Christmas in Town

Some years, Christmas comes thundering in like a freight train. The stress of it can make one go mad. Atlanta traffic goes haywire as soon as Halloween is over, there are gifts to buy, parties to attend (many of them obligatory), and everything to decorate. I go out into my musty workshop and pull out grubby bins to see if the mice have left all my pretties alone. I have found that if I will decorate and shop sooner rather than later, there will come a serene moment where I can sit still for a spell and remember what Christmas is anyway. That moment came this morning...

We have the impossible blessing of living in this Victorian gem of a house. Since we moved here, 7-1/2 years ago, I have increasingly been aware that nothing is really ours...we are just passing through. I see the past marks of ownership...scrapes on the beautiful floors, chips on the (five!) fireplaces, loose tiles, mouldings worn about the edges from so much life happening over 118-or-so years. We're putting our own marks on it -- new layers of paint, sometimes peeling back unfortunate history (read: 80s wallpaper), puppy piddles on the varnished floors, bumps from furniture and grandchildren. Every change that we make, we try to respect the house and its history. No modern open-concept or fresh sheetrock here. How is it historic if you've ripped everything away? Eventually this home will pass on to someone else and they can put their own spin on it. I don't believe in ghosts, but I'll come back and haunt it if they don't do her proud. 

I bought a new living room rug, tired of the old burgundy ones. It was horrid, looked nothing like the pictures online, and there was nothing to do but send it back. As I agonized over first-world-problems, I finally found the perfect one. Ken didn't believe me, because it always takes one or two tries before it's right...but suffice it to say, it arrived and our son Daniel descended to help Papa Bear move that massive thing around until it was right in the space. Papa insisted that I Scotchguard it, so last night I sprayed it with six cans of some kind of carcinogenic stuff. When I woke up this morning, he had put all the furniture back and the room thrummed with new life. The 90-year-old wallpaper, the couches, the wood, and the stunning stained-glass-windows were at peace with the rug and all was finally well in Rose World. 

I have Guilt, about pretty much everything. It seemed to come on strong after we started having babies. It seems there's always something extra that should or shouldn't be done. I'm learning to rest though, rest in God's plans for my life, learning to rest in Christ's work on the cross. 'Bout time. When I look at His blessings, it's easy to feel guilty. But that's just the devil talking. This morning, as I sat in my lovely dining room and looked at the tree, the garland, the gifts piled up, the gorgeous windows, and yes, the sweet rug, my heart tugged at God's bounty. Not just the physical parts. I've lived like this and I've lived in an old, leaky camper (where we had a foot-high tree and enjoyed it just as much). Like Paul said in the Scriptures: "for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me." - Phil. 4:11-13. I'm not as practiced at it as Paul, but I get it.

I feel like we are always trying to imitate God's creation. There's something in us that pulls towards all things beautiful. We subconsciously wish to bring the majesty of all He has made inside, into our trinkets and playthings. My Daddy used to say that we are born wanting to grasp heaven, and that's why ice cream tasted so good.  There's a vacuum of sorts inside us, sometimes roaring loudly, demanding to be filled. This morning, taking in the light that spilled gauzily on the confections of my house...where you can see at every juncture finely crafted windows, fireplaces, floors, mouldings, ceilings, I think about all the folks that it must have taken to build this place and how it would cost a fortune to replace it. They really don't make them like this anymore. I think art is our subconscious attempt to imitate God. I look through the leaded glass, pulled to the periwinkle winter sky where a bird trills like it thinks it's spring or something. Look harder and see the glorious, bodacious hand of Him everywhere, including the creative works of men in the music I'm hearing, the architecture of an amazing building, the thick velvet curtains falling to the floor. Yes, we are a cracked people, but marked out in the image of God. 

A Handel piece comes on. I wonder if I've died and gone to heaven. For Unto Us A Child Is Born. Paradise lost and regained. Stop and ponder it this Christmas.