So one afternoon, they pored over catalogs from Compassion Intenational and World Vision. Her youngest wanted to give mosquito nets and bees. Her oldest sidled up to her after they’d chosen their gifts and said, “Mom, can we do this again next year?”

My friend smiles as she recounts this. “I think we just created a new Christmas traditon. I don’t think we’re ever going to go back to giving each other gifts.”

I smile, but weakly. I want to be happy for my friend, glad that her children are so generous, so joyful in their giving, so spiritually sensitive.

But the ugly truth is, I’m jealous. My kids didn’t decide to forego gifts in order to celebrate Jesus’ birthday with the least of these.

No, while my friends’ kids were busy studying gift catalogs for the needy, Jack and Jane were huddled together working on Jane’s book, a bit of pulp fiction called “Death Canyon: Secret of the Zombies.”

I don’t know where she gets this stuff. It’s not like we watch a lot of Day of the Undead around here. Apparently, we don’t need to. My kids come up with the undead on their own. I suppose that’s spiritual sensitivity, of a sort.

Just not the sort I want.

*****

A morning later in the week, I see the moon from the dining room window, a crescent hanging between fig branches, pillowed on the deep velvet blue of dawning sky. And I think, how lovely.

Then I read Ann Voskamp’s words about the moon and stars, and my heart squeezes tight with longing.

With, let’s face it, envy.

When I looked at the moon, I saw, well, the moon. I did not see the wise men or the wonder of Christ. But Ann Voskamp did. She always does, her sacramental eyes seeking – and seeing – Emmanuel everywhere she looks.

The green-eyed monster that lurks in my belly raises its Hydra-head once more, and hisses in my ear, “You don’t see as deeply as she does. You don’t write as beautifully. It’s no wonder her book is a New York Times bestseller and yours is out of print.”

The words echo. Out of print out of print out of print.

It is hard to stop the onslaught because the monster speaks truth, hard to remember that it is a twisted, coiled truth designed to accuse and demean and divide. And even when I tell it to Shut UP, still its ugly words ripple in my mind.

It is hard these days to look at my life and not wish certain things were different. I wish my book were still in print. I wish I had another book contract. I wish I had more time to write, to practice writing, to work at becoming a better writer.

I wish I already were a better writer.

I wish I didn’t have endless piles of laundry to fold, that my dishes didn’t pile up in the sink like some food-encrusted tower of Babel, that I had an au pair to watch my kids so I could take a nap or run to the grocery store without four kids in tow, that I had a full-time housekeeper, that my parents didn’t live so far away.

But such wishing only encourages the green-eyed monster to hiss louder in my ears, to take up residence in my eyes and distort my vision until I see the people I love with loathing because they have something I don’t, something I want, or because they’re not who I wish they were.

This is not who I want to be.

*****

In the dark of our bedroom, before we fall asleep, I tell Doug that I’m struggling, that right now, other people’s lives look so much better than mine, richer, easier, more meaningful, more organized, more energized, more whatever-it-is-I’m-not.

He nods in the dark and spoons me close. “I’m sorry it’s hard,” he says. We lie curled together in silence a moment. Then, softly, he says, “Is there anything about your life that you’re grateful for?”

I sigh, loudly. He’s right, of course. There’s much I’m grateful for. “Our kids,” I say. “Their health. You. Our house. Lighting the Advent wreath at dinner tonight. Getting to see Lynne today. Bed. Sleep.”

The list goes on, and on, this list of gifts, of grace in the life I have. I fall asleep counting my blessings.

It’s so White Christmas.

****

After dinner, we’re cleaning up the kitchen, Jack and I. He’s telling me about his writer’s block. “I’m just not sure how I’m going to get John and Sara out of the giant’s fist, Mama, and I can’t write anything until I figure that out.”

We toss around a few ideas until Jack lights on one he thinks will work. “You know, Mama,” he says as he puts away a serving bowl, “sometimes you should work on your novel that you haven’t worked on in a long time.”

I nod and rinse off a plate. “You’re right. I should.” I slide the plate into the dishwasher. “But I’m not sure when I would. You and Jane and the boys take up a lot of my time.”

“We should have a mother-son writing date,” he says. “We could go to a coffee shop, and I can work on my book, and you can work on yours.”

I grin at him. “That’s a great idea.”

“And when Jane is old enough to work on her book without us having to spell all the words for her, she can come, too.”

It’s not a gift for Jesus, exactly, this writing date. It doesn’t matter. It’s a gift to me, that he thought of it, that he knew I would enjoy it, that he’s even willing to let his sister come (when she can spell, of course). It’s yet another gift in the life I have.

I wipe crumbs off the counter. The granite glistens in the glow from the overhead lamps, and I smile.

Since I was rummaging around in the Advent box, I grabbed a dozen or so of our favorite Christmas books and brought them upstairs, too. As I looked through them, it was like catching up with dear friends I haven’t seen all year, remembering all over again why I like them so much.

And Jack and Jane are getting old enough now to remember some of the books.

“Ooh, Mama.” Jane holds up The Witness. “Can you read this?”

“Oh!” Jack grabs One Wintry Night. “I love this book! Can we read it? Right now?”

In our house, December is all about candles and books.

You’re on your own finding candles, but I’ve listed the kids’ and my favorite Christmas books in the hope that you’ll find a new book or two to love.

*****

The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski, illustrated by P.J. Lynch

One of my favorite Christmas stories, this book brings a glad smile to my face each and every time I read it. P.J. Lynch’s gorgeous illustrations illuminate this story of hope and transformation.

Christmas Day in the Morning by Pearl S. Buck, illustrated by Mark Buehner

Every time I read this book, I get teary or choked up or both. My kids don’t get why, but that’s okay; they like the book even if it does make Mama cry. It’s a beautiful story, and I was thrilled when I learned several years ago that it had been made into a picture book. Lovely, all the way around.

One Wintry Night by Ruth Bell Graham, illustrated by Richard Jesse Watson

I’m not sure this is technically a Christmas book, but we’ve read it every year during Advent since Jack was three. The story weaves between a boy lost in an Appalachian blizzard and the whole sweep of the Biblical narrative, from creation to crucifixion. And the illustrations – oh my. They’re simply stunning:

The Witness by Robert Westall, illustrated by Sophy Williams

Okay, so this book takes some liberties with the Nativity story. Purists will be appalled. For the rest of us, though, this lovely book tells the story of Jesus’ birth through the eyes of an Egyptian temple-cat who’s been captured and sold to a Judean shopkeeper. Though it’s long for a picture book, it’s compelling: Jane sat through it, to my utter surprise, when she was just two.

The Story of Christmas, illustrated by Pamela Dalton

The kids and I have read a dozen brand new Christmas books (as in just published in the past month or so) these past few weeks, and this is the only one we’re buying. That’s not to say some of the others weren’t enjoyable, but this one was exquisite.

The text is the Christmas story from the King James Version, which is unparalleled for the beauty of its language. Dalton’s cut-paper-and-watercolor illustrations, which stand out dramatically on black backgrounds, are nearly edible in their deliciousness.

Other Christmas books we enjoy:

The Donkey’s Dream by Barbara Helen Berger. A weary donkey dreams some seriously beautiful and richly symbolic dreams.

The Friendly Beasts, illustrated by Sarah Chamberlain. This is unfortunately out of print, but there’s also a version by Tomie dePaola.

Silent Night, illustrated by Susan Jeffers. The late 1970′s hair on the angels is worth the price of the book. It makes me giggle, but Jane thinks it’s beautiful. To each her own.

Great Joy by Kate diCamillo, illustrated by Bagram Ibatoulline. An organ grinder, his monkey, a little girl, and a Christmas pageant add up to great joy in this sparely written and lushly illustrated book.

One Starry Night by Lauren Thompson, illustrated by Jonathan Bean. The rhymed text is fine, but it’s the stylized illustrations that make this book.

Lighthouse Christmas by Toni Buzzeo, illustrated by Nancy Carpenter. It’s pretty hard to resist the allure of a lighthouse, a one-eared cat, two endearing children, and Carpenter’s pen-and-ink art.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. But of course. How could you have Christmas without the Herdmans?

If you have favorite Christmas books that I’ve not listed here, will you please let me know? I’m always up for a good book! (Or two. Or ten…)

On the day of Jack’s baptism, Isaiah’s words hung heavy in the air: “All joy has reached its eventide; all gladness of the earth is banished.”

Beside the communion table, our friend Sprague’s drawing—a tree engulfed in flames, falling into the broken earth—held our riveted eyes.

We did not mention the Holy Innocents at my church that day. We may not have even thought of them. But they were there, devoured by the sword just as surely as Sprague’s tree was devoured by earth and flame.

Herod ordered the death of all the children, not just the male children, though he surely knew the girls were no threat to him. What a horror it was, the slaughter of all those little ones. How the mothers and fathers must have felt like that tree, broken down, desolate, helpless, hopeless.

After telling the story of the children’s slaughter, Matthew quotes Jeremiah:
A voice is heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled,
because they are no more. (Mt 2:18)

At first glance, it seems out of place that this commemoration of death, especially the brutal death of the innocent, should fall on the third day of Christmas. Why mar such a joyful season with the appalling remembrance of this horror?

Fleming Rutledge says, “The Christmas story is anchored to our lives and to the wickedness of this world by the grief of Rachel… The authors of Scripture did not turn away from the unimaginable suffering of children. God the Father did not turn away. Jesus did not turn away.”

Placing Holy Innocents here, in the midst of Christmas, forces us to face the wickedness of this world which will intrude upon even our most joyful celebrations, showing them to be incomplete, premature.

Similarly, Sprague’s drawing seemed to mock us as we muddled through the service, giving our tithes and offerings, praying, singing our praises to God. How to give praise to an Almighty God when evil and suffering exist in the world?

Then my friend Steve began to read, and my friend Susan drew on another chalkboard, on the other side of the communion table.

On that day, this song will be sung in the land of Judah:
We have a strong city;
God sets up victory
like walls and bulwarks.
Open the gates,
so that the righteous nation that keeps faith
may enter in.
Those of steadfast mind you keep in peace—
in peace because they trust in you.
Trust in the Lord forever,
for in the Lord God
you have an everlasting rock….
Your dead shall live, their corpses shall rise.
O dwellers in the dust, awake and sing for joy!
For your dew is a radiant dew,
and the earth will give birth to those long dead. (Is 26: 1-4, 19)

Susan also drew a tree, but this one was living, its branches, heavy with green leaves and red fruit, reaching to the heavens. It grew on a hilltop, and at its roots was a city, circled by children laughing and dancing.

*****

During Christmas, we celebrate the truth that Christ, the Light of the World, is with us even in the darkness, and he is the light which no darkness can overcome.

That is why Holy Innocents needs to be couched within the celebratory season that is Christmas: in grappling with death and evil in the midst of a season of celebration, the celebration itself reminds us that death and evil do not have the last word, just as they did not have the first word.

The first word was Christ, and the last word is Christ.

Suffering is held within the loving arms of the God who created the cosmos, who became flesh and lived among us, who will one day wipe every tear from our eyes.

In Matthew’s account of the Holy Innocents, he ends his quote from Jeremiah with the chilling words “they are no more.” But the passage he is quoting goes on:
Thus says the Lord:
keep your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears;
for…they shall come back from the land of the enemy;
there is hope for your future, says the Lord:
your children shall come back to their own country. (Jer 31:16-17)

Placing Holy Innocents in the midst of the Christmas season reminds us that in the end, there will be no more death or crying or pain. In the end the children will be restored to their parents, their siblings, their aunts and uncles and grandparents. In the end we will be reunited with our lost loved ones. In the end there will be wholeness and perfect communion. In the end there will be great rejoicing.

In the meantime, we live with the hope of that promise, but not yet its fulfillment. We glimpse the joy of the end in our celebration of Christmas (the season, not simply the day), but we live in the reality of Holy Innocents: bloodshed, violence, separation, heartache.

For many in our world, even Christmas is a season of darkness, a time when the loss of loved ones, the reality of loneliness, the pain of estrangement is made all the sharper by its contrast with the prevailing mood of joy that the season engenders in others.

Holy Innocents brings that suffering into focus, validating its reality and reminding us that God is present with us in the midst of our pain. Christmas does not ignore pain; it embraces it and transforms it.

Those chalk drawings at the front of the sanctuary on the day of Jack’s baptism spoke to the reality of Holy Innocents, and also the reality of Christmas: the dead tree on one side of the communion table and the baptismal font, the living tree on the other.

How fitting that my son was baptized right in the middle.

For is that not where we all live—between the now and the not-yet of Christ’s promise of life? So often our present experience of death and desolation and despair seems overwhelming and more real than the promise of life. But sometimes, thanks be to God, we feel we live in the city of life, where children laugh and sing and dance for joy.

From: Kimberlee Conway Ireton, The Circle of Seasons: Meeting God in the Church Year (Intervarsity Press, 2008) p. 38-42.

Praise the Lord, sun and moon;
praise him, all you shining stars!
–Psalm 148:3

Psalm 148 is the lectionary psalm for almost every Friday of the year, including today. It is creation’s song of praise to its Creator, to the God who created each thing that exists by His Word—the Word that has now become flesh in Jesus Christ.

What, I wonder, happened at the moment of incarnation? What gasp did all creation sharply inhale at once when the Word through whom and by whom and in whom they were all created took on flesh, became one of those He had made? What love, what immense love is this that the eternal, infinite God should limit His eternity, should bind His infinity in human flesh?

No wonder the sun and moon and shining stars sing praise, the mountains and hills and trees, the wild beasts and cattle, the creeping things and winged birds, the kings and all peoples—young and old, men and women—indeed, the very rocks cry out in praise of such a God.

Wishing you all a joyful, wonder-filled Christmas!

Psalm 148 is the lectionary psalm for almost every Friday of the year, including today. It is creation’s song of praise to its Creator, to the God who created each thing that exists by His Word—the Word that has now become flesh in Jesus Christ.

What, I wonder, happened at the moment of incarnation? What gasp did all creation sharply inhale at once when the Word through whom and by whom and in whom they were all created took on flesh, became one of those He had made? What love, what immense love is this that the eternal, infinite God should limit His eternity, should bind His infinity in human flesh?

No wonder the sun and moon and shining stars sing praise, the mountains and hills and trees, the wild beasts and cattle, the creeping things and winged birds, the kings and all peoples—young and old, men and women—indeed, the very rocks cry out in praise of such a God.

Wishing you all a joyful, wonder-filled Christmas!

An extra bit of Christmas cheer for Susan Forshey: my friend, Jack picked your number; Lost Mission will be on its way to you come Monday.