This series started as a reflection on Advent hymns, but as things do, it had a life of it’s own. This week you’re getting a poem.
There are some weeks where you just have to laugh when it becomes apparent how little control you actually have. After spending days, or maybe even weeks, feeling stressed about a series of events on our schedule, I somehow managed to get mastitis, the toddler got sick, and I missed all but one of said events because I was either in bed or comforting a snotty, coughing child.
Life is like that, huh? I suspect you’ve had these moments too, based on the amount of posts I’ve seen about sick children, crazy weather and cancelled plans.
If you’re like me, stress makes you grip everything more tightly, trying to control whatever variables you can, no matter the cost. My hold on things tightens so gradually that sometimes I don’t realize I’m white-knuckling it until my fingers are forcibly pried away. Each time it comes as a shock that the world still keeps turning without me there to supervise. Sure, there’s the disappointment of missed events and time, but a week later my home has not imploded, and Christmas will still arrive on schedule. Should I be insulted or relieved?
Let it go. We all know the song, but somehow we’re convinced it’s not a viable strategy.
I’ve found through years of parenting that my children frequently provide object lessons for the very things I struggle with. Their foibles make my own obvious. Lately, my almost two year old’s quirky habit is trying to take every toy he owns to bed, or hauling them all around the house. His arms become so full he’s almost incapacitated and he spends more time picking things up than he does actually playing with them…
You see where I’m going with this?
He’s paralyzed by his need to hold everything.
Me too.
We want to prove that we can bring something of worth or value - that we can do it ourselves - but that’s not what God asks. He doesn’t need us to bring every toy we own, or fumble in the hallway as we try to convince him we can hold it all. He might even be watching us with a pained expression on his face, wondering when we’ll give up our impossible task and let him help. And maybe there are times where he forces our hand in order to release our grip, knowing it’s the only way to unburden us.
Perhaps Advent is about learning that even when we drop everything, Christmas still comes. In fact, this posture of empty handed neediness might be precisely the thing that readies us to receive the gift we so desperately need.
I wrote this poem as an attempt to reflect some of this reality. The image of God looking down at me the way I look at my own children is profoundly comforting. He may be frustrated by my repetitive mistakes, but it’s because he desires freedom for his children.
"Let it Go" The boy, he grasps toys tightly, arms full, he trundles to bed, he scorns help impolitely shaking his blonde, little head. The treasure he clings to, tenaciously, tumbles from too full arms he grasps the goods voraciously, afraid they’ll come to harm. Despite his efforts to hold them close, they slip through pudgy fingers, trucks and wrenches at his toes, intent on them, he lingers. An object lesson, toys and boy of hanging on too dearly - control our aim, our work our ploy we’ve not out grown this, clearly. We shake our heads and freely laugh at foolish children’s antics until we look at our own path and find we’re close to frantic. The need to find our comfort sure in things we clutch, unwieldy, is not confined to toys’ allure - think what you’re not yielding. We furrow brows and lock our jaws - couldn’t set that down, not yet. Relief is there, if we just saw its safe to rest, no need to fret. Our loving Father patient, waits. Will we tire of fitful labor? E’en when the hour’s growing late he looks on us with favor: “Oh dearest child, don’t you know I solved this problem, long ago”
I didn’t focus this reflection on a hymn, but couldn’t help but think of the last stanza of “In the Bleak Midwinter” as I wrote it:
What can I give him,
poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb,
if I were a wise man
I would do my part,
yet what I can I give him,
give my heart.
This version, by the King’s College choir is hauntingly beautiful.
A merry and blessed Christmas to you all. May you know that arriving empty-handed at the cradle is more than enough this year, and every year.
The lives of toddlers and young ones are a mirror for sure!
These lines in particular resonated with me, Annelise:
"The need to find our comfort sure
in things we clutch, unwieldy,
is not confined to toys’ allure -
think what you’re not yielding."
"Think what you're not yielding" is giving me some pause. Thank you for writing this.
Thank you for this writing! With an almost one-year-old and being pregnant, I can relate to a lot of your posts. Especially just knowing God is there and sometimes life happens despite it being Christmas. That’s been a lot of my heart as well recently, too. Blessings to you and warm drinks and lots of rest for you this Christmas.