Christmas Eve

4:51 a.m. Andrew's crying, and he's crying hard. Fortunately, there's no fear of waking Colin. (We moved him into the office last night after another coughing/vomiting episode.  He's reacting to the antibiotic the doctor gave him, and now in addition to coughing his brains out, he's puking his guts up. Lovely.)

5:10 I make a bottle and arm myself with Tylenol. I'll try the Tylenol first. If that doesn't work, go for the milk.

5:25 I'm rocking Andrew in my arms. He jerks a few times, settles comfortably in my shoulder. I pray.

5:40. I try laying Andrew down to no avail. I give in and give him the bottle. 

6 a.m. Resolve to begin this day and pray some more.

I admit to feeling jipped. It's Christmas Eve, right? Isn't that supposed to guarantee a little reprieve from the day to day toughness of life? Doesn't God feel I deserve this? And there's that ugly word in our American vocabulary, "deserve." Talk about sending you into a spiritual tail spin.

I realize how much I label "suffering" is more likely "inconvenience." And I'm not so convinced that God's in the business of making sure that my life is as convenient as possible. Are my prayers going anywhere in days like these when my true intent is really, "God, make this day go smoothly," rather than, "God, make me more like Jesus,"? 

And then I'm reassured. God hears me, not because I pray right but because of the blood of Jesus.

 

Back by popular demand

Not quite. But thank you to some of my friends who've asked where I've been. I'm back. Well, no guarantees. I guess that's how it goes when you're the mother of five, two of whom have been sick for the better part of a month. The twins seem to have inherited my asthma genes. And so it goes that our days begin far too early with coughing, crying babies and slip away in the haze of breathing treatments. 

The holidays have wreaked near havoc on our already over-extended lives. First, Thanksgiving. Hours researching recipes for the PERFECT bird. For the first time, we hosted Ryan's family here at our house, and to be honest, all I had to shoot for was avoiding the annual call to the fire department. The turkey went in the oven around 9:30 a.m. with a shout out to the kids, "Pray for the BIRD!" The Lord does still answer prayer.

Christmas is three days away, and this entire month, we've been enjoying our traditional Advent readings, though it's never as picturesque as you imagine it will be. We're either both juggling babies on our laps, or one of us has disappeared upstairs for the bedtime routine of diapers and bottles. No matter the distractions, the kids look forward to reading every day. Even Camille, notorious for her inattention during family Bible reading, has virtually memorized every page, that is, with the exception of her answer to Ryan's question tonight. "To whom was Mary betrothed?" "I know!" Camille's hand shoots up. "The ANGEL!"

I'm hoping for some quiet moments in the days to come: to retreat from the relentless fatigue and anxiety of all there is to do to prepare for Christmas and to respond to the humility and grace of the Christmas story.