Monthly Archives: December 2012

Christmas: Mom’s Superbowl

By Taylor Arthur | 23 December, 2012 - 4:05 pm | , ,
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It’s Sunday afternoon, and I just sat down for the first time today (except for the time in the car to drive to Mass, and sit in the pew, and then drive home.) I just now finished the bulk share of the cooking for our week of merry-making. I am tired.

This Christmas is my fourth as a mom of an earthly kid, and I think (as I pat myself on the back) I am improving little by little each year. Before I was blessed to be a mother, I used to daydream about Christmases with little, padded feet running down our stairs, rushing to the Christmas tree. I thought about all of the great moments yet to come, all the moments when I would get to relive the magic of my own childhood as I watched my children live out theirs. But, I was looking at Christmas through a child’s eyes.

Then, they were here. And, I began looking at Christmas through a mother’s eyes. At first, it was simple: reindeer pajamas for Christmas Eve and a Fischer Price puppy with a bow on its head for Christmas morning. It was magical, and beautiful.

But then, something happened, and I’m not sure how. I became aware that our Christmas card would look better if Bram were in a red sweater, and if Jack’s and my outfits color coordinated so if–and that is a big if–someone snapped our picture as a family at the Christmas tree farm or holiday party, it would be Christmas-card-worthy. So, I started to shop for that aforementioned sweater mid-December. By the time I had that illustrious shot taken, I barely had time to order our cards and send them before Christmas. It was stressful.

Then, when Sam came, things got more complicated: the boys’ outfits had to match. And, not only did they have to match at Bram’s preschool Christmas program and on Christmas Eve, but also at the tree farm and Candy Cane Lane . . . you see where this is going. By this year, I was shopping in October for casual outfits and by November for The Christmas Outfit.

I also started shopping earlier for the boys’ gifts and for all of our family before Thanksgiving rolled around. I started Sam’s advent calendar, a string of 24 hand-sewn miniature stockings (to match his brother’s), determined to have it finished by December 1st. Of course, it wasn’t, and for the first week and a half of December, I just handed Sam the stocking for the day, let him fish out his candy cane, and he couldn’t have cared less. Then, Bram’s stockings kept falling, even though they are three years old now and should know how to stay put on the mantle. After several taping jobs, he, too, was handed a stocking per day. He gladly chomped on his candy cane without a mention of his stockings not being hung.

I decorated the house, for the most part. There are still craft supplies on the window sill in the dining room and the pictures in the bathroom have yet to be hung. The nativity scene in the stair case still looks silly with no garland around it; I bought extra, but it is still hanging over the bannister.

I had Christmas bedding for the kids, and it’s been on their beds since the week after Thanksgiving!!! Yay, Mom! Except, I haven’t washed the bedding AT ALL since I put it on. I hope this isn’t something CPS can charge me with later . . .

And, we were doing fine, as the Christmas cards went out (I ran out, and forgot to order more, so everybody that usually gets one and didn’t, please don’t take it personally) . . . We were doing fine until yesterday morning, Saturday before Christmas. I woke up in a panic, realizing I didn’t have enough time to do everything I still had to do. I presented this fact to my husband, who had plans to take our oldest out Christmas shopping. I presented this to my husband, not as fact, and as “I’m so sorry that I underestimated how much I had to do and could you please change your plans for the day,” but as an “I can’t believe you thought it would be a good idea to leave the baby with me on my baking day” kind of way.

So, just like every year, the Jack and Taylor Christmas fight exploded all over our already jam-packed day. I guess I make too big a deal out of every little thing for Christmas. And, he was shocked to learn he wasn’t grateful for all I did, and had no idea how much work it takes to do the dressing and shopping and planning and baking and wrapping and stuffing and coordinating for perfect Christmas cards, perfectly dressed children, perfectly (not) decorated house, perfectly wrapped presents, and enough scrumptious food to eat for the week of Christmas so that it can feel like vacation around here and not feel like just another day of Mom serving oatmeal for breakfast and chicken nuggets for lunch.

And then, we calmed down and I baked for two days straight. I said I was sorry for blowing things out of proportion, and he said he was sorry for being so hard on me. And, I asked if he would try to act like he was impressed over the baking and wrapping and dressing and picture-taking and card-making and present-wrapping and coordinating because, after all, this was my Superbowl. And, even if he didn’t think it was all that big of a deal, all of this stuff I’m making myself crazy for is–hopefully–the stuff the kids will remember when they start their own traditions someday.

He chuckled at me, and said he would try. And I realized that Christmas is Mom’s game: all of the details that somehow whirl into magic. And I wonder, as do my friends, how did our mothers do it all? I know they had to have had more coffee, less exercise, and maybe even forgot to pick out an outfit for themselves even though everyone else was dressed perfectly.

Christmas and all of its trimmings happens above and beyond a mom’s normal, endless list of chores. I realize that it might just not be possible to do it all–the normal, and all of Christmas–and that some things must be let go. I try to sleep, at least, to make sure I don’t turn into Mrs. Clauzzila. But, try as I might, there is–and maybe there always will be–that moment every December when I realize I’m behind, or lacking . . . then maybe I will freak out. Maybe that’s just part of my Superbowl.

I hope not. I hope I can get Christmas down to a science, and be able to execute it without a freak out and without diminishing the magic. Bram is old enough this year to truly grasp the magic, and I intend to drink in every minute. I know that he will grow up to probably be just like his Daddy, and tell his wife she’s overdoing Christmas and won’t she just please relax? But I’ll also hope, down deep in that manly heart, he knows that his memories of Christmas were born out of his Mama’s love for him. Maybe then, he won’t be too hard on his wife.

And, whether my kids wear matching outfits or not, whether the cinnamon rolls burn or not, these children are here with us, in this almost-decorated house. Jesus in the manger and my two children asleep in their beds on Christmas Eve is enough magic for this detail-obsessed, perfectionist Mama. Praise the Lord for children–especially His Son–and for the fact that no matter how imperfect we are, He came down to love us just the same.

Merry Christmas! Go Mamas! . . . may your tired hearts and aching backs be filled with Jesus’ love this Christmas.

Taylor

Longing at Advent (Christmas 2008)

By Taylor Arthur | 14 December, 2012 - 9:45 am | , , , ,
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Please read this after today’s post! This post is from four years ago . . .

I have always been mystified by Advent. The four weeks prior to Christ’s birth has stirred within me a sense of wonder and longing. The emptiness of the manger until Christmas morning always awakens the empty spaces within my own heart. I have asked God to expose my mangers, and fill them with a new birthing of the Christ within me.

Still, this Christmas, there is something more rising, hollowing me out. This Christmas is the first Christmas I feel an emptiness for more reason than the deviance in my own heart. This is the first Christmas I have felt the reality of an empty manger, left only for Christ’s love to fill.

When I opened myself to motherhood two years ago, I experienced a conversion of heart unlike anything else I had ever known before. As a child and young adult, my love for God was as real to me as my love for my parents. I couldn’t put a date or a time stamp on it; still, it was my identity.

However, being a “Christian,” a “Catholic” did not necessarily mean that I was walking with Christ, giving up all that I had known before. I was, indeed, in love with the idea of being in love with Jesus. Still, the true cost did not display itself until I had something to sacrifice.

That something was myself. My entire life, I had fashioned a future. I did the right thing, staved off sin, emerged from the ashes of despair and gave the glory to God. I was a Saul. I deserved fair treatment, deserved for my life to go a certain way. I deserved to judge, to lord above others.

And then, something happened to me: God broke through. It was a horrible experience: a tearing down and a breaking that did not seem to end. I was tested in every way. I was hurricaned within, strung up and beaten by the winds of change.

No one could tell, really. I looked the same, and my life was going well. But inside I was a torrent. Inside, I was dying to myself.

One day, it happened: I started to pray Mary’s prayer. “Let it be done unto me according to your word.” There were no if’s involved, nothing about what I would do or accomplish. It was not really about me anymore. Instead, this prayer began to fashion within me (dare I say it?) a submission to my destiny, a destiny I no longer controlled.

I was in the church with my rosary, starting to pray it. I realized that throughout all of my schooling, I still had not memorized the prayers. How will I be a good mother if I cannot even remember this? I realized this pink string of beads in my hands was useless without my prayers. I lowered my head in embarrassment, only to hear the voices of several older women in the front of the church beginning to pray: Glory be to the father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit . . . Something said to me, I will teach you how to be a mother .
My head was empty that morning; I left the church with a full heart and a knowledge that the more empty-handed I was, the more malleable the clay of my soul became.

I became pregnant several months later. While I was full of joy, a cloud hung above me during my pregnancy with Caleb. I felt continually in a darkened world, with only brief interludes of peace. I struggled to maintain equilibrium, often finding no will to perform daily tasks, even the basic preparation for my child’s arrival. I was afraid of everything: not having enough, not being prepared, of leaving him alone in this world. I experienced fits of sorrow that would overtake me while I was driving in my car alone, forced to pull over because I couldn’t see through my own tears. I loved him, as if he had been my child for a hundred years. We talked daily, hourly, through the night. I felt that I had known him from some other place and time. I felt that I had been pregnant with him my entire life.

And then, he died. At my thirty-six week appointment, they could no longer find his heartbeat. I screamed and kicked; my precious Caleb was gone. I sat up from the ultrasound table in shock, and said to the doctor, “I’ve been a chaplain. Now I’m the patient”.

I laid in my parents’ bed in what I can only describe as a posture of submission. The people coming in the room to talk to me were like buzzing flies around my head. I held the phone, counting the minutes until my husband’s plane would land and he would be home with me.

I laid in bed the next night and day, laboring in silence and without physical pain, as my soul shook. I could barely string a thought, save one: Hail Mary, Full of grace! The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, be with us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen.

She was there with me, a slight hand upon my back. She ushered me into her scene of agony, and there we stood, mother and daughter, beholding the crucified Christ.

What it is to be a mother! Christ’s words “This is my body, broken for you” parallels the travails of labor and birth. I prayed in the hospital bed, this is my body, broken for you , no longer angry or entitled but privileged to be a woman, to give such a sacrifice, to love past temporality. All that I am is offered up in this prayer: let it be done. Let me break, crack, swell, and moan if it is your will. I am nothing but for your grace indwelled. I cannot even reach for you without your offering of strength .

It has been a hard road since that holy night my son was born, silently and sweetly. We held him in our arms, knowing the nursery at home would never welcome him. My arms that had ached so long to hold him could not squeeze or feel enough to sustain me after I finally let him go.

I wondered at Mary’s arms, aching for Jesus as he lay dying on the cross. I wondered, even still, at the empty hollow He left within her as He ascended into heaven.

My empty manger this Christmas is not one I have to fashion for show. It is a real, hollowed room that is waiting, waiting . . .

The child growing within me will fill that room someday. But, there will always be an empty manger in my heart: a brokenness that cannot be filled but by the birthing of Christ’s eternal promise. I must ask for His renewal constantly; His power graces me with the will to ask.

Longing assumes new form when one stares at a manger and realizes that it is the picture of one’s own heart.

Merry un-merry Christmas to you . . .

By Taylor Arthur | 14 December, 2012 - 9:34 am | , , , ,
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A few weeks ago, I started unpacking our Christmas boxes. Now, I was full of merry: we are still together, living in a warm and cozy home (not a NICU or homeless shelter) with two of our boys sleeping soundly in their beds every night. Samuel–for whom I promised God every worldly possession of mine, every bit of earthly stature and every selfish desire and ambition if only he would live–toddles around the house with pink cheeks and an affinity for unpacking my purse whenever he can get his hands on it. This fall, his cardiologist finally assured us that Samuel would live a long life. We are a long ways from un-merry . . . this Christmas.

Last Christmas, however, was not so merry. We were overwrought with worry and the daily tasks of caring for a delicate cardiac baby and his two-year old, tantrum-throwing brother. The Christmas boxes went back into the attic having barely been unpacked. For the first time in my 12-year marriage, I didn’t decorate the Christmas tree. I tried not to flog myself for the fact that we never enjoyed the Christmas Eve dinner I had prepared, going to bed so exhausted that night that the hunger paled in comparison. The pictures of me holding Samuel Christmas morning, helping him unpack his stocking, are of a woman I barely recognize: battle-weary, worn down to the nubs.

I thought that woman remained back there in that Christmas. But, when I started opening the haphazardly packed Christmas boxes, she came rushing out at me. With every new lid lifted and garland strewn, there she was, waiting to unpack the memories: all the struggle, all the fear and pain. Soon, I was walking around the house decorating, tears streaming down my face. Why am I crying? I was crying for her: for all the tears she didn’t have time to cry last year. I was crying for every emotion stuffed back in those Christmas boxes so that she could continue to function for her family. I was crying for all of those fears she plowed through as she packed the stockings away for next year: Jack, Tay, Abraham, Samuel, Caleb . She wondered last year if it would be the only Christmas she would ever fill Samuel’s stocking. She wondered if next year, Abraham would have two brothers in heaven.

I have known many beautiful, happy Christmases. And, I have known Christmases filled with fear, and grief, and the gaping hole a child or grandfather leaves behind when they go to worship the Christ-child in His home. The merriest of times become the loneliest.

I encourage all of you facing an un-merry Christmas to ask Him to fill your emptiness. Ask Him to be born in the hollows of your heart, ask Him to reveal Himself to you. We cannot control the waves, but we can ask that He meet us amidst the storm and teach us to walk on water. He is coming, for the merry and un-merry alike. He longs to fill our empty mangers.

I realize there are some hungers, some pains that never go away. This is our fifth Christmas without our first-born, and that pain lingers still. I still hang his stocking next to his brothers’, along with a little cross-stitched sign that says, “A family is a gift that lasts forever.” I remind myself that someday we will all stand together at THE manger, and that this pain is only for a while.

In the meantime, Jack built me a tiny little manger this year. We placed it in front of the Christmas tree: the first present of the season. It is empty until Christmas day, and then a Cabbage Patch doll named “Hope Patty,” dressed as baby Jesus, will take up residence in the straw. I cannot extract pain from my life, and from my Christmas, but I can offer it to Jesus. After all, these holes life bores into us cry out for healing, cry out for Him.

Until we all stand at THE manger together,

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on,
our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.

Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.
And have yourself A merry little Christmas now.

Taylor

Yes!

By Taylor Arthur | 7 December, 2012 - 12:49 pm |
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“Yes!”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her. Luke 1:38

Before Gabriel appeared to her, Mary’s life was set: she was betrothed to a good, Jewish man who made an honest living in a trade that he could pass down to their children. Life may not be filled with luxury as a carpenter’s wife in a small village, but she knew what to expect. She was a good girl; she would be a good wife and mother. She had followed the law of God and Man her entire life; she would marry Joseph and follow in the footsteps of generations of young, Jewish brides.

I often reflect on that moment Gabriel appeared to Mary. After greeting her, “Rejoice, highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!” The next thing he says to her is “Do not be afraid, Mary . . .” “Do not be afraid”? She is standing in the presence of an archangel. Surely, just the magnificence of Gabriel would be enough to take her breath away. I imagine Gabriel’s admonition, “Do not be afraid,” hovers in her mind as she learns that she will miraculously bear the Son of God, the Messiah who will save the world: do not be afraid, do not be afraid . . .

Her only question—the big one–“How can this be, since I do not know a man?” seems so obvious. But what secret prayers flood her heart as she stares at angel wings? Is her mind racing with the same thoughts I would be overrun with: How can this be if I have followed all the rules to a letter? How can I be favored when I am going to be treated like a fornicator, most likely stoned in the streets with the Son of God dying within me? How can this be favor when you are sentencing me to death, socially if not physically? What will Joseph say; what will become of my betrothed when I make a fool of him? How can this be favor?

How many of us have experienced a moment in which all we can say back to God is, “How can this be?” How can this be, because I did not sign up for this?! How can this be, because this does not run in my family?! How can this be, because I did everything right, and this was not the favor I had in mind?! How can this be when I thought we had already decided on a plan?! How can this be, how can this be?! Life hands us these moments in which everything is instantly changed, our way unclear, our hearts and stomachs falling through the floor.

As Mary’s world is redefined, Gabriel commands, “Do not be afraid.” And I wonder if we could relinquish our plans and our pride and our fervent insistence on deserving whatever it was we planned on, could we also let go of our fear? The map we hold in our hands—that we have painstakingly drawn up to include every good thing we deserve—may bypass the most perilous, fantastic adventure we would never think to look for. We naturally, as humans do, avoid the mountains and the valleys. But in doing so, we miss the darkness, where God becomes visible and leads us as we learn to trust him for each breath we take. We also miss the summits, so high and so close to Heaven we can almost touch the Sun.

The favor of God that Gabriel is proclaiming for Mary is not what we like to think of. We want to imagine that when the Lord favors us, He showers us with goods and health and prominence. But what if His favor comes as a commission? What if his favor is simply God using us to bring Him glory? Gulp. He sees an earthen vessel and wants to empty it of self and fill it up with Glory . . . filling us up to overflowing . . .

When we submit to becoming a vessel for Him to use, we earn the right to midwife the miracle He births within us. We submit to doing the work and trusting Him; we also receive the blessing of seeing Him weave every detail, hope dashed, love lost, and pride swallowed into an entirely new reality we could never have drawn for ourselves. No matter how perilous the journey, we climb and swim and stumble with Him leading us the entire way. We ourselves become the birth as we midwife the Christ-child into our empty, manger hearts.

I love Mary. I love that she responded, “I am the handmaiden of the Lord. Let it be done unto me according to Your will.” Do unto me, Lord! Make me pliable, submissive, and brave enough to leap into Your arms and into whatever birthing adventure you are calling me to. Help me to let go of this silly map I made for my life, and start looking for angels around every corner. When they arrive, give me the courage and faith and strength to answer back to Your call, “Yes!”

Filled with anticipation,
Taylor