It’s almost Christmas and not too surprisingly, I find myself thinking quite a bit about the birth of Christ. I mean the reality around the actual birth. Not the pretty little nativity scenes depicted all through out my house with the peaceful baby, Mary looking on at the child lovingly, Joseph’s adoring gaze, the Sheppards, sheep, wise men, cattle and angles all perfectly positioned. I mean let’s be real. What was it really like? I can only imagine and I think it wasn’t as serene as my precious moments nativity would have me believe.

How devastating was it to Mary to think there wasn’t a proper place to have this very special and Holy child? Did she beg for Joseph to go looking for another Inn, or had he spent several hours searching frantically as any young man would for the appropriate place, until out of complete exhaustion and desperation he accepted the fact, that the Inn Keeper’s stable would be the only place in all of Bethlehem where he could find some kind of shelter for her and the baby? Did he try to make light of it, joke about the extraordinary audience for this Holy child’s birth?

As Mary began having contractions did she panic? Just a girl, somewhere between 13 and 15 years old and her first child, did she know what to expect? Had she witnessed or helped with any births? Was she prepared for the excruciating pain that seemed to squeeze her stomach like a vice only to let up and come back again stronger longer and with more force than before? There were no drugs to ease the pain, there wasn’t any fancy equipment to tell her and Joseph the position of the baby and monitor His heartbeat. I have never heard if there was a mid-wife that came to help. Or did Joseph, young Joseph, who hadn’t even been intimate with Mary, help deliver this Holy child? Did he panic at the amount of blood or had he witnessed the birth of sheep and relied on his knowledge as a Sheppard to guide him through this epic birth? Did her screams of pain, make him fall to his knees and pray for the pain to go away?

Did this Holy, fully human child enter our world screaming? Could the baby’s screams or Mary’s screams as she gave birth, be heard over all of the noise and commotion going on all around them? Bethlehem was a very busy place and this manger/stable/barn wasn’t out in the country somewhere, it was right in the middle of town. Right in the middle of the chaos of our world, the one who would be the prince of peace, the savior to a world that would reject him, deny him and eventually murder him, was born.

Surely, heaven and all of the Angles wept and cried out at the separation from Him as He left them and came to our world.

As Mary held her baby for the first time, did she cry? Did she ever let herself forget who this child was? Did she beg Joseph to take her and the baby far away from this barn in an attempt to shelter Him from whom He is and was? Did she know, fully know the great and amazing things He would do or did she just know that He was her baby and she wanted to protect him?

In the end I really don’t need any of these questions answered. I guess my nativities tell me all I really need to know. The Lord of Lord’s, King of King’s, my shelter and savior humbled himself, was born homeless in a barn, to a young virgin Mary and an adoring Joseph amongst cattle and oxen. Sheppards came from their fields to see the King, Wise men came to worship Him and angels rejoiced at His birth. Let’s be real, this was no ordinary birth.

Merry Christmas

Did you know you have a back story? Your back story is all of your life experiences that have brought you to this particular moment in time. I believe from birth through this minute. The small insignificant experiences as well as the big, life changing experiences. They may not affect you immediately but they do become part of who you are and sometimes they change who you are.
Here is an example. When I was coming into this great big wide world, my mom’s doctor was at a party and didn’t want to leave the great guacamole and chips to delivery me, so the nurses put my mom on her side and crossed her legs ( really, not making this up!) to try and wait for him. Well I have been pushing against a real or fabricated wall my whole life. I have had a sense of being held down or, held back my whole life searching desperately for that sense of release or my first deep, lung filling oxygenated breath. So I claim my birth experience as part of my back story.
The funny thing about back stories is that I get to create them in my mind for all of you. Your back story that I have written for you in my brain typically is based on limited facts and knowledge about the person. Truth isn’t always part of it. That is what makes it so much fun. I don’t set out to make up lies about people and I never tell the made up back story as fact but the less I understand or know about a person the more I feel compelled to fill in the blanks.
Here is another example. I was at the grocery store today and there was a man in his 30’s with a small child, about 6 months old standing behind me in the checkout line. Don’t know them but in my brain, he is a this Childs father, out at the grocery store giving his wife a much needed and deserved break from this cumbersome task. He will probably go home and prepare a beautiful meal for her and give her a back rub that really is only a back rub!
See how fun that is!!! Oh but the back story if not handled with the utmost care and sensitivity can be very damaging. It can be a dangerous path to walk if your fake back-story for someone at some point becomes reality in your mind. In my own relationships there have been times when I have “filled in the blank” according to how I see one side of a discussion or an argument.
“What do you mean you like the black pants on me better than the acid washed, high wasted jeans from 1986,” I ask. But, in my head, I may start to create a back story that the acid wash reminds him of an old girl friend so he can’t bear to see me in them. Or that he is struggling with the fact that he never had any cool acid washed jeans and always wanted some so I should now be denied the right to wear them. It could happen. Thankfully I have become more aware of the difference between my fictional back stories and my God given, grace filled, purposeful back story. Everyday we continue to add to our back story; I am committed to soaking all of the experiences up, the good, the bad and the ugly.

Layla loves to surprise me with all of the things in her backpack when she comes home from school. One day last week she was over the top excited about the surprise she had for me in her back pack. I wanted to be surprised but my mind did immediately go to the types of surprises her brothers had made for me over the years….., is it a slaved on picture frame crafted from her little itty bitty hands with dedication and love to her mother that slaves away day in and day out to provide her, her brothers and father with the most amazing home ever, I knew I would cherish that picture frame just like the ones her brothers had made me. So I was completely shocked when, the black comb from school pictures earlier that day, was presented to me in a very elaborate way with my eyes closed and no peeking. Ya, the little plain, four inch black comb they give the kids right before pictures are taken, to fix their hair. She was so excited she could hardly contain her self, as I tried to reach deep inside and demonstrate the same level of enthusiasm instead I found the very simple reminder, that sometimes it’s the little things in life, like the unexpected gift of a comb to a five year old.
I am convinced that what made this comb so special was the fact that it was unexpected. It wasn’t different than what any of the other combs the children were given; it wasn’t sparkly, pink and covered in princesses. It is a plain, black, four inch comb.
I think we live in a world where there is a huge sense of entitlement. I deserve or am entitled to nice things because I work hard or I am a good person so life should be fairly easy for me. This is so silly to me because I’m not entitled to anything. My friends, family, home, health, clothes, car, everything are all gifts, gifts from God. In fact if I were to get what I really deserved, things wouldn’t be so great for me but thankfully God’s grace and love for me, showers me with gifts. This plain black four inch comb made me realize just how blessed I am in big ways and small. That comb while it may have been the same in looks to everyone else was special to Layla. In the same way, God blesses me with my life, from the outside it may look like an ordinary comb life but it is amazingly unique to me!

If I could climb into a time machine and be transported back in time to 1974 and talk to myself this is what I would say, “Let someone else be the princess every once in a while”.

When I was five years old my family lived on Sunnydale St. in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It was an amazing neighborhood. Most of the families in the neighborhood all had children close to the same ages so there were kids everywhere. I had close to half a dozen kids my age and several just a few years older than me. It was heaven to me.

I am a strong personality. (Stop laughing those of you who know me well!) That may be an understatement but I am pretty sure I have been that way my whole life. Now on Sunnydale Street as a strong personality, five year old, I was large and in charge. When I went outside and played with my friends, typically I directed the play. I was like the casting director for some really bad musical based on a princess from Iowa. But most importantly I was always the princess, always. If we were playing something that didn’t involve a princess, I would be who ever seemed to be the most glamorous, like Wonder Woman, Ginger the movie star or Bossley from Charlie’s Angles. Ok, maybe that last one wasn’t glamorous but he did seem to be in charge, kinda.

After several months of complete domination, my subjects grew restless and my reign soon came to an end when the other kids of Sunnydale decided they had had enough and dethroned me. Suddenly no one wanted to play with me, even the boys had better things to do. I was crushed. How does a princess hold court if no one is willing to come to court?

Luckily, one of the older girls on the street told me, “She doesn’t want to play with you. You are to bossy and never let anyone else be the princess.” Shock and horror, I’m sure were my first response and then after much reflection, like 30 seconds, I decided I really didn’t like being the princess anymore.

It all eventually worked out in the land of Sunnydale and I found a new favorite role, the King’s Jester, loved it!! The outfit is fabulous and I get to be silly and make people laugh, perfect. And if I had never backed down from being the princess I would have missed out on being a jester, a role that fits me perfectly.

Letting others take the lead doesn’t mean you aren’t being a leader; you are more of a diplomat. Learning when to lead and when to follow is one of the most important life lessons I could have learned. We don’t need to limit ourselves to just one role or something that seems the most glamorous; you could miss out on what you are really good at. And letting someone else be the princess every once in awhile is just the nice thing to do.

I love how God can just reach out and teach me when I am least expecting it. I love His sense of humor and ability to give me new eyes on old news.
While encouraging someone to do the unexpected and undeserved for someone else, I was stopped and dropped to my knees (figuratively, only because I was typing on my computer at the time which made it physically impossible without a whole lot of stuff flying into the air, a bit too dramatic for me.) by the reminder of His sacrificial love and gift to me.
Right in the middle of my encouragement, like a neon sign with blinking lights, I was convicted by the weight of His unexpected and undeserved grace. Grace that gives, little ol’ Tami Rae Swore-Kellerman, the gift of eternal life. I don’t deserve it, can’t ever do anything to deserve it and it is completely unexpected.
But this is just how Jesus likes to “roll”. The thieves that hung on crosses next to him the day they were all crucified, didn’t deserve it and didn’t expect the love and grace He showed them. The woman at the well, same. The healed blind man, ditto. Over and over again, the bible gives accounts of Jesus doing the unexpected and undeserved.
I know that anytime in my life that I have done something that was unexpected for someone, I usually walk away with an undeniable feeling of peace. And I truly believe that my feeling of peace isn’t an accident either, it another gift. When we choose to live as Christ did He continues to bless us.
When is the last time you did something unexpected and underserved?

“Stay with me a couple whiles”, my four year old daughter, said to me as I started to climb out of bed. She had climbed into our bed sometime during the night and this was her way of combining, a couple more minutes and a little while. It worked. I snuggled back down into bed with her and held her a couple more whiles.

As I lay there, I started thinking about her desire to just be close and held a little bit longer. I know that there are times in my life, even as a grown woman, that my desire to just be held and to feel the comfort of someone who loves me can be overwhelming.

Even in a room full of people there are times I feel very alone. It’s not that no one is talking to me; it is just a space of emptiness and loneliness that no human being can fill.

Thankfully, I know I can lean into the loving and encompassing arms of Christ. He fills that emptiness and loneliness that no one else can. His love is unconditional and never ending. It doesn’t matter the circumstance, time or place, he will always snuggle down and stay with me a couple whiles.

While standing in line at the grocery store the other day I counted the number of subtitles on the magazines that promised some form of happiness, there were 105 different ways, all of these magazines could make me happy and they were all within my grasp if I would just grasp! All it takes are special creams, gels, lubricants, money, fabulous make up, great hair, people to do your work for you, a sudden craving for nothing but vegetables, straight white teeth and no wrinkles or dimples on any part of your body. That’s it.

Suddenly in line I am feeling not so happy. Sigh. But when I shut out what the world wants to tell me will make me happy and focus on what I know makes me happy, life gets a lot easier.

It’s the little things like:
Laughter that makes me cry or pee or both
Naps
Summer Rain and the smell in the breeze just before it begins to rain
Forgiveness
My 14 yr old looking me in the eye and using words instead of grunts
Cannon balling into the pool
Watching my four year old sing to herself in the mirror
Time away and the reunion with my family when I come back
A good book
Helping someone, not because they asked, but because I can
Snuggle time with my 11 year old
Socks in the hamper
Grace given and grace received
Past, present and future with my one and only

It doesn’t mean I don’t have days when it seems impossible to be happy but the most important thing for me, is realizing that I am in control of my happiness. It can never be the responsibility of someone else to make me happy. I define my happiness everyday. Some days it takes little things like, finding a lost dollar in my coat pocket. Other days require a little more like, good hair. But ultimately it is up to me. I create or destroy my happiness.

If you are waiting for someone to make you happy or currently rely on others to make you happy, stop. Take charge of your life and do something that makes you happy. Write a list if you don’t know how to get started and start checking your happy makers off your list. Be in the moment and remain in the moment for as lone as you can and you will be happy.

Here is something I wrote last year at Easter time, still is relevant for me today.

I have been described many different ways in my life; some of them flattering (in a twisted way that only my brain could think of as flattering) and some of them not. One of my favorites is “Mama Bear”. Yes, I like my porridge cooled down and my furniture ultra soft but that is not the type of Mama Bear I am referring to. This Mama Bear is the ultimate protector, who has the wild animal instinct that says, “I will mess you up if you mess with my kid”, kinda bear. Truly, there have been times in my life that I have actually beat up furniture because it had a sharp edge that caught the toe, knee or forehead of one of my babies. And as my children have gotten older that instinct has not subsided. There have been times that my children have been hurt by other children or adults and I have spent time thinking of ways to “get back” at those brats!! Luckily, I have never actually acted out those thoughts but I have been tempted. Pretty sick I know and seriously a whole other issue for therapy. I do believe that all moms have a natural instinct to protect their babies from any type of impending danger. I guess that is why as the Easter season approaches I keep thinking about Mary.

Mary, what an awesome example of a mom/woman who trusted God in all things; she was human though. I can’t help but wonder if she ever felt protective of Jesus when other kids picked on him? What kind of panic did she feel when she and Joseph couldn’t find him when he was 12 and had went to the Temple to teach. There have been times when my kids have been “misplaced” for only a couple of minutes or seconds, and it has felt like an eternity for me. And then finally, when Jesus was 33, but still her child, her baby, and He was falsely accused, beaten, betrayed and murdered.

The pain she must have felt as a mother must have been hollowing. A pain that takes everything you have and leaves you an empty shell. She could do nothing to stop what was happening. She stayed with him until the very end. Did she ever want to run away from it all? To try and chase it away like a nightmare she just needed to wake herself from? Did others have to hold her back from running to Him and trying to comfort Him as only a mommy can? Did she hate them for holding her back? Did she scream to God, “Save Him or Make it stop?” Were her screams heard above all the other noise of the crowd? Did other moms there that day feel her pain and choke back their own sobs of knowing and understanding? Because even if she knew this had to happen, she was human and she was His mom.

I can only imagine the next couple of days as all of those around her tried to comfort her and remind her of God’s plan for Jesus. This probably gave her comfort and as she headed out to prepare His body for a final bath she was still His mom. What types of thoughts went through her head when His body wasn’t there that morning? Panic, helplessness, hopelessness, or even resentment that this last act as a mother had been denied.
Or did some part of her see it coming? Was there a motherly instinct that told her, this is going to be ok, as her heart started to beat faster and faster as she raced back to tell the others that He was not in the tomb? She must have felt dizzy with joy as He revealed Himself and demonstrated that He had conquered death. Tears again, but this time tears of relief and happiness! He is Risen!! He lives!! Glory to God on the Highest!!!!
This by the way, is the ultimate payback to all of those little and big brats who hurt Him and thought they could defeat Him!

The wrinkled skin freckled by sun damaged and loose from the loss of muscle tone, reveals blue veins, sitting high, as if anticipating busyness, busyness that will not come. Her hands with her fingers entwined together are relaxed and still in her lap, except the constant rolling of her thumbs over each other. These are hands I am familiar with, hands that I imagine, mine will mirror one day. They are the hands of my grandma.
They are hands that dug in the dirt on her farm when she was a little girl during the depression. They are hands that played the trombone and dribbled a basketball during high school. They are hands that clung to her lover’s waist as he gave her the ride of her life on his motorbike. Hands that held tightly to each other at the front of a church and soon after reached out to pick up not one but two baby girls and later a third. They wiped tears, picked berries, sewed baby doll clothes, doctored scrapes, prepared meals, and birthday cakes. Her hands folded clothes, mended socks, and prayed for the feet and the bodies in them.
I prepare myself as I head out to see her. I don’t go because I want to; it is painful, and awkward and depressing. She may not remember me and she may beg me to take her out of there, it hurts and I dread the pain that I know will come. I go because it’s not about me, it’s about her. I go because I can imagine hundreds of hours when she sat in the silence vigilant watching over a sick child, or comforting a friend in need. I can picture her hands holding, feeding and caressing the ones she loved. I go to honor her. I go because even if she doesn’t, I remember. I remember her hands baking masterful deserts. I remember her hands knitting afghans and booties for my dolls. She permed my hair, played a mean game of karem and made all nine of my bridesmaid dresses with those hands. Her hands were how she showed her love. The words didn’t always come but her hands were always busy.
When I first see her she calls me Linda. It could have cut like a knife but I can tell that the look in her eyes tells me, she knows me. She is happy to see me and that is what matters most. My mom is with me. She makes the trip to see Grandma at least once a week. Their roles are reversed now, often Grandma calls her mom. I watch the way my mom speaks to her and calms her down when she gets agitated. Very much like a mother with a small child. Their role reversals didn’t happen easily and they have arrived here today after a very long and difficult journey.
It seems so strange to sit in a small sparsely filled room occupied by someone whose life was always so full. We talk for close to an hour and then it is time for her to have lunch. I watch my mom wheel her to her spot at the dinner table and lean in to hug her and tell her she loves her, my grandma says back, “You know, I love you very much too.” It is said as plain as day and very matter of fact. As I enter the dinning room to say my goodbyes, she gets a surprised look on her face and says, “Well hello.” She is surprised and happy to see me, not remembering that I have just spent the last couple of hours with her. It brings a smile to my face affirming again, that I don’t go to see her for me. It isn’t about making her remember me, it is about honoring my grandma and the memories I have of her, even if she calls me Linda.

If you are blessed, like me, to be a parent of multiple children, then you know just how different each one of your children can be. I am a mother of two boys and a girl. I happen to be the mother of a child who loves everybody, a child who wants to boss everybody and a ballerina. My oldest son Jacob, who loves everybody, recently, showed me what complete joy looks like.

I truly believe that every one of us has a deep desire to belong. I also believe we were designed that way purposefully. This desire is easier to see in some but it is still part of what makes us human. Jacob’s desire has always been unashamedly obvious.

As a preschooler he would always approach other children to play. If some other child wanted to join in a game he always welcomed an additional set of hands and legs to help build the fort or help chase down the bad guys. This desire to include everyone became a bit draining every year when we would try to make the birthday party invitation list…Even when we would threaten,” no sleepover if you choose to invite so many”, Jake always pushed for the option that allowed the most of his buddies to come. Have you ever found yourself saying “16 boys invited for a sleepover is ok because only about half will actually be able to make it” and then spent the next two weeks praying for an outbreak of strep at school?

Not all kids have the desire to include everyone. Jacob, as many kids do, has experienced his share of exclusion. It is a painful thing to watch and an even harder, to not intervene as a parent when your child is excluded. But the exclusions have never tempered his desire to include.

Jacob is 12 years old as I write this today and plays little league baseball. He is not the fastest. He is not the most agile and he spends a fair share of his time on the bench and or in the outfield. But he is part of a team and he loves it! A couple of weeks ago on an ordinary Tuesday night at the ballpark, an extraordinary thing happened.

Jacob hit a homerun. Not your ordinary run of the mill homerun, a GRAND SLAM. For those of you who don’t know, that is a bases loaded homerun! And somewhere in between my screams(and I do mean screams) of encouragement and realizing I may pee my pants if I don’t stop jumping up and down…I locked in on my child’s face as he rounded third base. This is what I saw…

Joy…pure joy. The kind of joy that starts at your toes and travels up your backside to the back of your neck, and up over the top of your head and like a wave crashes over your face. Joy, that if only for a moment, seems to make you float. Joy, that has no boundaries or disclaimers. Complete joy. Joy from a 12 year old boy, with the drop of his chin, and

a curl of his tongue into the side of his mouth, that says awe shucks, as he sees every one of his teammates jumping up and down on home plate waiting for him… he belongs.

It wasn’t so much the grand slam or the three run home run he hit later in the same game (ahem.. sorry just a proud mom) it was all of his teammates cheering and waiting to meet him at the plate. It is my favorite part of any homerun he has hit so far, when he rounds third base and looks towards home plate.

I believe that our God given desire to belong is what churns inside of all of us and that God uses that so that we will search Him out…that we will have the desire to know and to be fully known…and that when we have success in our lives I believe that the joy that God feels for every one of us looks a little like the joy on Jacobs face. I want that joy. I want to live my life in such a way that when I round third base and head home God will be standing, maybe even jumping up and down waiting for me and I will know I belong.