Dear friend: when you're limping towards Christmas
Baby cries, 2 Christmas books & chocolate chip banana bread.
Dear friend,
This Advent season isn't unfolding how I might have chosen. The last few weeks have held grief and sickness, colic and a broken oven, bickering siblings, lots of tears in this space of survival mode and little of the quiet reflecting and reading that I'd prefer.
I'm hearing the invitation to reframe this as a living Advent: the waiting, the aching, the not-yet. This is a fully embodied Advent season, where my whole body and spirit feel weary, where there isn't space for much extra. I'm sleepy-eyed and overstimulated, feeling far from my best self, limping towards Christmas. I’m holding grief for both personal and worldwide heartaches while ordering presents and figuring out what’s for dinner. (Even how I’m writing this feels far from my ideal as I write this in funny chunks; some of it late at night on my phone & some of it on my laptop, in my pajamas, while one foot bounces a baby.)
And this is where the Lord is meeting me: my real, unfiltered, shirt-wet-with-spit-up life. I don’t have to wonder about application or where the Lord wants to show up with me.
It’s here—
in the 4am feedings and dinner prep in the toaster oven
in the tears on my couch and rocking a crying baby
in the prayers for mothers and babies on the other side of the world
in the prayers for my limping friends on this side of the world
in the doctor’s note for school and online shopping
in the conversations and laundry and cold sore forming on my lip
in the cancelled plans and after school snacks.
God-with-us.
What can we do in times of waiting, then? We can stay present, remaining open and paying attention to the subtle shifts inside. We can allow God to stretch us to make room for what he is maturing inside us and our world. And we can surrender our timeline and keep watch with expectant hope for what is to come.
-Bette Dickinson, Making Room in Advent
These past few weeks I've been noticing an undercurrent, an invitation to pay attention, specifically about my baby's cries and my own heartache.
Yesterday, a stranger admired my daughter and asked, "Is she a good baby?"
I'm pretty sure she's wondering how much she cries, but her subconscious is connecting less crying with goodness. But I don't equate crying with her goodness, so I simply respond, "Yes, she's a good baby. She's wonderful."
The baby calendar has a checkbox for "pretty calm baby" or "fussbudget."
I can't help but notice that one sounds like a "better" baby, as though crying and fussing more is worse. I'm choosing not to check either box, as neither feels like the best measure of these early days.
"Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright."
"But little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes."
I listen to these festive lyrics that equate goodness with a lack of tears, and wish for a carol that has Mary soothing a wailing infant, comforting Jesus as he's surprised by his own bodily functions or hungry for her milk.
My first grader comes through the door, fresh off the bus and asks, "Was she a good baby today?"
I pause to hug him and say, "She was a good baby today. But that doesn't mean she didn't cry. She did. Good babies cry. That's how she tells me what she needs, and I want to know that."
He smiled, "That makes sense," before turning his attention to the sweet baby in my arms, to tell her what a good baby she is.
I keep thinking about that conversation and how we (often unknowingly) connect our goodness to our lack of cries, when just the opposite is true.
Here's what I'm noticing as I hear my daughter cry—
I don't equate her cries to her goodness.
Her cries express a need and it's my job to come close and help her.
My heart breaks when I can't soothe her quickly.
I'm grateful for her cries and what they tell me about her needs.
I don't need her cries to be for something "big" to want to draw near.
I'm glad to come near. I want to comfort and care for her.
I know it is harder to believe these things for myself, when my own fears or grief are overwhelming my heart. I might tell myself I'm doing a bad job or that having less needs would be better. It is easy to fall into a cycle of shame, equating my own goodness to my ability to "hold it together."
Being given the humbling gift of mothering another precious life invites me once again to experience the Lord's gentle love.
I'm not shamed for my needs or my aches.
My cries are not a measure of my goodness.
My tears are met with tenderness.
I'm not praised for holding back my sobs.
My grief and fears bring the Lord close to me, just as I come to soothe my girl when I hear her cries.
Good babies cry. Good humans cry.
Dear friend, I wonder where you may be aching or worried today. I wonder what it might feel like to reframe your fears and grief as a cry for comfort that brings the Lord near.
"You need to know that your sadness and worry will be seen not as a lack of faith that drives God away but as a cry for comfort that brings nearness."
-Krispin Mayfield, Attached to God
I’d hoped to send you a whole list of Christmas book recommendations but I simply don’t have the margin this year. So, instead I’ll end with—
a delicious treat (I have fond memories of eating this warm after school, lovingly made by my mom. My recipe has been modified to be a little more nutrient dense & gluten free.) Please enjoy this beloved chocolate chip banana bread recipe, which pairs well with a mug of hot coffee or a glass of milk.
two favorite Christmas books that are truly lovely
Landline by Rainbow Rowell
I love how this romance goes beyond just a couple getting together, but to the messiness of married life and imperfectly loving someone. Even with it’s flaws, the feel of this one is so lovely and I love the reminder what hard, good work it is to stay married or just love someone for a long time.
Christmas by the Book by Anne Marie Ryan
This one is heartwarming and dear, full of sweet bookish & community moments. I loved the British middle-aged couple, struggling to their bookstore business make ends meet and still choosing to be generous with their community and each other. This one is cozy, lovely and made my list of favorite books last year.
Dear friend, Thanks for being here, and Merry Christmas. I hope it is a gentle holiday for you.
I'd love to hear from you. Feel free to just hit "reply" to this email. I read and savor every email that comes my way, even if I don’t always have the space to respond. Whether you want to share if you’re limping towards Christmas too, a favorite Christmas read or if my words brought up anything for your heart, I’d be so glad to know.
Warmly,
Alison