost. But I am better able to recover myself. It is partly the wisdom of “even God, in proclaiming the goodness of creation with the foreknowledge of its downfall, was accepting imperfection.” There must be truth to this, though I don’t like to acknowledge it. I want to tighten and tweak ever area of my life to perfection: the floors mopped to a shine if I have my way, my practicing completed each day. The children respectful and orderly, my husband brushing his teeth his morning. Our budget tight and crisp, everyone eating their vegetables. Time for exercise each day; time for prayer and quiet.

Then their is real life: the baby wakes in the night, is soaked through, everyone rises in the morning tired and crabby. I forgot to buy dish soap, the garbage didn’t get taken up to the road in time; we are late getting up our Christmas tree. I feel rushed and unsettled: will Hudson learn to read in time? Are we doing enough to curb Audrey’s sass? Are we ruining the baby’s teeth by putting her down with a bottle? Will be we able to sell our house before the foundation settles and has to be re-built?

These are the questions that assail me at 4 AM when I am craving sleep but can’t find it. Why don’t I write more? I miss reading. I have thank-yous to say and send. I need to run another load of diapers.

This is the meat and potatoes of life, and I am thankful for it. When I consider the alternative--I barren house, no joyful kid noises, no protesting and rowdy kid noises--I am grateful to be caretaker of these budding human sprouts. But I am also, in the midst of the kinetic energy of growth, longing for stillness and rest.