So much has changed.
Ten years ago, Christmas shopping was both a joy and a
misery. Every trip to the store in search of the perfect gift meant prepping
and ushering three small, often unwilling, shopping accomplices through the
crowded aisles. That meant diapers and
sippy cups for the baby boy, whatever 3-5 stuffed animals little sister was in
love with at the time and at least one giant book into which the oldest sister would
firmly insert her nose as she bumped into any and everything meandering through the
store.
I could anticipate with each outing we would have several
big belly laughs and wide-eyed “WOW!”s, quite a few tears and at least one
tantrum over who would get the last blue raspberry sucker in Mom’s purse and
who would be left to torturously suffer through eating the plain ole grape one. At some point, we would experience multiple small humans wallowing on the floor in the checkout line and copious amounts
of parental bribery for extra TV time.
Three kids, a long gift checklist, a very tight budget and
one tired mama.
Fire and rain, y’all.
Just a little ole decade later and the landscape looks very
different. I noticed just the other day
how I’ve already made quite a few trips out for various Christmas goodies, and
I don’t think I have yet been accompanied by even one child person . . . even
one time.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being able to focus, secure the package
and immediately blow that popsicle stand, but my heart strings are getting sore
with the drastic shift in seasons. The
three don’t usually all go shop with me now.
In reality, they are seldom even at home for any extended period of time
at the same time during this busy season.
Between choir rehearsals, band rehearsals, musical rehearsals and
performances based on all of the prior (guess that’s what I get for having
artsy-fartsy kids), the husband and I often find ourselves with only part of the herd
in the pasture – sometimes maybe not even one cute little calf to keep the old
bovine folks company.
They’re growing up and getting out. Christmas makes those transitions show
through like wrinkles on the forehead. The
lines tell of time and of evolution. And
they can’t be hidden. Also, they tick me
off.
And so we are left to concentrate our efforts. The traditions that once were a given are now
an intentional goal. We’ve been
collectively scouring the calendar, looking to pull the “all-stop” and carve
out some time for the annual cookie decorating competition or driving around in
our PJs to look at lights while we drink hot cocoa or milkshakes, depending on
what Texas weather we get on that particular day. It’s not lost on me that we have one child sadly
counting down how many “kid” Christmases she has before adulthood. Darn it all, every one of them needs to
count. And it should, right? Because, time progression aside, we’ve
learned firsthand how life can take an unexpected and grievous turn. Not one of us is guaranteed another raising
of the big plastic pseudo-tree. Whatever
the season looks like, every Christmas WILL count.
I’m grateful that our crew is learning (I hope) to place a
premium on our time together even more than on the gifts. Money is a nonessential for a truly beautiful
memory. These goofballs just want to sit around at home and write silly carols,
jump on the trampoline in their pajamas, watch “A Christmas Story” beside the
tree lights. They are hurting for our
yearly family Advent devotionals, which we have been sorely lax in this year,
and for sibling sleepovers and giggling by the tree on Christmas Eve.
These sacred rhythms and traditions out-sparkle the
glittery-est of packages. Lord, help us breathe in the blessing.
I’d be good to throw out those shopping lists and create a more sacred to-do list: more time for
traditions new and old, the reprise of this beautiful rhythm, the holy
remembrances, to make every year ‘round the tree joyful and triumphant, a new
and unique verse in our symphony.
So in the big tick-tock of this season, here’s to all of the
evolving seasons in our families: to growing-up
babies and crying babies, to shopping trips full or solo, to sad old cow
couples sitting on the couch watching Netflix while the calves are all out
tending to their own adventures, to quiet moments where the hum of the Spirit
hugs all of our pieces into peace. And
most importantly, here’s to that one Baby that was born and was loved and grew
up and left home and loved and suffered . . .
And saved us.
Merry Christmas.
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