Christmas. If I’m being honest, I long for the white kind. The kind where everything seems merry and bright. For the gathering of kindred spirits, united by Christ, who brings cheer. I look forward to being cloaked in amazement at how a virgin, still very child herself, gave messy beautiful birth, alongside her espoused husband, Joseph. Delivered the Deliverer. Pushed light into darkness…come in bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh. I hope for the “perfect day,” to remember that priceless day. But this Christmas didn’t feel much like Christmas at all. In the moment, my frailty failed to see that this unexpected Christmas was the best kind of gift God could give me.
“My tummy aches unto death.” Her totally dramatic flair always makes me laugh. Not just a stifled laugh, but one that releases like unexpected rain breaking forth from what was once clear sky. And as usual, she looks up at me in all sincerity, shrugging her shoulders, and says, “What? I'm sewious...it aches unto death.” She tilts forward in her car seat, and groans deep, “Ewww! What is that smell?” Cow manure. Welcome to Wisconsin. Land of agriculture…rich in enriching aromas. Love it or hate it…you drive in the country, and it may very feasibly invite you in. My husband breathes it in deep-it reminds him of back home, as a kid. “Mom, can I have hand sanitizer to put up my nose?” She does it again…I can’t contain the cackle. Yep. Totally logical request. Just a little hand sanitizer to stuff up your nostrils to clear out all that stink. I shove the giggles back down. “Bethany, you probably ate too much popcorn at the light show. You’ll be ok. We will go home and get you to bed. You’ll feel better soon.” Even though I know she doesn’t usually complain without a cause, I chalk it up to tiredness. I try and make myself believe it’s not that terrible three letter word. That contagious word, that once spoken seems to catch fire on each person in its vicinity. Our baby may have been regurgitating the last couple days…but I had tried to convince myself it was just a weird spit up. I mean, even though she pitched inward fluids all over her oldest sister on our way to get groceries just a couple days before…it couldn’t possibly be “that word.” That awful sickness that makes my stomach heave just at the thought. The flu…
I hate the flu. Once, when my husband and I got the bug together, I drove myself to the ER, in the dead of night, while he stayed home, basically incapacitated, with our kids. I was pregnant, and all the dehydration had left me with was acid. So, when my husband and I were on vacation in Tennessee just a year later, and he got the flu, it brought back those ugly ER memories. He was stuck in the bathroom, retching, and when he came out, I said, “hunny, I realllllly don’t handle the flu well. Like really don’t. If I get the flu from you, please please be there for me.” I know…pathetic. Nothing screams “needy wife” like the one who looks to her husband for assurance as he is puking his brains out. He lay half coherent in bed, telling me God would be with us, and it would be ok. We were supposed to end our trip at the Creation Museum, but God’s providence had chosen the flu. We drove home the next day somewhat silently, but when he saw a sign for the museum, he quickly veered off, taking the exit. Deciding he felt slightly better, we ended our break truly inspired by God’s handiwork, as we had hoped and planned. Disclaimer: I never did get the flu. We laugh over the memory now-how it all worked out, and how snippets of our different personalities showed clearly that day. But it’s true…the flu leaves me feeling completely helpless.
Before we had left for the light show, I had told the kids they could sleep under the Christmas tree. I was going to be the “cool mom” who created new, amazing traditions that they would carry with them for a lifetime. Memories they would pass on to their families. Because traditions are part of what draws us together. But when we got home, my uncomely emotions started to brew. I was trying hard to believe we weren’t contracting that infectious word. “Mom...it hurts so bad.” Cue the hard collapse of a 5-year-old, saying in not so many words, “Carry me. I can’t walk up the steps alone, or it just might do me in.” Set the 1-year-old down. Pick the 5-year-old up. Wow…she’s heavier. One-year-old shrieks. Apparently, she qualified that as abandonment. She crawls up the stairs after me like a forlorn puppy. Her crying is like needles hammering into my skull. “Ughhh…my tummy.” My internal clock is ticking like a time bomb. The kids need to tuck themselves in tight under this beautiful, gleaming tree, and go to sleep, dreaming of all things beautiful and bright…before I explode.
“Mommmmmm! I pooped!” At this point I am almost resentful at the fact we took time to go to the light show, and now my husband must get some work done in the study. Christmas season…I mind as well be singing, “It’s the most busy time! Yes, the most bus-yyyyyyy time…of the year!” I can hardly stand the sarcasm that is poking from within. An unthankful…unfaithful heart is what it really is. Motherhood. It’s a beautiful thing. Thank You God for dirty bums that are working healthily. But then, “Jayden, did you brush your teeth?” “Oh…no I forgot.” My eyeballs are pultruding. I am no chirpy cheerleader, here at a beck and call to remind him to brush his teeth. I throw down the pom poms, and let lose the fiery coach, whose player has just made the losing mistake. “GO brush your teeth! NOW!”
Ok...everyone is under the stems. On bare floor, tucked in tight. The nasally voice of my 3-year-old squawks. “Hoo hoo.” A cold has stolen her voice, making her almost undecipherable. I look at her lips intently, trying to pick up whatever it is she’s saying. It’s like morse code to me…incomprehensible. Then Bethany again, “Mom…my tummy…” That’s it. I don’t have time to decipher. “Sorry, Mikayla. I don’t understand what you are saying, but it’s time for bed. We are all tired. Love you all. Good night.” I minds well have said, “I don’t care what you are saying, and I refuse to take the time to try.” Kids…they pick up on the attitudes we refuse to see for ourselves. Her bawling starts. Exasperated, she tries again, “I nee my hoo-HOO.” Ahhhh yes. I want to say get over it, but her owl taggie…I get it. It’s a security thing. Ok…I’ll grab it. I know once I leave, chaos could break out in seconds. Whether a fight or giggles…something is bound to take place. I run to my room….oh boy…laundry everywhere. What is clean, what is dirty? It’s a game of I spy. Ah-ha! Found it. Run back downstairs. Throw the blankie at her. Another voice, “Ummmm Mom…I’m really sorry to say this, but can I please have another blanket?” Yes…I will get it. Don’t move a muscle. Let the sleepy feels start to overtake you. I trot to the living room. Survey the blankets. Which one? The nice one that I love, or the scratchier one, that doesn’t quite measure up? I stare at the itchy one, then grab for my favorite. “Here Kennedy.” She smiles up at me, giving thanks. She knows it’s a special thing. A real gift to use Mom’s blanket. “You are welcome, sweetie.” Aww-Bella is all curled up on Kennedy. A picture is a necessity. Everyone smile! Bethany grimaces. Mikayla is half sleeping. Jayden is smiling that bug eyed smile like he’s sure the flash will go off any minute, and he needs to prepare his eyes, just in case. Click. Ok then…nice memory. “Stay in bed…love you all…and to all a good night.”
I choose to rock Alison. Because mostly, I don’t feel like moving. Rather, I feel like sitting in complete silence with a child who doesn’t speak a word to me, but will just lay her head on my chest, requiring only that I provide safety. I fall heavy into the rocker. My ticking begins to slow. And then I hear footsteps…lightly, yet steadily, creeping up the stairs. “Uhhhh Mom….I know you aren’t going to like this, but…” “WHAT!?!?!??” “She’s just a dog...” Enough of this prefacing. “What did she do?” “She chewed a little piece of your blanket while she was laying on me. I am so sorry mom.” “I hate that dog.” I don’t mean it, and as soon as I say it, I know I will need to apologize. But in the moment, I choose not to care. It’s the icing on my homemade cake of frustration. She’s horrified at my statement and starts to cry. I’m a terrible mother. I stomp to the study, spew out how annoying the dog is to my husband, how it’s taking forever to get the kids to bed, and this stuff just shouldn’t happen. Then I leave, but I don’t feel any better. I begin the walk of shame upstairs, and think, “If there’s a bright side to this, it’s the fact I give my kids plenty of opportunity to know what it is to ask for forgiveness. My oldest is there…waiting. “It’s just a blanket Kennedy. I'm sorry.” As soon as I say it, my shoulders lift a bit. It’s just a blanket…Jesus didn’t even have a blanket. I’m so selfish. Her tears are brimming. “But it’s your favorite blanket. The one you do devotions in.” He’s the blanket. “It’s not so much about what wraps me up as I do the devotions, as it is about the devotions that wrap around me.” “I know, but the blanket…” I hold her the way I should have held her from the beginning. “Blankets can be stitched. It will be a memory-and when we look at it, we will always remember this crazy moment.” Where she wishes it never happened, it softens some of the unchangeable.
Then my boy comes upstairs, interrupting the conversation. “Mom, I’m, scared to sleep downstairs…” That’s it. Done. This is the worst tradition ever. Another year. Everyone to their beds. Reorganize. Rearrange. Retuck. Restart.
The time comes where I finally get ready for my own sleep. I wake the kids who need to use the bathroom one last time before I call it a night. That jostle is all it took for that “ache unto death” to begin in my girl’s tummy again. She began to toss and turn next to the bowl I had placed next to her. I beg her, “If you have to puke, please, PLEASE try and get it into the bucket.” Is it in my head, or is my stomach churning too? I pilgrim weary back to my own mattress, trying to catch a little sleep, but her moans wake me again. I can’t help but admit, I really don’t feel well either. I’ll move her to the bathroom. That way, if she pukes, it will at least be on hard floor. “Hey Bethany, I’m gonna move you to the bathroom, ok?” Boy, I am starting to feel sick. She steps down the bunk's ladder, following close behind me. She heaves. On the carpet. Right in front of the bathroom.
I suddenly can’t do it alone anymore. I trudge downstairs, find my husband, and he helps clean up the mess. Funny how not much time has passed since we first got home, but it feels like I have been crawling the last forty-five minutes for days. I’m clammy, weak, and my stomach is sour. As my girl rocks over the toilet, I tell her she’s doing great. I hold her brown hair and rub the ridges of her back. Her eyes water, and she doesn’t feel alright, but I tell her all will turn out right. I say it, hoping to believe it. Because she was right…my tummy aches unto death too. She finishes her emptying and curls herself on the cold ground. I just need to lie down. I wait. I know it’s coming. The roll of the guts before the vomit erupts. I run to the bathroom and give way to the gags. Round one complete. I’m talking to God, but my girl who lays near hears my utterance, “Lord, I don’t feel good.” “Me either, Momma.” “I know. We are in this together…at least we are in this together.” We sleep the next day away-Christmas Eve. The day comes in spurts for me. No great anticipation of Christ’s arrival. Just lying in bed, next to my tiny companion, who, at some point wriggled next to me. She hears my groans-wanting the sickness to pass. Her thin fingers reach for my own, caressing them with comfort, as her eyes give way to slumber.
I tell the others to take care of themselves. I don’t know what they do throughout the day, but they do it just the same. I tell my oldest that if she helps around that house, that I will buy her a coffee from Ts coffee shop when I get better. I'm not beneath rewarding. She goes above and beyond, caring for me too…checking in on me continually, asking what I need. Bringing me popsicles that my sister in Zion brought over. She warms my heating pad again and again, and strips the sheets that her sister peed on the night before. I feel her touch from afar. I hear something about Alison getting into the paint, but they are going to pick it up. Like a dream I see my fearless leader with cotton balls stuffed up his nose, walking valiantly with dirty diaper in one hand, and a baby with diarrhea in the other. If that isn’t a picture to treasure. I fall asleep.
I awake to the gut reels. Jesus…I can’t do this anymore. Please make the pain go away. I became pain. The ache seems to last forever. Nothing lasts forever, besides life in me. I’m tired. I came for the weary. I feel alone. I was alone…so that I can be here, with you. I am here... I sin so often…I don’t deserve You. No one does. I feel helpless. You are. Depend on Me. I throb deep within. But suddenly, it’s not so much because of the sickness that is engulfing me. My soul sorrows over my impatience. Over my self-centeredness. Over so many others who walk Christmas with wrenching ache. The kind others don’t see. The kind that feels like the heart has been ripped out of their chest, yet it still beats, an open cavity. There are tables surrounded by empty chairs, and trials that temper the joy. There is cancer and disease. Innumerable hardships, iniquities, and imperfections that have been brought on by our Eden’s first sin. They are what the Holy One came to heal. Laying in my bed full of night sweat and germed vomit, my idealization of Christmas is suddenly stripped bare. The reality of His birth weighs on my chest. I give thought to His helplessness that lay in manger. Dependent upon His teenager mother, who was overshadowed by the Highest, so that His innocence might become the lowest. She let loose cry as the heavens let forth exultation at this “holy thing” (Luke 1: 35) born of her virgin womb. She groaned forth what God had gifted the world. A godly carpenter stood near-Steadfast. Believing. Even though others would view this Son as one born of fornication. Their hands held their Godhead; their eyes beheld His frailty; their ponderings whispering, "So this is He.” Born majesty in the midst of manure and mundane. Holiness arrayed with the perspiration, compost, blood, and forgottenness of a barnyard. Forgotten was He…so remembered are we. He is here…here with me.
Christmas day-My husband comes home after the service with tokens of love from church family. I am on the mend. I smile at the hundreds of ways my heart feels remembered by others who declare my Savior’s sweet name. We gather to open some gifts, watch a cartoon, and give way to laughter. Another child has fallen ill. The baby saturates 3 outfits and a crib with poop, filling the already puke-stenched room with more rancid smell…perhaps not much different than a stable. My heart gives way to thankfulness.
This Christmas was an unanticipated one. Unwanted, if truth be told. A lot like Jesus, I see. His birth was nothing astonishing to the seeing eye. But wrapped inside the All-Seeing Eye was a peculiar providence, most precious indeed. Bursting within His extraordinary plan was everything…was you and me. As His Spirit enraptured a woman blessed among women, and an angel declared, “Jesus,” shall be His name, yes, at this tiny beginning, He treasured my name. As He left light for darkness to dwell among men, His first cry among cattle…His first wails knew my small name. This Babe, when taken up by Simeon’s withering hands, dimmed the old man’s eyes in peace, for Simeon had seen the Christ…the Child who knew him by name. A writer in sand, a friend among publicans, sinners, and women. A miracle worker, who stooped down to wee children…always…He knew my name. A man of whom others confessed, “No man spake like this man,” …He speaks my name. He knows all my struggles-can cease all their groanings, for He has called me by name. And even on the cross, when He knew the earth-shattering moment approached...my name lay on His trodden down frame. He had left the tender mother who had once held His hand. The moment drew nigh, where He would confess God, just as always, albeit His lips would cry out, “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”…Has Father forgotten My name?” He petitioned for His people, even there on that tree, that God would forgive them…He never let our names be. When words would fail Him and ghost would leave Him- my name...somehow…He always carried my name. (Isaiah 43:1)
Breath of heaven falls…Holy Spirit teaching me. I have trampled the manger. Thrown Baby into the dung. Walked away from the barn that held the heart of Bethlehem. Why Jesus? Why my name? For my name. What is this name? Alpha Omega, Prince of Peace, Great Messiah, Savior, Morning Star, Wonderful Counselor, The Good Shepherd, Shiloh, Immanuel…the names never cease. I give you a name. But why, Lord? Because this is love. What love is this this? The dying kind. The doesn’t make sense kind. The God glorifying kind. But why?… It’s simple, really. I love you, because I love you.
All I can do is stay silent, words trapped within. But my heart exclaims, “If Jesus were born one thousand times in Bethlehem, and not in me, then I would still be lost.” (Corrie Ten Boom). This Name above all names, Who gives me a name. Immanuel…God with us. Here with us now. As Luther confessed, “No other God have I but Thee; born in a manger, died on a tree.”
When Christmas morning dawns, it comes breaking forth with covenant promise. A baby cries in Bethlehem. The cry of love falls like a whisper from His lips, “Because I know your name.” JE-SUS…yes, I know Your name…what a beautiful name.
Light Show ~2021~
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