Welcoming the new year with messy church

We welcomed the new year with my preaching on January 1st in my home church. While I'm not entirely sure if wrestling with a sermon is the best way for me to spend my last day of the year, I was thankful for yesterday's service and getting to preach. 

But I was also thankful that it was a bit messy, as that feels more true to who we are and what life has looked like these past few years. After all, we started off last year with most things closed down (again). And it feels like God meets us more in messiness than when we have our act together. After all, it is often only when I recognize my inability to do things on my own that I realize how much I need God to intervene, not only in and because of my failures, but also in every aspect of daily life.

And so I pray that my coughing at the end of the service didn't get in the way. Whether that be out of concern for how I was doing, as I struggled to stop coughing and finish the service, or whether it made others anxious that I was sick and potentially making others sick. Or even out of my own sadness that I coughed after taking the communion bread, as that association feels wrong (even if I realize that God is not always as digestible as we'd like God to be!)

And I give thanks for the second chair on the stage behind the pulpit and my child's enthusiasm in joining me there. And thanks that I belong to a church where she has been welcomed with joy so that I feel most people would be more delighted to see her up front than be distracted by how much she moves around. Next time, though, I'll make sure that she leaves the stage before I start preaching. Near the middle of my sermon, I felt her crawling by my feet and making herself comfortable under the pulpit (which is thankfully closed and actually a pretty cosy space for a child). Other than being a bit surprised, it wasn't that distracting for me (although I can imagine it might have caused some suspense to those watching me). 

One of the main messages of my sermon is that we are welcomed as God's people, that we are seen and loved, not just when we have our act together, but also in the foolishness and messiness of our real lives (see here for an earlier variation of the sermon). I find it a bit ironic (although fitting) that my leading the service got to be an illustration of that message. 

a day of small joys

Saturday we slept in and spent the day doing small things, good things that needed doing, but nothing overly urgent.

Matthijs and Lydia working at the kitchen table.

Matthijs fixed my bike tire, and Lydia got a new bike bell. I did the laundry and reviewed a mass email for work before sending it out. We now have clean bathrooms.   

I went to my local library for children's books, my corner fruit store for grape tomatoes, and the local grocery store for bread. We made potato salad and fruit salad (from the mangoes and bananas we'd also picked up - and taught the little that tomatoes don't belong in a fruit salad). We had good conversation at dinner (again).

In a season that continues to be challenging, days filled with small joys are a gift. I'm thankful that we've had more such days this past month, and for how God is using them to restore my soul.

Admiring Pandaland, which I'd bumped into while walking the neighbourhood.

For such a time as this

When the wonderful person who has become your daughter's 'borrowed oma' gives you jello, which she'd gotten from lovely old lady who had to downsize and didn't want it to go to waste, you take it and say thank-you.

Despite the fact that you can't imagine ever wanting to make jello with your child and you marvel at how old the jello actually is, you cover it in a plastic bag and put it in your cupboard. And let it sit there for another year or so. Because you hate to waste food and you never know. 

After all, you might just end up in the middle of a pandemic when making jello with a 2-year-old sounds like a fantastic idea and you're kind of curious about how well powdered jello lasts after 25 years...

It takes a village

There is a well-known phrase that it takes a village to raise a child. The phrase suggests that a child needs multiple people around them in order to grow up well. But it's not just my child who needs a village: I, her parent, also need one.

When people ask me how I feel about being a parent, my response is positive: I enjoy being a mom to our little. And then I qualify my response: I enjoy it because I have people who help us out, and I'm not sure I would enjoy it as much if I didn't regularly have so much 'time off' from active parenting. I'm deeply thankful that the people at both her previous day care and her current one care for her and want what is best for her. And the little thoroughly enjoys going there. Matthijs and I have a wonderful friend who regularly watches the little most Monday evenings when I have to work. And I have friends and family who help me process what it means to be a parent: the exhaustion, the confusion, the frustrations, as well as the joys. And last, but not least, Matthijs and I share the responsibilities of parenting. And we share a trust that God is with us as we raise this small person that has been gifted to us.

Because the burden of looking after and raising the little is shared, I feel like I'm more able to delight in her presence when I am with her. Sometimes there is a struggle of how I can love her well while also taking time to do other things that I love and help others - but the struggle has been less overwhelming because of the wonderful village we have to help with the little.

Patience and Presence

As I expect is true of most toddlers, our little seems to be inherently good at dawdling. It often feels like one either has to wait a significant amount of time or push and prod before she'll get things done. I find my 'pushing and prodding' self not always the most pleasant person to be around, so I lean towards waiting patiently. After all, it's not like a two-year-old really has that much that she needs to be on time for, so why can't we do things slowly? The challenge, though, is that I find it hard to wait patiently. I find it easy to waste time on my own but find it hard to be patient when it feels like someone else - even if she's being cute about it - is wasting my time.

MaryAnn McKibben Dana in her book, Sabbath in the Suburbs, has challenged me to continue to practice waiting. While there may be days and reasons for me to hurry the little one along, there is something good in saying yes to going at the little's tempo. It helps me see time differently: less as something to be conquered and more as something to be savored. McKibben Dana specifically talks about her own experience of saying yes to her children as part of practicing Sabbath:

"The experience is simultaneously tiring and gratifying. . . But the kids’ joy at being heard and responded to is contagious, and rather than take advantage of our agreeableness, they are more agreeable in return. Once a week we can ‘yes-and’ our children. Rather than be confused by this seeming lack of consistency, they get that Sabbath is a different kind of day with different rules and rhythms. Saying yes on Sabbath means that they accept our no’s on other days more easily. Sabbath also becomes a laboratory for the rest of the week, as we realize that we could probably say yes more than we do.” McKibben-Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 95.

Most of all, I want to learn to wait patiently for the little as a practice of being present with her. Perhaps sometimes this means waiting with a book in hand or writing in my journal, or even tidying up, as a way of taking into account my own inherent desire to be productive, while still being present with her. Other times, it will involve paying more attention to her, delighting in who she is and being more fully available to her. Perhaps ordinary time will involve more of the former and Sabbath will hopefully be more of the latter, but, most of all, I want to practice "showing up and making myself available. . . I seek to be present with my kids, not because every moment will feel holy and blessed but because holy and blessed moments don’t happen unless I am present.” McKibben-Dane, Sabbath in the Suburbs, 39.