What are you celebrating?

There's a picture of me from Christmas 1979. I was almost 5 months old and am sitting in a blue bouncy seat - not the high-tech ones that are more like swings have baby standing and jumping but rather one from the '70s that was more like a shallow, oval fruit basket on an angle that allowed me to sort of sit and sort of lay down to watch the rest of the world and all that was happening around me.

I don't remember this at all, clearly, but the series of photos taken are classic and ones that almost everyone has in Mom's album. There I am, in all my infant cuteness, being introduced to Christmas presents. It's a new concept in my tiny world, and Aunt Margie is explaining the process. She carefully unwraps the gift in hand to display what Santa has brought me. She's smiling and excited about the present inside...but I don't care. I'm much more interested in the box. I can touch the box. I can hold the box. I can chew the box. And I can drool on the box. The box is fascinating.

Fast-forward a few years. By this time, I'm in preschool and much more mobile. I've also figured out a few things about Christmas: The mesh stocking on the Christmas tree gets filled with gold, fake Chocolate coins from Grandma and Grandpa, I get to play in my pajamas all morning with new toys and without having to dress up for family pictures, and Santa brings presents.

My brother's approach to Christmas morning was rather linear and methodic; for those of you who know him, you shouldn't be surprised. He'd open one toy, inspect it, look at the directions, put it together and play with it. And then with a little prompting from his kind parents or spastic younger sister, he'd move on to the next gift.

My approach, on the other hand is only a scene that could be described by what it would be like if the Looney Toons' Tasmanian Devil character invaded the body of a 3-year-old. Gift wrap flying. Bows bouncing. Ornaments probably falling. Eyes the size of Frisbees. Incomprehensible words screamed. And hair twirling. At one point, I apparently just started running around in circles like a puppy golden retriever chasing its own tail because I had so much energy to burn it simply couldn't be contained. I was about to explode. Or maybe I was exploding? Each gift was the best ever as ran up to show people just as fast at it had been opened, not wanting to waste more time before discovering the next surprise from Santa. For years, I had the hardest time understanding why Christmas morning for my brother lasted so much longer than it did for me?

It's interesting to think of how our appreciation for gifts - especially at Christmas - evolves. At first, we don't even acknowledge the present. Our focus is more on the wrapping. We get so distracted by the outside stuff that we forget about what's inside...or don't even get to it in the first place. But then a few years later, all the fluff in the world can't stop us from the present that awaits our discovery. Our excitement peaks and we burst over each and every surprise.

Gifts have been the topic of conversation lately. It's that time of year again. Presents and carols and parties. All kinds of good cheer. What to get for who? And how did we get from a little barn in the Middle East to all the hoopla of today?

I can't help but wonder...have we lost the excitement and thrill for the true gift of Christmas and replaced it by a naive appreciation of the wrappings, never getting to the actual cause for celebration?

Work Christmas Parties...aren't they all like this?

A Red Door Christmas Party

It's ruined me

I've always tithed, done service "projects" and considered myself caring toward the poor. But who was I kidding? I barely ever stopped to give a homeless person food, didn't know anyone who truly lived in poverty and was numb to the speakers who would come and share how Compassion International changed their life.

I'm not sure if it was any one thing, but it's like I've been wearing by big, plastic glasses from junior high (they were pink...it wasn't pretty) with blinders on the sides, and all of a sudden they were removed without my own doing.

I prayed several years back that Jesus would help me truly see people the way he saw them. I heard that some guy who started some international ministry prayed along the lines of asking the Lord break his heart with the things that broke God's heart. It sounded nice, and I think I might have prayed it once or twice. I watched the video on www.AdventConspiracy.com. I heard Shane Claiborne and Frances Chan speak. I walked past homeless people. I read blogs about hugs and sharing meals with men and women who hadn't showered for days. I realized how much "stuff" I have that I don't even use. I started to see people.

And it's ruined me.

I'm not sure what God's doing with all these thoughts, but as the Christmas season - the season of accumulating more "stuff" - approaches, it's hard to think about "stuff." No one for whom I'm buying gifts truly needs anything, but isn't that the definition of a gift?

I'm a comfortable Christian. I like to give away things and money...when it's through an official organization. I like to sleep tight in my cozy bed at night with extra blankets piled up next to me...when there's someone freezing under a bridge. I collect Nalgene bottles on which to put stickers...and never even think about those who don't have any clean water to drink. I like my comfortable life.

I had defined loving "the least of these," as Jesus commands, in terms that were easy and on my time. I justified and explained and excused. Has my faith has been formed more by American materialism and culture than the words of Scripture? Maybe.

And it's ruined me.

I look into the eyes of the homeless. I'm bothered by speaker who talk of injustice and poverty. I wonder why I need so much "stuff." I have a hard time buying more "stuff" for friends and family members. Church budget meetings make me feels hypocritical.

I've started to see people. In small glimpses. As people. Who have faces. Who are or were part of families. Who have stories to tell. Who have needs and wants and dreams and hurts. Who were created by the God of the Universe. Who He loves deeply. Who are just like me.

And it's ruined me.

Fridays are my favorite...

...I can work if I need to, but it's not infringing on weekly Sabbath.
...it's quiet.
...it's 2 p.m., and I'm still in my PJ's.
...I get to sleep until I wake up with no alarm set.
...I clean my room and the kitchen...sometimes.
...my "to do" list gets attacked, leaving the rest of the weekend open to play...or ignored intentionally.
...there's energy to go play on Friday night when others are done with the workweek.
...there's time to write and hang out in coffee shops and run errands.
...there's no agenda.
...it's my "Saturday."

It takes time.

I wrote a college recommendation letter for a senior in high school and had so much material and so many stories it was hard to keep it to one page.

I went to the funeral of an 81-year-old women today who I had never met because her granddaughter is a high school student in the small-group that I co-lead.

A woman told me she was pregnant when only her family knew. She had a high risk of miscarriage but wanted me to pray for her. 

I show up at high school football games and feel like a mini-celebrity as teenagers run up to say hi and are surprised - but thrilled - that I'm there.

A 15-year-old girl texted me at 12:30 a.m. after Homecoming absolutely giddy because the boy she liked asked her to dance. 

It takes time. Two years and two months after being at my church, it feels like ministry is happening. Ministry is real. Ministry is messy. And ministry is a blast. Families are complicated. Teenagers are hurting. My eyes well up with tears feeling like a proud momma at the school plays and orchestra concerts. And I laugh watching middle school boys throw M&Ms at each other before the Christmas party begins. 

It might be seriously ridiculous, but it is also a pretty amazing privilege...