10 posts tagged “love”
The church was packed. Family, friends, neighbors, teachers, classmates, Cub Scouts, you name it.
This was a boy, and a family, that people know. Knew. That people are glad to know; to have known.
One uncle's comments in celebration of Luke's life included these words: "It was a freak accident; it was nobody's fault. I bear no anger toward anybody about this." And you could tell he meant it.
Here's what the mom and dad had to say, in today's local paper.
http://www.salinereporter.com/stories/090408/loc_20080904001.shtml
And she means it too. She's just that kind of person. She truly, truly wants people to pray for and forgive the man who killed her son.
Because it WAS a freak accident.
High noon, not a cloud in the sky, no drugs or alcohol involved, a 40-year-old man, father of a 7-year-old boy of his own, plowed into the back of their stopped minivan. At high speed. Until today I was racking my brain trying to understand how on earth this could have happened. He was a local; it's not like he couldn't have known that was a 4-way stop. Why wasn't he at least slowing down as he apprached the intersection?
Here's how. I heard about it this evening.
He had just given blood, and was feeling lightheaded, and stepped on the gas instead of the brake, approaching that 4-way stop.
Here was a man trying to do the right thing, giving blood; and he killed a boy. A boy his own son's age.
Can you imagine what he is going through right now?
So seriously. Pray for him, forgive him, cover him with love, too.
And the parents.
Early Sunday morning, their beloved son was taken off the ventilator, and wheeled into an operating room, where doctors did everything they could... to make sure OTHER children would live. They donated their child's organs.
The dad was reported to have said, in making this decision, "I'm not sure this is what I want to do... but it's what Luke would have wanted to have done. He would have wanted to know that other children could live, even if he couldn't."
Who knows why? Who knows why?
The web of our lives is woven together more intricately than we can know.
But that's love. That's love. To take your own family's tragedy, and answer the prayers of other families whom you will never meet. To offer prayers and care to the man who killed your child. That's IT; that's what it's all about.
That's love.
Go hug your children. Kiss your spouse. Smile at a stranger on the street.
Love one another.
So this morning after I dropped off Eldest Son for his first day of school (which gave me a pang, knowing...), I stopped off to get some flowers and a card, and took them to the home of our friends.
They had taken their two older boys to school too, somewhat to my surprise, but in retrospect it makes sense. Get the kids thinking about something else, for a little while at least. The mom and dad and the littlest brother (who is just a couple of months older than my own Littlest Brother -- we were pregnant together in our Moms' Group) whom I saw at their home, are all dealing with this really amazingly well, considering.
I felt like a dope at first, bringing flowers, when I belatedly thought, "Why didn't I bring food or something more practical?" but then the mom mentioned to someone who called on the phone that she had been given so much food already that she needed to start putting some of it in the freezer. So then I didn't feel so bad about the flowers.
A neighbor and two relatives were camped out in the living room and appeared to have things well in hand, so when the mom found some library books that needed to go back, I volunteered for that job, and left again.
So, I'm glad I went.
The memorial service is on Thursday evening.
If they're asleep already (and Dear God, they ought to be! It's 10:00 PM on a school night!), then kiss their little angelic brows and settle the blanket more firmly around their shoulders.
I WAS going to post about this holiday weekend / mini-family-vacation, including a trip to Michigan's Adventure amusement park.
Or else I WAS going to post about Sarah Palin, and all like that.
But then when we got back home a few hours ago, I had a terrible, awful, horrible, tragic message on my answering machine.
So none of that seems to matter right now.
A kid I know is dead.
A kid almost exactly Eldest Son's age, a kid whose home we've visited, whose birthday party we've attended, a kid who would have been entering second grade tomorrow in our same school district (although not in Eldest Son's own elementary school; the other one), is dead.
A kid whose mom kept all us other moms in Moms' Bible Study in stitches with her bubbly personality and goofball sense of humor -- her kid is dead.
I am still in a state of shock, but obviously nothing like what that family is going through.
They were all in their family minivan on Saturday about noon, when they were rear-ended at a four-way stop. No teen drivers involved; no sign of alcohol. According to the newspaper report, everybody else got away with only minor injuries. The place where it happened is right next to the Dairy Queen and probably not even a mile from the family's home; they must literally go through that intersection at least five times a day -- ordinarily. Now I think I would go miles out of my way to avoid it, if I were in their shoes.
He was a twin, an identical twin, whose name was always attached to his brother's name, a single entity, "Luke'N'Aaron." "The twins this" and "Luke'N'Aaron that". He was one of four brothers, all boys in that family.
Now there are only three; now Aaron will forever be singular. Never again a plural.
So now my heart goes out to them; my prayers go out to cover them.
But, it seems so little. It seems so useless.
I don't know what to do or say; I don't want to intrude on their grief, and yet, I want to do something.
So go hug your children. Kiss your spouse. Quick, arrange to see those old friends you've been meaning to get together with but somehow always end up saying "maybe next weekend."
Because you never know. You just never know.
You never know when it might be the last time you can.
Okay, one more Sara Groves post. Bear with me. I think after this one I'll have gotten it out of my system for now. :-) (Plus I'm having fun with fonts & font colors. Just bear with me.)
This is another one that makes me think, a LOT, about how I'm doing as a mom. (This is from the "All Right Here" album also.)
Just One More Thing
There's always just one more thing.
There's always another task.
There's always, I just have one more small favor to ask.
And everything is urgent and everything is now.
I wonder what would really happen if I stopped somehow...
I'll be there in a minute.
Just a few places to go.
You wake up a few years later and your kids are grown.
And everything is important.
But everything is not.
At the end of your life your relationships are all you've got.
And love to me is when you put down that one more thing
and say, I've got something better to do.
And love to me is when you walk out on that one more thing
and say, Nothing will come between me and you.
Not even one thing...
There will never be an end to
The requests upon your time.
It's your place to stand up and tell the world
You've got to rest awhile.
And everything is important.
But everything is not.
At the end of your life your relationships are all you've got.
And love to me is when you put down that one more thing
and say, I've got something better to do.
And love to me is when you walk out on that one more thing
and say, Nothing will come between me and you.
Not even one thing...
Not even one more thing...
More Sara Groves.
This is the first song of hers that I ever heard. Eldest Son was my only child, under a year old. The then-leader of my church's Moms' Bible Study brought in the Sara Groves CD "Conversations" and played this song, "Generations," for us.
All the moms there were weeping by the time it was over.
Generations
I can taste the fruit of Eve:
I'm aware of sickness, death and disease.
The results of her choices were vast.
Eve was the first but she wasn't the last.
If I were honest with myself, had I been standing at that tree,
My mouth and my hands would be covered with fruit.
Things I shouldn't know
And things I shouldn't see
CHORUS:
Remind me of this with every decision:
Generations will reap what I sow.
I can pass on a curse or a blessing
to those I will never know.
She taught us to fear the serpent.
I'm learning to fear myself
And all of the things I am capable of in my
Search for wisdom, acceptance and wealth.
And to say that the devil made me do it
Is a cop-out and a lie.
The devil can't make me do
Anything, when I'm calling on Jesus Christ
CHORUS: I can pass on a curse or a blessing
Remind me of this with every decision:
Generations will reap what I sow.
to those I will never know.
live in peace.
To my great-great-great-grandson,
live in peace.
To my great-great-great granddaughter,
live in peace.
To my great-great-great-grandson,
live in peace, oh live in peace.
CHORUS:
Remind me of this with every decision:
Generations will reap what I sow.
I can pass on a curse or a blessing
to those I will never know.
Eve was the first but she wasn't the last...
*****
I guess one reason why I love her songs is, she admits that we human beings are imperfect. That we have doubts. That we don't always hear God, even when we want to. That all too often, we don't even want to. That any one of us would have done what Eve did (and Adam too, of course. No sexism here!). That in fact, we DO do what Eve did, every day: Reach for wisdom, knowledge, power, in whatever ways we can. No, not by chomping on a magic apple, but by doing other things contrary to Jesus's commandment to "love one another."
That's what I'm like. That's why she speaks for my experience. That's why I love her music.
She speaks honestly about our secret broken places. The ones we hide from each other and the world. (but can't hide from God...)
But she doesn't just stop with those. It's not all, oh, we're inherently evil and blah blah blah. Her songs are joyful too, celebrating what's good about us, what's lovable, what's important. What we can be when we're striving for our best. And her songs are about grace, God's grace, and love, that even the best of us, even on their best days, are needful of.
...blessings, all...
I adore the music of Sara Groves.
I don't generally care much for Christian rock -- I hear so much more divinity in traditional choral music -- but I can never get enough of Sara Groves. Her music is richly haunting, and her lyrics deceptively simple, many-layered. She so richly expresses things I need to hear; and almost every song of hers makes me think. Hard.
Tuesday afternoon I was thinking of this song from her "All Right Here" album:
"You Cannot Lose My Love"
You will lose your baby teeth
At times you'll lose your faith in me
You will lose a lot of things
But you cannot lose my love
You may lose your appetite
Your guiding sense of wrong and right
You may lose your will to fight
But you cannot lose my love
You will lose your confidence
In times of trial your common sense
You may lose your innocence
But you cannot lose my love
Many things can be misplaced
Your very memories be erased
No matter what the time or space
You cannot lose my love
You cannot lose
You cannot lose
You cannot lose my love
***
That last stanza made me cry the first time I heard it. My husband's grandmother had died not long before, after a long period of progressively worsening dementia. My own grandfather was dying, and following a similar course. It was very hard for me to watch the diminishment of these beloved people, especially as my own small children were doing the exact opposite. Every day my son became a tiny bit more capable, and every day my grandfather became a tiny bit less.
Dementia is sort of horrifying and terrifying to witness. After all, what am I -- the "I" that thinks these things -- if not a being capable of rational thought? What am I if not my own unique collection of memories and experiences? And if those memories disappear, if my intellect disappears, what will be left of me? I know dementia is not catching, and yet, I have always found it extremely disquieting, if only because it is a reminder of our own fragility and impermanence.
Then I heard this song.
When it came to the part about how, "Your very memories be erased, but you cannot lose my love" this expressed so strongly to me how the essential person-hood -- the soul -- of my grandfather was separate from his intellect and his rapidly vanishing memories, and how there was still something precious there. Something God loved. Something I could love. And I cried, hearing it; but it was a good kind of cry.
In a smaller way, at various times, I have lost many of the other things mentioned in this song -- lost and in some cases, regained. So I find this song comforting, as a reminder of the one thing, of all things, that I cannot lose.
***
Tuesday afternoon this song came to me in a new way.
(This was why that vote of confidence from Precious Princess later in the evening was doubly precious.)
Had a difficult phone call from Eldest Son's principal. Heart sinking, feeling defeated, not knowing what to do or how to approach the kid, how to solve this particular problem and how to steer him away from repeating it.
Unlike me, I prayed. I do not have a strong instinct to pray -- wasn't raised with it -- and it is not usually my first reaction when things get tough. But this time, rather than let my mind race about like a frantic hamster on a wheel, getting nowhere except exhausted, I decided to pray.
Song lyrics came into my head, together with their melodies.
First came, "Love one another, love one another, love one another... as I have loved you."
Then came the song above, the Sara Groves song.
This time I knew that it was not only a comforting reminder to me, but a directive as well.
I had to find a way to reach my son, to impress upon him the seriousness of the incident, to help him think of a way to make amends, to help him decide for himself that it was wrong and he shouldn't do it again, help him take ownership of his misbehavior... and yet, and yet, avoid making him feel bereft of my love.
Make him feel that no matter what else he loses -- in this case, his temper and his impulse control -- he cannot lose my love.
Ranting and raving was going to do more harm than good.
He's a stubborn mule, that kid; the harder you pull, the harder he digs in his heels.
I needed to not give him a reason to dig in his heels on this.
I think I managed it. By the time everyone went to bed, I was pretty sure he had taken ownership of the problem, taken it seriously, taken a step toward making amends... and still believed I loved him.
No matter what the time or space, he cannot lose my love.
...Amidst the chaos of our kitchen.
At first I was going to move them to a clear background for a more glamourous pic (which I did actually do -- see below), but then I decided -- what more perfect representation of our life and marriage and current life-stage???
Let's see, in addition to the aforementioned blooms, there's... a basket of paper napkins and bin of hand-sanitizer; a couple of small bins of miscellaneous little "stuff" that never seems to find homes for itself; graham crackers in a ziploc bag; a plastic drinking cup from Michigan Stadium; somebody's Chapstick; Precious Princess's personally-made-at-preschool snow-globe (one of her most cherished possessions -- that yellowish-looking little plastic bottle -- don't worry, it's not water, it's cooking oil); a pump bottle of Aveeno hand lotion; a book for planning a vacation to Disney with kids -- slightly out of date, no doubt, but bought for a measly dollar at a garage sale. Hidden by the flowers is Eldest Son's homework timer, the kind that works like a traffic light; and just out of the foreground of the pic is Littlest Brother's sippy cup full of orange juice left over from lunch.
Herewith, the more attractive version of the flower pic:
And finally -- The Card!
And who says engineers can't be romantic?? Ha!
This card does completely sum up our two respective opinions on minor repairs of all sorts, from cars to laundry machines to home improvements.
(And he usually does manage to fix it himself, blast it!)
To what do I owe this floral largesse, you ask?
Our 15th Wedding Anniversary!
Yes, friends, our marriage is now 15 years old; in other words, entering that slouching pimply pugnacious stage, where one needs to keep a tight grip on the dashboard and one's insurance premiums.
No, not really. Actually these past few years have been among the best of our married lives. Owing to what, I have very little clue.
Maybe it's that we stopped having new babies, and have begun to form an integrated whole with the souls already present in our family. Maybe it's that, related to that same phenomenon, my hormonally-induced personality disorder(s) have finally receded into the background. Maybe it's that now that the real work of child-rearing has begun, we've formed a deeper appreciation for the value of one another's presence, if for no other reason than the ability to tag-team. We both truly, madly, deeply desire -- not to be single parents to our unruly brood. Or maybe it's just luck.
Or maybe it's just love.
But "all you need is love"? -- No.
I would say, how we've made it this far is, in order of importance...
(1) Luck.
I have been lucky. Plain and simple. Sometimes we get what we deserve -- and sometimes we get luckier than that. And this was one of the greatest strokes of luck in my entire life: Falling in love with that boy, then. When we were both young and beautiful. When life's great adventure lay spread before us like a friendly sunny vale, when all of life's opportunities seemed ripe for the plucking, when that beautiful golden boy (6'3", strong-armed, long-legged, brightly blond, golden tan, big blue-green eyes with lusciously thick golden lashes, wide generous smile, still waters running deep) materialized on my path and took my hand and offered to take on that adventure with me. Luck. Absolutely.
(2) Faith. 'Nuff said, here.
(3) Friendship.
We were friends for nearly three years before we started dating. We had seen the best and the worst of each other before we started dating. And, though there may be many despicable acts a person can consider toward someone they're falling out of love with -- and I understand that impulse, believe me -- somehow it seems harder to do to a friend. He is still my best friend. He has been my emotional, practical, and financial support more times than I can count, a shoulder to cry on, my cheering section, my rock. He has always been my friend.
(4) Commitment.
This means, on those occasions when I found myself attracted to someone else, making a conscious choice to turn those feelings toward my husband. To remember those early days when that beautiful golden boy was the light of my life, when I couldn't spend enough waking hours with him, when I could count the very hairs on his forearm and be giddy with pleasure at the thought of each one. To remember that I love the man he is now more fully, deeply, and richly than the girl I was then could even have imagined. That is where my heart's home is. To remember that.
It means, on those occasions when he was a jerk (and yes, there have been those), making a conscious choice to open my hand and drop that hurt. Not keep clutching it in my fist like a shard of broken glass where it could keep on cutting me, but drop it. Forgive.
It means, on those occasions when I was a jerk (and uh -- gee -- yes, there have been those), admitting it (though sometimes only to myself, I'm afraid), learning from it, and trying to make it up to him. He refused to fight with me, those dark years of my untreated depression -- and that was a conscious choice on his part, to turn the other cheek and walk away from those fights. Did he wonder, then, if it was always going to be like this, 'til death do us part? For how many more decades? How much strength, how much faith did it take for him to believe it was worth it? To believe I was worth it? That we were worth it? (Thank goodness that's behind us!)
(5) Humor.
Dignity, I've decided, is not the natural state for the human animal. Laugh at the indignities life inflicts upon you -- goodness knows, everybody else will.
(6) Luck.
Did I mention luck?
*****
And that's it! Mama Carole's majik love potion. 15 years of wedded bliss (or, um, well, let's stick with bliss), guaranteed.
Cheers.
;-)
Someone's writing a biography of your life (to date). What is the best/worst chapter of the book?
Submitted by Ross.
Ummm... Haven't gotten there yet?
Well, okay, let's take what we've got so far... let's see...
BEST: The summer I fell in love with Dear Husband. NO-O-O-O, I'm not going into the juicy details now!!!
WORST: MBA school. Gotta be. Living Hell. Absolute living hell. (Maybe that should have been a clue???)
Thursday it rained. Precious Princess and Littlest Brother went outside to play in it.
In due course, I went outside too, to supervise.
"Look, Mommy! I see worms!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Don't step on any of them!"
Then she proceeded to befriend every worm on the driveway. Some of them she laid gently in the grass, addressing them thusly: "Here you go, Wormie! You'll like that nice grass!"
She's incredibly tender-hearted. One night when I was reading "The Sneetches" to her, towards the end her eyes welled up and her lower lip trembled. (This was after Sylvester McMonkey McBean left the Sneetches on their beach, having snookered all their money away.) She turned to me and with quavering voice said, "But... But they've lost all their money!"
Here she was, deeply concerned about the fate of the now-poverty-stricken Sneetches, who aren't even real.
She's just the personification of empathy.
I've learned a lot from her.
I only wish I could live up to her example.
The Scene:
Christmas Eve morning at a mid-sized Presbyterian Church in a mid-sized Midwestern city.
The children will be ringing bells, and later participating in a silent reenactment of the Nativity... all the little sheep and angels and so on... They've all been scrubbed and tidied and put into their Christmas best.
Service is about to begin, and the place is packed. Only one service this morning, because of the 3 planned for later this evening; plus, there're all the people who only come on Christmas and Easter, and all the children and grandchildren of regular members who are "home for the holidays."
The service kicks off with the lighting of the Advent Candles. Today, the last Sunday of Advent, all 4 Advent candles will be lit by a nice little family, long-time members, cute kids, and all that. The parents will read the little presentation prepared by the Worship Committee as they light each candle, to help everyone prepare their hearts and minds with sufficient holiness to welcome Lord Jesus into our midst.
The Associate Pastor approaches the lectern, issues the Call to Worship. The family who will light the Advent Candles arises from their pew near the front of the church: Mom and Dad, mid- to- late-thirties, heavyset, too busy with the kids to get enough exercise; the kids, Eldest Son, age almost-6; Precious Princess, age 3-1/2; and The Baby, age 20 months; all dressed in adorable coordinating dress-up clothes, all recently bathed, shiny hair and no smudges on the face.
Mom holds The Baby in her left arm, along with the printed reading from the Worship Committee. In her right hand, Mom holds the microphone. Dad holds the candle-lighter, a long, elegant brass tool which brings a bit more gravitas to the occasion than an old plastic Bic lighter would. They arrange themselves on the altar steps, Dad nearest the candles, Mom next holding the Baby, the Eldest Son and Precious Princess standing beside her. Glancing at Dad out of the corner of her eye, Mom sees that Dad is lighting the first candle. She takes a deep breath, raises the mike, and begins reading:
"Jesus said, “I am the light of the world: He who follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." The first candle is a reminder of the light of hope of the prophets."
Dad lights the second candle. Mom continues,
"The second candle is a symbol of the light that took Joseph and Mary into the stable."
The Baby takes a swipe at the mike.
Mom pulls it away from him. Remember, he's in her left arm, along with the reading print-out; the mike is in her right. She can hold it such that he can't reach it, far to the right; but she realizes, belatedly, that when she does so, she can no longer read what's written on the paper.
Dad begins to light the third candle. Mom reads on,
"The third candle reminds us of the great light and joy that surrounded the shepherds at the announcement of Jesus’ birth."
The Baby swipes at the mike again.
Mom has to choose: Be able to read what you're supposed to be reading, or hold the mike so that everyone can hear what you're supposed to be reading? You can't have both, Mom.
This time, Mom can't keep a smile off her face. The whole congregation is watching The Baby play hide-'n'-go-seek with the microphone, it's not like they can't see her dilemma. Mom bites her lips, but can't stop smiling at this thought. And when she smiles, she can't keep the chuckle out of her voice.
" Why do we light the fourth candle?"
"- Chuckle - Here --" she says, turning to Dad, who has by now finished lighting the candles, "You'd better finish." Indulgent chuckles follow her around the sanctuary; yes, everyone can see it's a losing battle she's fighting with The Baby and the mike. Better that Dad take the mike and finish the reading; yes; far better.
Dad reads on:
"The fourth candle reminds us of the light of the stars in the sky which guided the wise men to Jesus and which keeps watch over us by night."
While Dad is in the middle of this sentence, Mom sees out of the corner of her eye that foxy little mischief grin stealing across the face of Precious Princess. Clearly all that chuckling was giving her ideas... Making a hasty snatch, Mom manages to grap Precious Princess and capture her hand, RIGHT before she would have bolted. Thwarted, Precious Princess gives in without a fuss and stands demurely by Mom's side as if she had never planned anything untoward.
Now, here's how things stood with the little family up on the altar steps:
Dad holds the brass candle-lighter in one hand, the mike and the reading in the other. Mom holds The Baby in her right arm, having shifted her grip during the successful put-down of the Precious Princess rebellion, and the hand of Precious Princess herself is held in Mom's left hand.
Eldest Son, seeing an unparallelled opportunity open up before him, seizes it with both hands.
Mom, unfortunately being unable to extrude a third hand, is unable to seize HIM.
Eldest Son bolts away from Mom, hops up the last 2 steps to the altar, and starts skipping around the altar. Giggling all the while.
Dad, for his part, keeps reading:
"Listen to what Matthew wrote about the wise men: In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to , asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising and have come to pay him homage." Matthew 2:1
"We each in our own way come before Jesus. For some of us it is a long journey through life to come before the Lord. For others the presence of Christ is always near.
"No matter how long it takes us though, when we come before Christ, we come bearing gifts of thanks and joy."
(I see nothing, I hear nothing, my task is to finish this reading, and finish it I SHALL!)
Mom, dragging Precious Princess up the steps to attempt a better position to intercept Eldest Son as he goes his merry rounds (Skipping. And giggling), trips over her little foot. Finally attaining the top of the stairs, she shifts Precious Princess's hand to her right hand, already burdened with The Baby. In the present emergency, that'll do. And now her left hand is free to attempt a capture of Eldest Son.
He, however, wise to Mom's ways, dances just out of her reach, nimbly avoiding her snatch.
Mom, aware earlier of how silly she looked in her attempt to keep the mike from The Baby's grab, is doubly aware now of how even-sillier she looks in her attempts to grab Eldest Son. She bites her lips again, but again to no avail; the smile leaks out onto her face, irrepressibly. Another renegade chuckle bubbles up from the depths as Eldest Son continues skipping. And giggling.
Dad's voice, droning on, finally completes the reading:
"O God, when we think of Christmas we think of love and lights and gifts and happy times. We know the cause of this celebration is the birth of your Son, Jesus. The wise men traveled far to bow down before you and offer gifts. We bow down before you praising you with joy for the enormous blessings you have given us. We bring to you our gifts of praise and thanksgiving to honor and glorify you forever and ever. Amen."
Dad shifts the mike, the reading, and candle-lighter all into his right hand; and as Eldest Son dances away from Mom yet again, he comes into Dad's range. Lightning-fast, Dad's left hand shoots out and grasps Eldest Son by the shoulder.
"You're done!" says Dad, and removing Eldest Son from the altar and down the steps, sends him back up the aisle, where his Sunday School teacher is waiting to give him his handbells.
-- Remember, the little kids' bell-ringing is next, later to be followed by the (oh God, please let it be) SILENT Nativity re-enactment.
Yes: Eldest Son, along with other kids, is scheduled to be up in front of the congregation TWO MORE TIMES before this service is over. Um. Yikes. -- (By the way, just to cut the tension, both of these appearances will go without a hitch. Thank God -- literally.)
Mom, Dad, Precious Princess, and The Baby slink back down the altar steps to their pew, Mom still unable to keep the grin off her face or the occasional semi-hysterical renegade chuckle from escaping.
As their part in this morning's service, mercifully, comes to an end, the congregation bursts into spontaneous applause.
The Senior Pastor, coming to the lectern, says with a smile, "I want you all to know that everything that happens here today was planned. -- Just not by us. Grace abounds."
Now the whole congregation bursts into laughter, and Mom's chuckles are drowned out, for which she is thankful.
The Senior Pastor takes this opportunity to mention, "We are still looking for childcare for this evening's services. If you feel you would be able to give a small amount of your time to serve in this way tonight, please see E. H., Director of Children's Ministries, after the service."
Well, it seemed an opportune moment to make that announcement, to be sure.
Mom can't believe she has to sit through the entire rest of the service, after that. But, running up the aisle in tears didn't seem the thing to do, either.
How many people are thinking that this has ruined their Christmas Eve, this complete deconstruction of dignity right at the start of the service? How many people are thinking, "That kid is totally out of control, and all the mother can do is laugh about it!" The "spare the rod" constituency, as it were.
Thank goodness for the Senior Pastor and his sense of humor!
After thinking about this all day, Mom decides to heck with the "spare the rod" constituency, whoever they might be. That's not what Christmas is about.
*****
When the disciples wanted to keep the little children from bothering their busy leader, Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, don't stop them. I'm telling you, unless you become like them, you will never enter the kingdom of Heaven."
I don't think he meant, "Only the children who can behave like little adults."
I think, God has a sense of humor.
God knows, there's nothing decorous or dignified about the process of childbirth... which is, when you get right down to it, what we're really celebrating on Christmas Eve.
God, in fact, knows what it's like to be a boy. No doubt, as Jesus was fully human for all he was also fully divine, God knows what it's like to be a boy full of energy and joy, and yes, even mischief, on the eve of a much-longed-for event.
I decided to believe that Eldest Son skipping gleefully around the altar was a perfectly acceptable representation of the joy with which we should greet the coming of Our Lord.
And that, had I swooped down on him angrily and marched him off down the aisle with some conveniently-reachable part of his anatomy held painfully in my vise-like grip, to be soundly spanked in a bathroom, that this would have been what REALLY ruined Christmas for all who witnessed it.
Jesus is about love. And grace. And forgiveness. That's what he wants us to give one another.
That's what he came here to give us.
Jesus was not one to stand on ceremony; certainly not to the point where maintaining said ceremony would be worth humiliating a child. Jesus, in fact, tells us that those who maintain an outward show of ceremony while inwardly failing to love, are completely missing the point.
Okay, granted: In a perfect world, Eldest Son would have shown love for the rest of the congregation by showing respect for the ceremonies as planned.
Granted: The church is unlikely to ask us to light the Advent Candles again anytime soon.
Granted: Clearly, Dad and I should have done a LOT more rehearsing, not only of the ceremony itself, but of any consequences for failure to perform up to standard...
But, having failed to do that, in the heat of the moment, what should we have done differently? What would a punitive, spare-the-rod approach have accomplished, except to assuage our own feelings of embarassment? It was ultimately OUR failure to prepare him that led to that scene; should we have punished him for OUR failure?
No.
(And were WE punished sufficiently for that failure? -- Um... YES!!!)
The good-natured laughter that we joined in did more to defuse the situation than the spare-the-rod approach could ever have achieved.
I am quite grateful that our church, at least, is one in which grace does, indeed, abound.
