Back on the Band Wagon with "Why He Came"

I can't say today was my best. I was nearly at my worst. I blame my allergies. I mean, I suppose I could blame the sinful nature I chose to give in to, but I'll stick with allergies for now.

Yes, I think it's the allergies that woke me up at 4:30am this morning. By 5:00am I figured I would stop fighting and start my day. As soon as my feet hit the floor I could feel the sluggishness come on, but it was too late to turn back. I headed to bathroom to get ready for my day. And get ready I did... very... very... slowly.

The pile of dirty dishes greeted me at 6:00am. They were waiting for me, somewhat challenging, if not downright mocking me. I got through most of them and even mopped the dining room floor. After that I looked around and found no excuse but to go on a quick walk around the neighborhood.

I chose to walk the usual route in the opposite direction, so instead of walking out through the back gate and coming home through the front, I left through the front and, well, you get the idea. I The different perspective on well-known sights was surprisingly refreshing. I saw, like really saw, things I don't usually pay attention to, like the nearly open rose that looked like it had been water colored by a master painter (of course, it had). I noticed which houses desperately needed a paint job.

While I walked I prayed. I prayed for neighbors, friends, myself, my writing, the other writers at my church. What did God want me writing next week?

By the time I got home I sketched out an outline for a post about seeing Christmas from a different direction. Just as walking my usual route from "end" to "beginning", what if we saw Christmas the same way? What if, instead of only seeing the Baby, we saw the Baby and the Man together at the cross. Seeing the Baby in the manger with His mother is familiar. What if we reminded ourselves that the Baby came only to become the Man that would offer His life on the cross for us? And that young mother holding the Baby would one day mourn the sacrifice of her son?

I looked at my outline wondering how that could be written in a way as to not beat people over the head with a wet blanket. I frowned. That vision of the Man on the cross is not our end. The end of the Christmas story is not Good Friday (the sobering acknowledgement of Jesus' death on the cross). It's Easter! The "end" is Jesus being raised from the dead victoriously, taking the sting of death and rejection from us all for good. But could you really consider that the "end" either? Is there an end? Could it be continual as I accept His saving ability with every wrong turn I take?

I crumpled the paper up and threw it away.

Children awoke, and so did my irritation.

I was tired, the house was a constant just-messy-enough, the children's mistakes in school served as a mirror to my failure to teach well, and why can't I find a make-up that disguises the dark circles under my eyes? 

With every over-reaction I recognized my choice and my foolishness. I knew it! But I was too tired to change.

I got up to wash the breakfast dishes, and it was somewhere within those now-clean dishes or maybe it was in my tired reflection I saw in the kitchen window that I saw it clearly. I understood.

He had come. Jesus had come, wrapped in newborn form, for this very reason. The Baby came because I was tired and just couldn't get my act together. When can I ever get my act together He came because I was selfish and chose to see failure in Math mistakes instead of opportunities to build and teach. He came because I somehow choose foolishness over self-sacrifice more often than not.

It was why He had come. Because I can't.

I took a fifteen minute nap while the kids listened to Adventures in Odyssey. Later, during lunch, I fought tears as we listened to episode with a very grumpy mother named... I kid you not... Janna.

I dropped the three older children off at golf class a good ten minutes late and drove around until the two-year old screaming, "I hit barf balls!" (meaning he wanted to hit golf balls) fell asleep. I treated myself to a soda and cookies from McDonald's and got the feeling of puffiness and regret for free. But I don't really think Jesus cares about all that. He probably cares more about the condition of my spiritual heart than the harmful effects of caramel coloring in my soda. I don't know, I'm just saying... I see no such reference in my concordance.

So, at the moment, as I sit in my car filled with enough stuff to outfit a small library, I am a good mother. In about an forty-five minutes I'll pick the three older kids up and give Simon the McDonald's cookie I saved for him and it won't be long after that that I'll once again be reminded...

... it's why He came.