It's Not *What* You Do...

Each morning on our way to school, I watch the crossing guards ensure our children cross the busy roads safely. They blow their whistles and flash their stop signs and gesture with determination to the hundreds of cars that drive through the intersection daily. If a car comes through the intersection too fast, they wave their arms and deliver a stink eye powerful enough to make grown men feel like children caught.

One crossing guard, a spry old woman as feisty as she is wrinkled, takes her job even further: she stands on the corner where the kids gather on the sidewalk and greets each one as warmly as she would a grandchild.

With the younger kids, she bends her knees and crouches to eye level, smiling large into faces that radiate joy at being seen, recognized. I watch them hug her and share enthusiastic stories, looking straight into her eyes.

With the older boys, she exchanges high fives, fist bumps, and all manner of handshakes. There is no sense of stand-offishness, no dismissive eye roll from these boys wrestling independence and identity. The pull of adolescent cool cannot deny the sincerity of her interest in their lives.

By all definitions, the job of crossing guard is not a glamorous one. Important, yes. Esteemed, no.

But this woman has elevated her position to something holy, sacred. Her presence has transformed the concrete sidewalk to a sanctuary where, for a moment, children are cherished just for showing up. She has not for a second believed that her job is insignificant. Rather, she has filled it with meaning and purpose through love.

The what of our days is so much less important than the how. Whether we operate in finance or construction, retail or medicine, engineering or housework, our day-to-day tasks are transformed by our perspective and intention.

When we believe our work matters to the folks around us, when we believe the people we serve or toil alongside are fellow children of God, then no task is insignificant. And we can no longer believe we are insignificant.

For we have the power to transform street corners to sanctuaries.

Rest Without Ceasing

A few weeks ago, we enjoyed two "snow" days bookending the weekend here in Houston. Freezing rain led to the shut down of schools and businesses across the city and state, which doesn't have the abundance of de-icing equipment found in the northern states. All productivity stopped: work, appointments, school, sports, and extracurricular activities all cancelled.

As a result, the kids and I spent four gloriously mellow days together, enjoying the freedom to meander from game to puzzle to movie to make-believe. During our forced stay-cation, our apartment was full of quiet music and the sound of little voices giving instruction and encouragement on how best to accomplish their minds' vision.

The kids completely upended their room, relocating all closet contents to the middle of the bedroom floor so that they could use the closet space to create the setting for their pretend adventures. Strategically-placed chairs suspended blankets above their heads, and they folded their bodies under their forts, discussing plot points in their alternate reality.

The great lie of our culture is that rest is a luxury, not a necessity; that downtime is wasted time: unproductive, lazy, indulgent.

In fact, this stillness is our very lifeline to connection, meaning, energy, and--paradoxically--productivity.

Our bodies are actually built on this principle, wired to thrive on rest. Any fitness expert will tell you that your body does not get stronger during the intense workout. It is in the recovery that the body does the hard work of repairing the damage, building muscle, getting stronger, preparing for the next exertion. 

Even our minds function in this way. We consolidate our memories, storing and hardwiring all we've learned and absorbed in our days, while we sleep. This is why infants, for whom every experience is new, sleep most of the day and night: they require abundant time to process and store their near-continual learning.

We don't realize we've fallen into the too-much trap until a day with nowhere to go reveals what we're missing in our busyness: the unstructured time to explore the recesses of our creative minds, to re-discover the healing power of togetherness, to remember who we are without the trappings of our achievement-oriented culture. When we break from our responsibilities, we discover ourselves and others.

Is it coincidence that we experienced so little fighting those few days? That we enjoyed a relative harmony with each other in the slow, quiet pace?

I doubt it.

God created us to require Sabbath. He could have made us to run endlessly, tirelessly, but He values the pause, the stillness, the surrender, making it a condition of our very existence.

Without rest, we break down, growing sick, injured, depressed, unstable. We simply cannot survive in a state of perpetual doing. With rest, we get stronger, we learn, we discover the expressions of creativity that have been stifled by our perpetual motion, we reconnect with those around us.

We remember what gives us life.

Is it any surprise, then, that the only "action" we are commanded to do without ceasing is actually a form of inaction? We are told to pray without ceasing, to continuously acknowledge the limitations of our own efforts, to surrender our productivity, to release the dreams of what we hope to accomplish and the burdens of what we should to the hands of the One in whom and through whom all things live and move and have their being.

Prayer looks like nothing. Like sleep and rest, it appears to be an indulgence, a break from the "real work." But when we enter into this form of Sabbath, we realize that anything worthwhile in this life is produced not by our will but by the mysterious workings of Christ in us.

Consider this. That which is essential to our very survival is beyond our power to accomplish: the beating of our heart, the steady inhale-exhale of our lungs, the transmission of millions of messages from body to mind and back--autonomic processes that would absolutely overwhelm us if we had to consciously execute them. 

As much as we think we control our lives, our physical existence is sustained outside the boundaries of mere determination.

So it is with our spirit. When, in prayer, we pause our own attempts to control, fix, manage, or otherwise produce our life and the lives of those around us, we receive everything we need to move mountains. We are invited to lay down our anxieties and questions and uncertainties in exchange for peace and life abundant: front row seats to the redemption being worked in us and those we love every day. Rest without ceasing: what a command.

The kids and I played during those snow days. We set aside the schoolwork, the responsibilities, the chores, and the ever-present list of to-do's in order to create and commune. We lived life like a prayer of gratitude, resting non-stop. The kids made up grand adventures in the wild frontier of their closet. I wrote in between trips to their room to admire their process. And when the time came to clean up, the kids put their room back together in record time with minimal fuss.

By the end of our four-day break, we had "accomplished" so much more than we would have in our daily hustle. The apartment was neater, yes. And our enthusiasm for the daily routine was renewed. But most importantly, our relationships with each other--the dimension of life I spend the most time and energy analyzing, trying to get right, and berating myself for doing wrong--grew stronger, more trusting, more intimate. Without effort, our connection grew, our joy abounded, and our energy multiplied. 

Stillness made space for creation.  Rest begat productivity. Doing nothing yielded everything that matters.

We are not foolish or lazy to slow down. In truth, pausing our rush to meet the insistent demands may be the only way to discover the inspiration, wisdom, and clarity that enables us to accomplish anything worthwhile.

The Privilege of Being the One They Ask

This afternoon, I watched Benjamin pace the floor of our friends' house on my iPhone. He looked and sounded so utterly proficient from the side of the conversation I could hear.

"I see," he'd say thoughtfully.

"So what I hear you saying is...," he'd respond, putting those active listening skills we've practiced to work.

Benjamin called my dad to gain insight into a problem his team is trying to solve for a tournament in a few weeks. As part of the solution to their challenge, they are creating a small, portable iPhone charger, and in the process, they've learned about energy conversion, generators, electromagnetic energy, and how to build their prototype. But fuzziness on a few of the basic science formulas was stalling their precise calculations.

It dawned on us that Papa sells generators and might be a good resource for their remaining questions, so Benjamin decided to call him after school during the team's meeting today.

There were so many things I loved about this exchange:

My dad's willingness to make time for Benjamin's questions and to patiently lead this third grader through basic physics.

Benjamin's utter ease in talking with Papa on the phone. There is history, relationship there that makes the exchange comfortable.

Watching my little boy grow up. He carries himself so maturely sometimes. He looked out the window, listening carefully, occasionally nodding, and I could envision him twenty years from now making a call from his own office.

I stood there, spirit gushing with affection for Ben, heart overflowing with knowledge of my dad's love for both of us.

I wished I could squeeze my son to pieces. As I write, I realize I need to tell Benjamin how much I admired his poise on the phone, how much I respect the young man he's becoming.

I also wished I could give my dad a hug for being so present. And I realize I need to tell him how very grateful I am for the time he made for me and Benjamin today.

Because even after Benjamin got off the phone with my dad, I ended up calling back to put my dad on speaker phone with four of the other kids so they could ask follow-up questions. Without hesitation, my dad greeted these four little strangers warmly, congratulated and affirmed the work they were investing in this project, and then clarified  all of their questions and concerns with great skill and patience.

And it didn't surprise me, for my dad has always graciously made room in his life to show up for me.

My dad's availability to me--and now to my family--is one of his purest demonstrations of love. When I see the way he happily takes time from his work and full life to invest in this project simply because I ask, he communicates that I am important to him, that I am not a headache or a burden.

He inspires me to respond to my kids' requests for help with enthusiasm and tenderness, to readily support them in whatever they undertake, no matter their age or ability. Though the demands are great some days, I want them to know, deep down, that being invited into their lives is my great joy.

Because I want them to keep asking as they grow up.

My parents--and Josh's, too--have communicated over and over that they are happy to help us in any way they can. Not in a helicopter-parent kind of way, but in the way that good parents genuinely support and show up for their kids.

Generally, Josh and I are pretty self-sufficient and appropriately independent and all grown-up and such, but there is comfort in knowing we can call them up when a need arises, and the answer is not only yes, but a generous and enthusiastic yes at that.

I want my kids to feel that same value and freedom. When the babies come or the house needs to be packed or the money's tight or the day has reduced them to tears, I want them to call, confident the response from my end will be respect, compassion, and great joy at the invitation to participate in their lives.

And it begins now, in the dozens of small, daily moments when my littles come to me wearing vulnerability on their sleeve: not yet big enough or coordinated enough or sophisticated enough to navigate their world entirely on their own.

May I view each request not as an inconvenience but as an opportunity to send a powerful message of love to my precious kiddos. May I discipline myself to pause what I'm doing, look them in they eye, and smile at the privilege of being the one they ask.

Even if it's the twenty-fourth time in as many hours.

Even if it's the twenty-fourth time in as many minutes. Especially then.

For that is how we build trust to last a lifetime.

The Advice I Should Take

What would I tell Abby?

I couldn't shake this question when I finished reading Brene Brown's latest book Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead.

Her book is titled after Theodore Roosevelt's speech, "The Man in the Arena":

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again,

because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;

who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..." 

What would I tell Abby about getting in the arena?

When I look at my sweet girl, when I see all the gifts she's been given, when I see her spirit, her dreams, her determination, and her compassion, I want to do everything in my power to make sure no one in her life thwarts her goals, to let her know it's okay to undertake new endeavors, to try something she hasn't yet mastered, to take risks that others may criticize.

I don't ever want her to hold back for fear of what others may think.

I don't ever want her to withhold herself from the world because she may not succeed.

I want to support her as she walks bravely through this life, sharing herself and her ideas and her creativity with those around her.

I know she will experience heartache. I know there will be times when the risk pays off in pain. But I know her life will be fuller for having stepped out in courage, for having "dared greatly."

Whatever the outcome, I will cheer wildly. I will be so breathlessly proud of her willingness to simply show up in the fullness of who she is.

And isn't this how God feels about me?

It's easy to tell someone else to take the risk, to attempt the seemingly impossible for the sake of living fully, to ignore the critics and naysayers.

But what about me? Can I take my own advice? Can I find the courage to act on the seeds of inspiration planted deep within?

In her chapter about parenting, Brown says this:

"Who we are and how we engage with the world are much stronger predictors of how our children will do than what we know about parenting."

So what would I tell Abby if she were in my shoes? How would I encourage her to engage this world?

I would tell her to be brave. To lean into the uncomfortable. To silence the voice that says, Who do you think you are? To do the things that make her feel most alive, even if they make her most afraid. To accept error and shortcoming as a necessary byproduct of effort, not a sign that she should give up. To be willing to fail for the opportunity to succeed.

And if that's how I hope she will live, if those are values I hope she'll embrace, then that's how I need to live, how I want to live--as a mother, as a writer, as a fellow sojourner on this earth.

For my daughter's sake.

And for mine.

Perfect Timing

It felt naive, at times, to believe that the timing of our house selling or renting was God at work. To trust that the many months of our home sitting on the market in Colorado while we established our new life in a little Texas apartment was part of a larger plan.

And the longer I had to believe it--the more weeks that passed without change--the more naive I felt.

I could hope in the ultimate benevolence of the situation when I kept my focus off of what other people must think of us and our circumstances. But as soon as I transitioned back to feeling I had to justify our situation to onlookers, to feeling responsible for the fact that our beautiful home, which received rave feedback showing after showing, hadn't sold, my thoughts became crazy-making. I felt great chagrin, to be honest: for trusting and proclaiming so strongly that God had led us to Texas but then feeling stuck with this huge hassle and yet still trying to believe that there was a purpose for this timing.

How do you explain that deep down, beyond the frustration of inconvenience and financial burden, you believe that what looks like a curse will become a blessing? 

Sometimes, we confuse God's leading with a smooth path, and so when circumstances grow challenging, we assume that perhaps we've done something wrong, misread the signs, chosen poorly.

When I read the Bible, however, I see journeys full of hardship far, far greater than a house not selling, all of which were transformed to blessing. One need only look to Jesus to see that the greatest suffering becomes the greatest good.

I've thought often of the Israelites after their exodus from Egypt: wandering around the desert for forty years eating manna: literally, what is it? Forty years!

I feel great compassion for the Israelites--and for Moses, the deliverer, who was confronted with declarations that it would be better to return to Egypt, to slavery, than to continue without direction, without a home, indefinitely. What's the point of following God if a generation of desert-dwelling is the reward? If their daily bread is something they can't even name?

I've grown to recognize this longing for permanence. We've spent only eight months "wandering," asking "What is this?", and even that season has felt too long. How would I respond if I were asked to continue in this state (and by state, I mean both Texas and the condition of living in transience) for forty years?

What is it within us that so strongly desires establishment? Why is the notion of "home," of being "settled," so compelling to our human nature that we are tempted to return to slavery rather than live uprooted so we can inhabit the Promised Land. I don't know the answer to these questions. I simply witness this truth: we are internally driven to find our home, our place, our belonging now. Wandering blindly, dependently, is a profound struggle for our independent souls.

But I'm learning that the invitation to follow God is not an invitation to a life free of struggle. Rather, it's an invitation to believe God's goodness, to believe his promises, in the the midst of struggle. Though we grieve, lament, and rail against circumstance, we can surrender our self-doubt and self-criticism and the crushing weight of feeling responsible for our suffering, resting instead in the inscrutable ways of our Maker, waiting patiently upon his redemption.

When we believe that God's goodness, God's love for us, God's perception of us never changes, cannot change, is unchangeable; when we recognize that it is only our own fickle perceptions that change, we can say, "The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Because we realize our circumstances are not a reflection of God's feelings toward us.

Well, to my great relief, we are not being asked to wander for forty years like the Israelites.

We found renters for our house in late December, and their lease will start in February. The fact that the house rented rather than sold means we don't have our equity from the sale, so we've had to change the price point of the homes we're looking at down here.

The first day we went out casually looking at houses a couple weeks ago, we stumbled onto an opportunity not listed on the MLS or any of the realty websites, a home that meets all of our needs and many of the wants we had thought impossible at this price.

And had we begun looking even one day sooner, we would have missed it.

Timing.

It is a brand new home falling out of contract due to a job transfer. We signed the contract in time to pick 90% of the finishes, and the house is scheduled to be completed within the time frame necessary to move our belongings from Colorado straight into the house without paying extra storage or moving fees.

The timing, in fact, could not have worked out more perfectly.

We are in the area we hoped to live, in a neighborhood we really like, and remarkably, though we don't know a lot of people down here yet, we do know (and like!) the neighbors right next door.

Though we couldn't see the master plan for months and months, the picture is becoming clearer. And as is usually the case with God, the outcome is even better than we had thought.

Time and again, we worry that our hope in God is naive, silly, a pipe dream. That He has bigger problems to solve and less whiney children to care for. But time and again, God teaches us that we are wise to believe His goodness, that we are significant to Him, even in our foibles. We are not foolish to abdicate responsibility for circumstances beyond our control to the benevolence of the One who spoke heaven and earth into existence.

This particular story becomes yet another monument in our life to remind us of how God provides, of how He meets us in ways far superior to what we would construct if we were in charge. And we're only glimpsing the beginning of what's to come. In response, our hearts swell with gratitude and with the desire to use the blessings we've been given to bless those around us.

This is the dance of faith. God initiates, we respond. God provides, we give thanks. God blesses, and we bless out of our blessing. God proves his trustworthiness time after time, and so the next time our circumstances confound us, we have a little more history, a little more experience, a little more confidence in God's plan to transform the worst of times into the best of times.

We receive our manna, and it is enough to sustain us until we reach the land overflowing with milk and honey.

We have yet to know what the full plan for Josh's career and our time in Texas will be. But kindly, dependably, God shows us with each circumstance that He is for us, that His plan is not to harm us. He simply asks that we follow, with as much patience as a child can muster, in faith that the Father is good--really, truly good.

When Nostalgia Whispers

Despite our best attempts to plan around the weather, we found ourselves caught in a winter snow storm on our drive from Texas to Colorado at Christmas. Though the storm wasn't forecasted to roll in until the evening of our second day driving, by lunchtime, the snow fell in steady white flakes, covering the roads, the rural towns, and the rest of the empty landscape in pristine powder.

We pulled into a restaurant for lunch, the parking lot frosted thickly white. Before we opened the car doors, we readied ourselves for the cold, wet trek to the warmth inside.

I climbed out of the car quickly and turned to extend my hand to Abby so we could race in together. But as soon as Abby stepped out of the car, she stopped.

She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sky, and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

Her response to the snow was reflexive, without thought, as natural as squinting into the sun. It was as though something deep within her recognized the snow as a return to home, and her little body knew its role by heart.

I stood there watching my girl, silent snowflakes collecting all around us, and marveled at how deep the roots of a place burrow inside us, how readily our spirit responds to the memories of where we come from.

She giggled and ran to grab my hand, her cheeks now pink. "It tastes good, Mama!" she shouted as we hurried inside together, kicking up puffs of ivory with each step.

Yes, Baby. Nothing tastes sweeter than home. And we are wise to listen when nostalgia whispers, inviting us to stop, close our eyes, and remember.

Joining the Fellowship of Saint Nicholas

We knew it was coming. We knew it wouldn't be long before Benjamin discovered the truth about Santa. But watching his devotion to writing Santa almost daily through our Elf on the Shelf, Sparkle--with the purity and innocence of a boy enchanted--we thought we might just enjoy one more season with the magic intact.

Unfortunately, the chapter of childhood where reindeer fly and elves become North Pole pen pals and Santa defies time and space to visit all the children of the world in a single, jolly night has closed for Benjamin.

Last night, we took the children to see Santa at the Town Square's annual Christmas tree lighting. On our way, I mentioned that this Santa might look different than the Santa we saw in Evergreen. Abby wanted to know why. I fumbled for words when Benjamin jumped in with an explanation about how there are fake Santas who help the real Santa, one in each state, but the real Santa is the one who delivers the toys on Christmas Eve. He said it with the conviction of one who knows, and Abby was convinced.

We continued driving, listening to Christmas music, but a few minutes later, Benjamin said, "Mommy, tell me the truth. Do you and Daddy put the presents in our stockings?"

I hesitated. Josh and I had talked about how we would answer questions about Santa if the kids really wanted to know. We agreed that we would answer them honestly rather than continue with vague and cryptic evasions, but I was in a predicament with Abby in the car. I couldn't ask my clarifying question, "Do you want the magical answer or the real answer?" without raising her suspicions.

Instead, I hedged with, "Can we talk about this later when we're in private, Bug?"

"Why?" he asked, curious. 

Always with the "why's"! In hindsight, I'm sure he was thinking, why talk about it later if you're going to tell me Santa fills our stockings.

In hindsight, when he said, "Tell me the truth," I don't think he was really interested in the truth.

In hindsight, I should have just asked, "What do you think?"

Hindsight, hindsight. It's always 20/20.

Fortunately, he dropped the question, and we arrived at Town Square to find the main street filled with vendors, activities, and holiday cheer. Josh, who arrived before us from work, was already in line to see Santa. Once we joined him, the kids wanted to walk over and see this Texas Santa, so the three of us wandered down and peeked at him from behind the photographer. Santa saw Ben and Abby looking and waved to them, smiling. Their faces lit up. I exhaled. All was well.

When their turn came, the kids climbed onto Santa's lap together, smiled for the camera, and then were ushered off as quickly as they had settled.

Once we had reconvened, Benjamin said with some indignation, "He didn't ask what we wanted for Christmas."

I echoed his surprise. "Really? That's strange. Maybe this year we can write our requests and mail them instead."

Abby then launched into an explanation of how she had already written her Christmas list for Santa in her very best handwriting at school that morning, so she wouldn't need to write again. She skipped down the street at my side toward the restaurant for dinner. 

Benjamin, however, didn't move. There in the middle of main street, the realization dawned on him. He folded into himself and began to cry.

Josh picked him up in his strong Daddy arms and held him with great tenderness. When Abby and I walked back over to see what was wrong, Josh walked with him the other way. I took the hint and ushered Abby back down the street.

When they joined us a few minutes later, Benjamin's eyes were teary, but he was smiling. Abby offered him part of her candy cane, her little-sister attempt to comfort.

While they opened their candy, Josh quietly told me, "He knows. Someone at school told him."

My heart sank.

"But he's okay," Josh continued. In his wisdom, Josh had begun sharing with Ben our escapades to make their Santa requests come true."He's kind of enjoying being in-the-know."

Once settled at the restaurant, Josh and Abby left the table to use the restroom. Benjamin came around to my chair and said, "Mommy, I know about Santa. Daddy was telling me stories about finding Santa gifts for us. Can you tell me, too?"

So with as much drama and suspense as I could create, I began telling him the story of the Santa suit we put together for him when he was five. We laughed together, and there was new joy in sharing the back story of Christmas with the newly initiated. He even seemed to glow a bit in his new status.

After dinner, Abby rode home with Josh, and Benjamin rode home with me. We talked the whole way, piecing together the mystery for him. We talked about some of the gifts that were more challenging to come by. We talked about the fun and beauty of this tradition, where folks from around the whole world work together to create this magic for children. We talked about Saint Nicholas, the real story on which Santa Claus is based. When I mentioned him, Benjamin did the story-telling, having read a book called Santa Claus as a Kid. His summary started with, "Well, there was this boy who wanted to be like Jesus..." And so we talked about how Jesus, the main Story of Christmas, is absolutely true.

"Yes, Christmas is Jesus's birthday, and Santa Claus is one of our holiday traditions," he confirmed.

Exactly.

And of course we talked about the importance of not telling other children who still believe. "It wasn't right of your friend to tell you before you wanted to know." He nodded, understanding completely.

"I'll keep writing notes to Sparkle so Abby doesn't find out!" he suggested.

The conversation was sweet, sweet. There was no sense of betrayal or anger. Just disappointment. "I still wanted to believe," he said, looking out the window. 

When we got home, he began getting ready for bed. He pulled on his pajamas and said, "There's just one thing I don't know yet. Who wrote the notes from Santa?"

Each year, next to the empty plate of cookies on the hearth, Santa leaves a hand-written thank you with a few personal notes and encouragements for the kids. 

"Papa writes them," I said.

Benjamin's eyes twinkled. "Papa?" I could see him turning this information over in his head. "And does he eat the cookies?"

"We all eat the cookies," I admitted, smiling. 

He smiled. 

Josh and I tucked the kids into bed and retired to the couch to debrief the evening. 

Several minutes later, we heard Benjamin crying in the bathroom. Josh went to check on him and learned he didn't want to cry in his bed in front of Abby, so Josh invited him out to talk with us, and Benjamin grieved a little more. 

"This morning when I went to school, I believed. But at recess I didn't anymore." He told us the full story of how he was told. When he had shared everything, he went back to bed and fell asleep.

Though he is enjoying his new role as an insider to the tradition, there is loss. 

In truth, I was surprised by the ache in my own heart last night. It feels, somehow, that we've lost a dimension of Christmas. Not in a sacrilegious way: of course, the truest, deepest meaning of Christmas will never change. But in the realization that Benjamin had to grow up a little last night, that we had to usher him from the fellowship of childhood to the fellowship of Saint Nicholas. His focus was shifted from his own delight to that of Abby and the other children who still believe. 

It's healthy, and it's good, and I know this process will repeat itself over and over as he matures, because the biggest milestones of growing up require us to turn our focus away from ourselves and towards someone else: working a job, getting married, having children... 

But I would have been okay prolonging this particular joy a bit longer. 

There is beauty in the way a child asks in faith and receives with open-handed delight. Perhaps this ability to receive everything as grace, as gift without strings, is why Jesus asks us to come to him like little children. There is value in beholding the world with eyes of wonder and mystery and delight and faith that someone benevolent and kind loves to give us good gifts.

Anyway, before I climbed in bed last night, I wrote Sparkle's response to the note Benjamin had written yesterday morning, wishing he didn't know I was the author. I tried to incorporate a little humor for his sake, an insider's wink to keep the process fun for the child who knows while we continue to create the mystery for Abby.

And this morning, Benjamin came out to find Sparkle and read her new note to Abby as he has every morning this week. Then he sat down at the table to write another letter, doing his grown-up part to maintain the wonder for his little sister. 

I was so, so proud.

For the rest of his life, now, he participates in the Santa tradition from the perspective of Saint Nicholas. He joins us and the world in a conspiracy of generosity, inspired by a babe in a manger: God incarnate, who first walked this earth as a child, marveling at the wonders with the same open-handed delight of Benjamin and Abigail and all children, before growing into a man whose joy it became to give everything.