My Christmas Babies

December 24, 2010 - I took a pregnancy test that turned out positive
December 23, 2013 - We got the call that Jordan had chosen us as adoptive parents

If you think you are sentitmental about your kids at Christmastime, you have no idea.
I very much believe that God was intentional in timing the news of my coming children - their hearts were gifted to me in the same season that God gifted Jesus to the world.

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, I needed to know that God was orchestrating something larger in my life, and Mary's story rung hope-bells in my heart. I wrote this a couple years ago about the night we found out:

During the Christmas Eve service, I was (understandly) a litte absentminded. The weightiness of my pregnancy hadn't hit, but I knew on some basic level that my whole life has just changed. I was already starting to worry about what this meant for my life, and was desperate for a word from God. And then, during one song, it occurred to me: my Christmas gift was not unlike Mary's. Granted, there were some significant differences - I was married, I wasn't especially saintly or surrenderd in obedience, there was no immaculate conception, and my baby was certainly not divine. But the unplanned, life-altering pregnancies? Mary and I most certainly had that in common.

That night, during that service, I distinctly felt myself a part of God's metanarrative. The story that began with Genesis included me and my unborn child. The character of God, as revealed in scripture, was being disclosed to me, and God's working in the world felt remarkably consistent. I felt an incredible kinship with Mary, and it was strangely comforting to know that the whole unplanned-pregnancy-thing had worked out well for her. Not that it was easy, but she was a part of God's redemptive plan.

When we were waiting for Jericho, I needed a very different word. Instead of being desperately afraid of having a child, my whole personhood ached to welcome another baby to the world. And, as I wrote last year, God used the Christmas season to re-fix my eyes on Christ, and to remind me that God does not withhold the greatest gifts from his children.

I read this (written by William Willimon) in my advent book a couple of weeks ago, and it seems an appropriate expression of how those two pajama-clad babies have wrecked and made my world.

"This is often the way God loves us: with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we don't necessarily want to be. With our advanced degrees, armies, government programs, material comforts,  and self-fulfillment techniques, we assume that religion is about giving a little of our power in order to confirm to ourselves that we are indeed as self-sufficient as we claim.

Then this stranger comes to us, blesses us with a gift, and calls us to see ourselves as we are -- empty-handed recipients of a gracious God, who, rather that leave us to our own devices, gave us a baby."

Merry Christmas, friends.

Born to Us the Hope of the World

Hope has been, and continues to be, the greatest challenge set before me by God in this season of my life.

Just last year, my greatest temptation was to despair. Everything about the adoption process had worn at my soul, and only tiny filaments of faith held me together. After our failed adoption match, it took every ounce of my energy to keep my head above water. I couldn't see a way out of my pain and into the promises of God.

God, with a protective and preemptive heart, prompted me to pen some words about hope just days before we lost the chance to parent that sweet baby girl.

Hope is expectation tethered safely to present contentment. It is not a flighty, breathless thing, but decidedly deep and intentional. Hope does not neglect the moment at hand; quite the opposite, really. Hope recognizes that the present moment provides a firm foundation for the envisioned future. To hope means to work diligently, whole-heartedly, for a beautiful dream. Unconcerned with whether or not it's in her power to build that dream, the one who pursues hope leaps with great faith, knowing (even in a free-fall) that God is greatly kind.

I have returned to those words again and again and again when God asks for fresh hope in some arena of my life. 

Today, again, I return. 

Despair, like a predator, stalks me when wounded. In this season, loneliness is the most raw ache of my heart. And where I would be tempted to dwell on what everyone else is doing without me, God is asking me again to dwell on the promised Coming. Asking me to take those pangs of hurt for relationship and turn to Emmanuel for connection and love. Asking me to believe promises of friendship and community.

Last-year-me would be astounded at the fulfilled promises that adorn my life. Most specifically, my Jericho baby and our financial freedom. I could not have imagined how God would move me from longing and bondage -- but that mystery, the unconnected dots are the playground of Hope. 

Some of the artists at our church put out a CD for Christmas (listen HERE) that has been my soundtrack for the last couple weeks. Most specifically, I've had "Born to Us" on repeat - it's a beautiful declaration of the hope that saturates this season.

So where your world feels engulfed in darkness, there is a glimmer of light on the horizon. Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Born to us is the hope of the world. 

Still Sanctuary

"What if on Christmas Eve people came and sat in the dim pews, and someone stood up and said, "Something happened here while we were all out at the malls, while we were baking cookies and fretting about whether we bought our brother-in-law the right gift: Christ was born. God is here."? We wouldn't need the glorious choruses and the harp and the bell choir and the organ. We wouldn't need the tree strung with lights. We wouldn't have to deny that painful dissonance between the promise and hope of Christmas and a world wracked with sin and evil. ... And no one would have to preach sermons to work up our belief.

All of that would seem gaudy and shallow in comparison to the sanctity of that still sanctuary. And we, hushed and awed by something greater and wiser and kinder than we, would kneel of one accord in the stillness." - Loretta Ross-Gotta 

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I read this passage in my advent book a few days ago, and its been haunting me ever since. For the last few months I've been musing about how to create a magical Christmas season for my children, and all that mental energy afforded some carefully laid plans. Work, miscommunications, circumstances and forgetfulness have already laid waste to several of those well-intentioned plans. I want this time of year to be a treasure for my children - not because of treasures they accumulate, but because of the treasured Christ-child given to them and for them. And because the Incarnation declared with finality that families are a preferred weapon of God in the war for this world, I want our little family to function out of that love and power.

But the advent candles still haven't been lit. We didn't go on the hayride at Santa's Wonderland. St. Nicholas' Feast Day went totally uncelebrated. I still haven't gotten a picture of them in their matching Christmas pajamas. The gingerbread house remains a daunting project. I know we still have a couple weeks, and I still want to prioritize the fun and the traditions and the togetherness and the plans.

But the passage above really right-sized my heart. My expectations shouldn't settle on experiences that I can craft, because Christ was born. God is here. If that old-and-deep magic fills my soul during Advent, it will naturally overflow into the hearts of my children. A heart in awe of holiness brings deeper and fuller joy to that table than a calendar full of activities. 

As always, I'm thankful that God shuts down everything I muster up. May you also be "hushed and awed by something greater and kinder and wiser" in the remaining Advent days.

I Write

To ask and to answer.

As pen-and-pulp commitment, a thought or feeling that cannot be undone.

The meaning of this moment, unlost in the future.

To marry my heart and mind again; softening their discord to melody.

Because sometimes words flow freer than tears.

To nail my feet to the earth.

To soar.

To rip seams of life-clothing fitted for someone else.

To sew Spirit into this particular life, at this particular moment

To see again my own depravity.

To see again my own divinity.

Because word-finding-work heals me.

As my fish-and-loaves offering.

Because ink flows in my veins.

And when I bleed, as we all do, it hits the page with purpose.

As worship.

As response and remembrance.

Because what is life if not poetry and prose?

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A friend and brilliant writer, Annie Morgan, just blogged a moving piece about why she writes. And she ended with an encouragement for all creators to do the same. I read her post right after laying my kids down for a nap, desperate for one myself. And I couldn't sleep until I wrote about why I write.

Go read her blog and don't exempt yourself from her challenge. Whatever your art, rediscover it.