CRAZY, MESSY, COMER CHRISTMAS
Christmas at our house is not simple. Or quiet.
A Comer Christmas is loud… everyone talking at once because there’s so much to say and so many questions to ask and so much we didn’t know.
A Comer Christmas is chaotic… Moses making the rounds of laps, Duke wrestling with the cousins, Scarlet telling everyone they’re “gorgeous”, Sunday grinning big, Jude commanding the troupes.
A Comer Christmas is presents, piles and piles of presents.
And I know that’s not in vogue right now. I read about the stoics who don’t do gifts, the unselfish who write checks to charities instead, the ones who give it all away in order to give the season more fully to Jesus.
And I love that, it’s beautiful, inspiring, grand— but that’s not our story.
Instead we have lists flying over cyber world, big brown trucks making deliveries, secret texts with ideas and links and let-me-check-with-so-and-so’s.
And I know right now that my daughters are talking about what to get who and where to get it. My sons are planning their morning-of-Christmas-eve coffee klatch. Phil is managing lists and package arrivals and airport runs and who goes to whose house when.
On this Christmas like every other there will be tears, and meltdowns, raised eyebrows, moodiness, teasing… moments.
Our day will be imperfect and messy.
But in the midst of it all there will be a family full of people who are fully present, passionate about each other, building a heritage for each.
And me? I’ll be savoring every moment. Wishing the whole world could have what I have— a family in love with the Savior… and each other.
I’ll sit in my corner of the sofa,
…wishing every mother could know that all she’s doing now will give her this someday. Not ideal or idyllic, but beautiful and good.
… wishing I could tell her that she won’t be sorry she gave up on order and stillness and perfection and gave in to messy, sticky, crazy love.
… wishing she could see that she won’t be sorry she worked so hard or stayed so present or forgave again or decided to decide.
All day, in the midst of my own family’s way of doing Christmas, I’ll be wishing that every mother could know that all those years of busy will come down to one day of enough.
From a heart bursting,
(image by Maria Lamb)