The gift of immeasurably less

The tree is up in our house adorned with treasures from Christmases past and handmade creations by four little boys.  I listen to Christmas carols on the radio as I help my eldest get ready for school.

Although I've already been planning for the 25th, it seems as though the season of advent has come and I'm not prepared.  I wonder at these ironic moments when I feel like I'm not prepared for the season of preparation.  I could list all that I have yet to do.

Somehow I forget that I am the one who gets to determine that list.

Somehow I forget that I really not need to have a list at all.

There have been so many Christmases now that gave me the gift of revelation: less is more.

I have found myself wrapped up in the pursuit of perfection many an occasion but most particularly at Christmas.  I will never forget my first Christmas as a wife, our first Christmas together, working so hard to make Christmas turkey dinner just as I had always grown up with.  My stuffing turned out to be croutons.  I cried then but, looking back, I  realized that I learned that the gift of laughter.  We've enjoyed this memory in the years since and in that side-dish-based lesson, I learned that letting go is more important than trying to strive for my preconceived version of Christmas where I would re-create perfection.

The Christmas I was awaiting the birth of my first child seemed as though the day and his due date would never arrive.  I spent my time uncomfortably waiting with no small amount of anticipation.  His due date was December 20th and I had my own ideas about pregnancy, birth and motherhood.  I had (and still have) a lot to learn.  His arrival was delayed by weeks and I cried on the 25th holding the little sleeper I had bought for his first Christmas.  That Christmas I learned much about unrealistic expectations.

There was the Christmas where I was given the gift of learning how to be still in the quiet of the prairies - the peace of the fields covered in frost.  There was the Christmas of longing for another child - a hope deferred - followed by a Christmas where I held that very child in my arms.  I cried tears looking into his sweet face as the choir sang around us during the Christmas concert at our church.  They had asked me to play Mary and my newborn was to be the babe; as I held this sweet boy gift, and felt an overwhelming, indescribable, surge of joy.

Most likely due to sleep deprivation, my memories are ambiguous from Christmas three years ago - the year that infant twins celebrated their first Christmas.  In the midst of the busyness and messiness of my household that year, I learned the beauty of less is more when it came to Christmas. This was the year that I truly embraced the perfectly imperfect.

The following year I learned how even less can sometimes mean even more.  That Christmas -  the year I began this blog - is when I realized how I was blessed immeasurably more than I could have ever imagined through the love and blessings of family and friends who brought gifts of time and kindness to our family of inestimable value.  I grew in understanding even as my heart ached and my health condition placed me in a position of being unable to make Christmas happen for my family.  And yet Christmas still happened - perhaps the most beautiful Christmas ever - because our family of six expanded significantly, surrounded by caring family who made a beautiful, memorable, blessed Christmas possible for all of us.  Even less can mean even more.

When it comes to Christmas, our society seems to be intent on proclaiming the complete opposite of this.  In fact, when it comes to most areas of life, the goal is continually to strive after more.  And in that vein, it should be the perfect version of more.  I have discovered something about myself in the years when I worked diligently decorating cookies and trying to get everything done to perfection before midnight on the 24th: striving hinders my ability to intentionally live out the moment.  

This year I have already missed lighting the first candle on our Advent wreath on Sunday.  I also missed hanging up our first figurine on our advent calendar.  Somehow I forgot it was December.  Where once this would have distressed me, I actually felt a sense of peace about it.  I had been distracted the Sunday night by taking my eldest out for a Christmas skate - our first skate of the season - and it had been magical.  And missing a day?  Well, it simply meant a Christmas candle lighting on a Monday morning (which made the start of the week more significant) and an extra figurine for the calendar on the 2nd (which meant that two boys were able to add something together).  

This year I've already messed up a batch of shortbread cookies - using far too much butter and making a melted mess for two dozen before realizing my mistake.  What I eventually concocted was not anything near what I had hoped for (as I had taken the remaining batter and added icing sugar and flour without any gauge on measurement possible) but with a sprinkling of sugar on top, the boys didn't seem to notice or mind.  They had a cookie.  They announced that they were delicious.

As I battled my way through snowbanks with two toddlers trudging beside me, I spoke out thankfulness.  I was thankful for the sun and the blue skies and the little mittened hands that held mine.  This is the gift I want to intentionally give my boys this year: the gift of thankfulness.  

I have learned that thankfulness can be a transformative element.  Thanksgiving always precedes the miracle. It can change the stresses and anxieties of this heavily anticipated season into peaceful acceptance. More, it can move an overwhelmed mama to a place of deep gratefulness for the smallest of moments.

I've heard it all before but maybe it is slowly, year after year, sinking in: that first Christmas is characterized by immeasurably less.  The infinite in the form of an infant.  The king in the manger.  One book of one book alone describes His birth.  That first Christmas was wrapped in such great anticipation but arrived in a way that was unremarkable, perfectly imperfect, and mundane.  

I am deciding that this year, the lessons I've learned of
letting go,
embracing laughter,
joy for gifts unconditional,
less is more,
peace in moments of deep trial,
seeing miracles in the mundane,
intentionally in living out the moments,
thankfulness, and
love will be more important to me than all the trimmings this year.

The advent wreath has four candles representing hope, joy, peace and love.  Over these Christmases and the seasons between I have learned a depth about these beautiful components of faith.  However, more than any one thing, I have learned the truth of 1 Corinthians 13: but the greatest of these is love.

Love came down at Christmas.  It is the source of and the purpose of all that I do during this season.

May your preparations for Christmas be those of immeasurably less as well as immeasurably more in hope, joy, peace and love.