I am feeling more and more okay with this season being imperfect. As if perfect is attainable anyway. Reminder note to self: It’s not. You will exhaust yourself chasing it.
Only half of my ornaments made it to the tree this year (who needs all of those anyway?). My calendar still says November and I may or may not have taken the pumpkin off the porch days after the tree finally went up.
My shopping list? 2 purchases. And they were yesterday. It feels like a success.
But I am settling into this less than perfect season of Christmas.
My husband and I have tried to be intentional this season about entering into the suffering of others. We believe it’s the call of God and we also believe it is where we experience Him the most.
And there is something about being surrounded by suffering that burns away the stuff that really doesn’t matter. Like my ideas of what Christmas should look like. It looks like the mobs of people at Target (I’m guilty) and buying way too much stuff that people really don’t need. I mean…be honest. Most of them don’t.
There’s a verse in the Bible that says that a sad face is good for the heart. I don’t think the writer was being a Debbie Downer. I think he knew something that most of us are still slowly learning.
You can have everything in the world and still have nothing. Or you can have nothing at all and have everything that truly matters most.
Sorrow enlarges the heart. It makes room for joy. Like when my kids throw their head back and laugh. The kind of laugh that is deep in your belly and wildly contagious. I feel joy at a level that I would never have recognized if not for deep sorrow.
So I am ok with imperfect.
I am ok with feeling the pressure of a million things to accomplish and not enough time. You know the feeling. It means I get to be a blessing to someone who really really needs it right now.
I am okay with my little one picking the “balls” off the tree every 3 seconds. Her wonder and curiosity are much more important than my perfectly adorned tree.
I’m learning to hold the joy and the sorrow. The perfectly imperfect.