“Little baby, I am a poor boy too.
I have no gift to bring that’s fit to give a king….”
I think I can safely say that this is where I’m sitting this Christmas.
My heart feels impoverished, but my soul is full. I have the desire to worship and honor and glorify and give all of my best.
But the dailies and the drudgery is overwhelming and stifling.
I feel that at the end of every day, what have I got to offer?
Christmas often leaves me feeling drained and depleted. I get discouraged with the quarreling and bickering and horrors and atrocities in the world, reflected in the face of the infant lying in the manger. He came to bring peace. And we squander it. We are to be His image bearers to the world, and we cannot fully show His image to our own children, let alone the world. Our world’s sin is so visible in these ages, and I marvel more and more at His grace and subservience and humility.
It’s times like these where I tend to pull inward. As an idealist and an introvert, my cure for the world is to create peace and goodness and beauty and light. But I do so in small ways, manageable ways, settings that will speak comfort. Therefore, I create. I make. I cook, because food cures some heartaches. (And we’ve got those this year.) I crochet, knit, sew, embroider, and in these times of inward pulling, I don’t often write. It’s not that I don’t have time. I don’t write in these times because beauty doesn’t need words. Doing feels so much better than saying. And saying feels self-promoting.
So little baby, pa rum pum pum pum…. This year, I’m going to do my best to cook and bake and sew and crochet and knit and make beds and wash laundry and scrub faces as a gift to you. My quiet homely gift of service to you. May you be praised.
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