The Beautiful (and tricky) Incarnation

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

John 1:14

The incarnation.  

I don’t know if there has ever been a Christmas where the fact that God left heaven where there was no conflict or lost tempers or grudges harbored or disobedient children or expectations unmet or too many people under one roof or burnt bacon or gifts that don’t fit or nights of no sleep and came to this world that is all of those things and more has been so precious to me.  Can you imagine?  Would you ever leave a place where the people you were with were always complimentary and in perfect union with you?  Where there were entire fleets of angels worshiping you? And to leave this to go live with people who would kill you?

No thank you.

This Christmas was hard.  Not just because the brokenness of the world is so apparent, but because the brokenness of my heart is.  The stress of visiting both sets of family over the weekend returned back to Richmond with Sloan and me. And we, well, we were less than our best selves today.  Tempers were lost.  Tears were shed.  Feet were stomped.

Happy birthday Jesus, sorry your party was so lame.

As we left my sister’s house this afternoon from Christmas dinner, Sloan and I reconciled to one another and laughing, I started crying.  Not because my feelings had been hurt or my expectations unmet, but because I was overwhelmed with what Christmas really is about.

Incarnation.  Willingly entering into vulnerability and conflict for the love of another.  For the sake of another.  Bearing with and for another.  It's beautiful and tricky at the same time.

It is only fitting that we get stressed out about visiting family and it sometimes gets ugly.  That’s incarnation.  That’s what Christmas is.  It’s about a young girl, 9 months pregnant, having to go to her in-laws and there not being enough room so they stick her and her husband in a barn to have her baby.  (Can you imagine that conversation?  It was a census.  It’s not like Joseph’s kin didn’t know they were coming.  And convention would’ve had them staying with family, not looking for a Motel 6 like we often think.  But they were stuck in a barn.) It was into this smelly family quagmire that Jesus came.  God put on flesh.  Flesh that can hurt and bleed.  He chose to enter into conflict so that we could be re­conciled to Him and to one another.  He dwelt among us so that we could see and partake in His glory, grace, and truth.

In the dark, Henry remarked, “Daddy, Mommy is crying.  Again.” 

I said, “Henry, I’m crying because sometimes Daddy and I fight and I get my feelings hurt and I say mean things, but Jesus still came for me.  As a baby born on Christmas, he entered this difficult world so that Daddy and I could say we are sorry and forgive one another and really, really mean it.  Even though we are still sad a bit and hurting.  But we know that Jesus loves us and forgave us and forgives us still.  That is why we celebrate Christmas.  Because God is with us.”

And in typical 5 year old fashion, my darling son said, “Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday Jesus.  Is Santa going to come again tonight?  Because I REALLY want to get some more Skylander guys.”

Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Happy Easter!

If you don't want to see a bunch of photos of my adorable children, then you should probably skip this post.  

 Our little bunny who got her face painted at our neighborhood's egg hunt.

Bucketheads!

Surveying the loot!

I have chocolate!

2nd Annual Cousin Egg Hunt at my sister's house!  (aka how we get the kids out of the house while the meal is being prepared!)

 

 I just love this picture.  Taken by my very talented niece, Rachel.

This year's Easter was sponsored by seersucker. 

A Real MLK conversation

I feel sort of bad that I didn't throw a big party for MLK day.  Please don't think it is because I ignored the enormity of Dr. King's heart, or his willingness to speak out against hate. I dressed Gracie in her birthday gift overalls, because I understand that even the legality of our family is a gift that is due to his work and the civil rights activists who came behind him.

It's just that, well, you see, Dr. King had this dream where little brown girls could grab the hands of little white boys and walk as brother and sister and mainly that has looked a lot like WWF wrestling as of late in my family room.

We did have a play date with our friends Jacob and Jeremiah who are originally from Ethiopia and we ate Oreos as a MLK treat.  I think you'll appreciate the humor in the fact that the children adopted from Ethiopia told this white woman her bathroom was dirty and they almost didn't want to use it.  So they are totally American now.  And no, that's not dirt.  The seat is just chipped and we are cheap.

We watched the "I Have a Dream" speech this afternoon and it was not as deep or profound for my children as I'd hoped it would be.  Gracie was chanting "Dabba Dabba?  I want Dabba Dabba!!"

It seems that the masses of people on the mall are no comparison to DJ Lance Rock and Biz Marquee's Beat of the Day.  Please know that when I hear Dr. King say With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.  With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood, I am moved to tears.  And that when I hear those cracked out Gabba trees sing about sharing my ears bleed and I want to stab my eyes with a fork.

Also, Henry thinks the speech is too long to watch without snacks.  He considers going twelve minutes without a bag of goldfish as epic suffering. Henry just cannot wrap his brain around the sufferings of injustice Dr. King withstood.  He doesn't have a compartment in his brain into which to place racism.  I've tried to explain it and he. just. doesn't. get. it.  The conversation went something like this...

Me: So do you know why we celebrate King Day?
Henry:  Because we don't have school.
Me:  Yes.  You don't have school because it is Martin Luther King, Jr. day.
Henry:  Yes.  That's right.  But I like school.
Me:  I'm glad you like school.  But we celebrate the work of a man named Dr. King today because he spoke out against mean people.
Henry:  I don't like mean people.
Me:  Yes.  Me either. 
Henry: Why were the people mean?
Me:  Well, there were laws that were mean to people with brown skin.
Henry:  Gracie has brown skin.
Me:  Yes.  And there were people with pink skin who were mean to the people with brown skin and the people with pink skin were selfish and greedy and hurtful.

Henry:  I have pink skin!
Me:  Yes.  You do have pink skin.
Henry:  But I'm only mean to Gracie when she hits me.  And she never shares her toys with me.  And sometimes she sits on my head and screams, "I'm a hat!  I'm a hat!" and I don't like that.
Me:  (thinking, I got nothin') Uhhhhh....
Henry:  You have pink skin too.
Me:  Yes, I have pink skin too.  We say that people with pink skin are white and people with brown skin are black.
Henry:  But we're pink, not white.  And Gracie is brown, not black.  And I think you shouldn't be mean to people or be greedy.  That's not sharing or showing the love of Jesus.
Me:  No, no.  You're right.  But, back to Martin Luther King, Jr.
Henry:  Junior?  Like the asparagus?  You know I like Veggietales.  Pistachio is my favorite.  We got that CD at Chick-fil-a.  Did you know I like Chicken and french fries?
Me:  Yes, I know you like chicken and french fries.  And believe me, I know you like to listen to Pisctachio.  But there were these white people...
Henry:  BUT NO ONE IS WHITE!!!  MY SKIN IS PINK!! And maybe a little brown.  And I don't get what this has to do with Veggietales.
Me:  Nothing.  It has nothing to do with Veggietales.  Except the Veggietales love Jesus and so did Martin Luther King, Jr.  So anyway, there were these pink people who did mean things to the brown people and they wanted to keep the brown people away from the pink people.
Henry:  Mommy, you are not making any sense.  Why do the pink people care about where the brown people are? Are the brown people taking the pink people's toys without asking?  Because that makes me mad when Gracie does that and she's brown and I'm pink.  But I don't do mean things to her...okay, well, sometimes I yell at her and then push her.
Me:  Henry, that's not what I'm talking about at all.  Martin Luther King day sort of has to do with sharing and all, but really I just want you to know that God used Martin Luther King to speak out against sin.
Henry:  Sin is bad.  Did you know Jesus died for my sins?
Me:  Yes.  I know that.
Henry: On the cross.  It hurt.  I think he died for the pink people and the brown people.  He loves everybody.  Even you, Mommy.
Me:  Thank you.  Sooooo....do you want to watch another Martin Luther King, Jr. speech?  Or maybe I could read this board book about him?
Henry:  No thank you.  I'd like to watch Yo Gabba Gabba.  DJ Lance is a brown guy.  And Roby is green.  And foofa is pink like me.
Me:  Yes, Henry.  She is pink.  Just. Like. You.

MLK day fail. 

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

Thanks to a church school craft, there are two baby Jesuses in our homemade shoebox and pine needle manger.  Or is it Jesusi?  Jesusen?  Las dos crías Cristos?

Why We Aren’t Sending Out Christmas Cards

If you’ve ever received a Christmas card from our family, you’ll agree with me that they pretty much are the best cards you hang on your wall.  I mean, they are so awesome that some people keep them on their fridge year round.  

Here is the photo we used our first year of marriage.  

For reals.  We got married in August, but I had the foresight to pack a Santa hat in my wedding bag.  That’s the kind of crazy brilliant I am.

And this was last year’s card.  

 

Which is pretty much impossible to beat.  Ever.  The writing on the card was even in lime green. 

This year, I had grand plans to out-do last year’s card.  I  picked out adorable outfits in  navy and black, with pops of red.  Sloan’s Gamecock critter pants were going to be featured.  I selected a gorgeous spot in my parent’s backyard (because they have professional landscapers and we have a mud-pit littered with Little Tykes cars).  I lined up my teenage niece to take the photo as she has a super duper DSLR and is a budding photographer.  

But somehow, in the insanity that was the Thanksgiving holiday at my parents’ house, we never got to take the picture.  We attempted to get a pic by my father-in-law in my in-law’s back yard.  But a) that yard is an explosion of my father-in-law’s extensive bonsai tree collection, b) my in-laws don’t make the silly “look at the camera” noises and faces, so we got a pic of Henry picking his nose and the back of Gracie’s head and then the back of Henry’s head and Gracie picking her nose, and c) I had clearly chosen the wrong option of the three packed that matched the color scheme. Additionally, any person with a brain will tell you that noon is just about the worst time to take an outside photo ever. 

So I’ve been scrambling to find photos for the card.  And it has stressed me out.  Because once I have the photos, then I’ll have to select the card, and at this point, probably pay for fast shipping so I’ll still have time to stuff and address them and then pay half a dollar to send them to you.  And because of our large families and Sloan’s work connections, we usually send out 150 cards.  So it is not an inexpensive endeavor.  And I just can’t seem to rationalize spending $300 or so when that money could be used to bring my kid home from an orphanage.

I asked myself, why am I doing this? Am I sending out a card so that I can say to everyone “Joy to the World, the Lord is Come!  Let earth receive her King!”?  Or am I sending it out so that I can say, “Hey everybody!  Come see how good I look?”  

I must confess, my answer was the latter.  (Oh, and I also want you to see my blog address and follow me on Twitter because I confuse social media stats with my identity as well.)  

It’s a hard pill to swallow.  Because I have a little stack of Phillips family Christmas cards that I’m really proud of.  I mean, how awesome was the one that read “We’re tickled pink this Christmas” as we announced Grace’s arrival into our family?  (That year’s color scheme was pink, cranberry, and green with black and white photos.)  It is clear to me that a considerable chunk of my identity was wrapped up in the awesomeness of our Christmas card.  That is just dumb.  Dumb and sinful.  

So instead, we will attempt to get a good picture of the family this season so that we at least have a family photo this year.  And I can print it out and put it in the stack.  And I’ll post it here, on Facebook, and Twitter in order to wish you a Holly, Jolly Christmas and to say "Let every heart prepare Him room."  But don’t expect one in the mail from us this year.  We will instead be donating $300 to our own adoption fund.  (Which you can too, if you follow the link on the right sidebar.)

That being said, upon the arrival of P3 (aka, the third Phillips kid),  just know I’ve already contacted a professional photographer to do new family portraits.  And we will be really, really, good looking.  We’ll probably wear casual outfits that coordinate but aren’t too matchy-matchy and pose by something quirky and random like a train station or a giant field of weeds at sundown.  We will be laughing in our sweaters.  You will look at our multi-ethnic family, in navy, black and red, and you will think, “Wow.  Who knew “On earth as it is in Heaven” looked a whole lot like a Benetton ad? The wonders of His love, indeed.”

I can't finish it and FYI, boys like to fart

Big shock.  I didn't successfully do NaBlogPoMo.  (You know the thing where I was supposed to do a blog post every day for a month.)   November is a tricky month with Thanksgiving and all.  My husband understands that for my own sanity and the health of our family, I need at least an hour a day with my laptop.  Twenty minutes to blog or so and the rest to work on my manuscript.  If you had been at my parents' house over Thanksgiving with the throngs of children and adults and not nearly enough booze, you would understand that sanity is not a high priority.  It's survival of the fittest. 

I'm not really bummed, though.  It started to get taxing blogging EVERY DAY.  I do, however, think I want to set three times a week as a discipline and goal.  (And also, that is a requirement for the ads I'm going to be posting on here in the near future.  Sorry if you think that is selling out.  I'm trying to adopt a special needs kid from Asia and that ain't cheap.)

But to give you a laugh, let me leave you with the following story.

Sloan and I went shopping in Greensboro with my three teenage nephews, Anderson, Caleb, and William.  They are each hilarious and kind and boneheaded in ways that only teenage boys can be.  (Oh, they're also all good looking.  And not in a "I'm their Aunt so I have to say that" kind of way.  Yes, it's a little bit creepy to say that, but seriously, you'd think out of 14 grandkids, my parents' would have at least one that was just marginally attractive.  But false.  The Johnson kids have beautiful children.)  Add to that my husband who really isn't known for being all that mature and what you get is the equivalent of shopping with four giant toddlers.  Toddlers obsessed with burping, farting, texting, and making "That's what she said" jokes.  Does it make you nervous that three of the four  men in this story have driver's licenses?  It should.  Because if one of them is driving and another one of them farts, apparently there is some sort of bro code that requires the driver to turn on the window lock so everyone is stuck suffocating in the car.  You'd think that because for some odd reason we were in 2 cars it would help, but you'd be wrong.  There was enough gas to go around.

At one point, Sloan was parking the car and the three boys were supposed to be in Foot Locker. Apparently I  missed them when I was finishing up at Old Navy.  So I walked into Foot Locker and said, "Um, I'm looking for three teenage boys." 

Yeah, it was an akward moment for everyone.

Then I heard a honk and there was my nephew Anderson driving my sister's 15 passenger van (she has 8 kids, remember?).  My nephew Caleb was riding shotgun and yelled, "Hey, Aunt EJ, come get in the man van."  So, of course, I did get in the man van.  And when I told them about my "looking for three young boys" question, it should come as no surprise that one of them said, "Well, I suspect Penn State is hiring."  

I quickly added Penn State and pedophilia to my growing laundry list of things they were not allowed to make fun of. 

My favorite part of the entire excursion was when we were driving to Macy's in the man van.  Anderson was at the wheel and Caleb was again riding shotgun.  He had his window rolled down and was trying to look cool with his arm hanging out of the giant silver van.  He saw some girls on the sidewalk and he called out to them, "Hey ladies, looking good.  Look at my cool ride.  My big brother will drive us wherever we want to go." 

Later in the day, Caleb later confessed that if he had a terminal illness, his make a wish would be to have Morgan Freeman follow him around and narrate his life.  Caleb is now waking up.  When Caleb brushes his teeth, he thinks "Damn, I look good" and he is right.  He does look good.

So, if you need a good laugh, I'd suggest renting my nephews.  But be forewarned, they're gassy.  And constantly texting.  And you might just pee your pants.

 

Together We're Unlimited

Tonight, for what I'm sure will not be one night only, the Phillips and Pusey cousins performed pretty much the entire show of Wicked.  With a little bit of Tom Sawyer thrown in for good measure.  At one point, my 5 year old niece Isabel was crying because she wanted to perform Popular as a solo.  Seriously, she was crying.  Her red lipstick smeared and painted for the back rows lashes running.  It was as though I was watching myself thirty years ago.  Except, of course, I made playbills and forced my parents to buy tickets to watch me dance in leotards in the living room. 

There would be more pictures, but you see, I was one of the headliners. 

"There's been some confusion
For you see, my roommate is: "

"Unusually and exceedingly peculiar
And altogether quite impossible to describe"

 

 "Blonde."

 

 

And the leading man?

It was pretty much the best thing ever.  My nephew Caleb was more than annoyed.  Which made it even more fun.Then there was some running around naked (by the 4 and under crowd).  Followed by an ice cream party.  

 

 

Thanksgiving at the Asylum

Ahhh…Thanksgiving. 

I am at my parents’ house in NC for close to a week.  With my sister and her brood.  So, for those of you doing the math, that is 6 adults and 12 children.  The ages are as follows: Matthew and Gracie (2), Henry (4), Isabel (5), Jonathan (8), Joshua (10), Rebekah (12), Rachel (14), Caleb (16), and Anderson (18).  I’m sure that my 18 and 16 year old nephews would argue that they are adults.  False.  And then on Thursday, we’ll also have my brother’s crew over here which will add Natalie (7), Caroline (10), Sarah Grace (13), and William (15).  

So we are outnumbered 2 to 1.  Even more so when you add to the fact that I tend to feel about 12 years old when I’m at my folks’ house.  

But either way, it’s crazy up in here.  There are tents and sleeping bags in the playroom.  I think my niece just broke her toe leaping off the elliptical machine.  You know, the one she was forbidden to play on.  Ice cream was served at 9pm.  To the kids who are accustomed to going to bed at 7:30.  

So for day 21, I am thankful for wine.  Lots and lots of wine.

You’ll also understand why the blog posts may be scant this week.  It tends to ruffle feathers when I take time away to write.  Or read.  Or work out.  Or go to the bathroom.  Also, my husband requested to be mentioned in this post.  By name.  His name is Sloan.  And here I am, mentioning him. 

Actually, Tom Petty was Wrong

I think I’ve said before that I’m impatient.  And that any time someone tells me I oughtta pray for patience, I curse them.  Half of the time I curse them under my breath.  But mostly to their face.  (Which is awesome for them and not at all awkward for me.)  And if you ever hear me singing the "Be Patient" song to my children, rest assured that is more for my benefit than theirs. 

When folks are struggling with waiting, I usually say this, “I will pray for God to give you patience and also that you will not need it.”  I like this.  It covers all the bases.  It acknowledges that patience is a gift and a sign of love (actually, Scripture tells us that the very first thing Love is is patient…), but it also acknowledges that while we want to be Spiritual about things we also just don’t want to wait.  

Because, as my Pastor said this morning, most of us believe that waiting is for losers. 

Most days I believe that.  And most days I say that Tom Petty was right and that waiting is the hardest part.  In fact, I have a blogpost here that says this very thing and it was written over 4 years ago.

But if you have been a reader since the beginning, you know this blog was born out of the only time I have ever been patient—when I was in the hospital on strict bedrest prior to Henry’s birth.  And really, I wasn’t so much patient as told, “Hey, get out of that bed and you and your kid might die.”  So clearly, God understood that teaching me patience would require the direst of circumstances. And that teaching me patience would also come with a helping of humility.  (Please, for the love of all that is good, please never pray for me to learn these lessons again.  Or, if you believe I should learn some humility, I’d simply ask that you be specific in praying, “Teach Elizabeth humility without having to teach her how to use a bedpan.”)

The sermon this morning at my church was about how we handle grief and suffering.  And that most of us just plain suck at it.  We don’t teach our children how to be sad, and, in fact, as a culture we teach that being sad is unacceptable.  But folks, crap happens that is sad.  People get sick.  Loved ones die. We yearn for a spouse.  We can’t get pregnant.  We can’t stay pregnant.  Spouses leave.  Kids disappoint.  Parents say hurtful things.  And these are just the things that have happened to me and some of my friends in the past week. 

Our Pastor pointed us to David.  Just as he finds out Saul is dead and that he is now King. (II Samuel 1:17-27)  And what does David do as his first royal act?  He freakin gets out his guitar and writes a poem like some beatnik.  Then he decrees that everyone in the land will learn the song so that as a nation they’ll know how to grieve.  He doesn’t try to immediately fix things, he sits with his grief.  His first act as a King is to lament.  So clearly, we are not as faithful Christians supposed to suck up our sadness.  Nor is that the example we are given in Jesus.  He is a King who has tasted betrayal, fought oppression, mourned the death of a loved one, been ridiculed, and died an unjust death.  And then He rose again.  So our sadness is not without hope.  If it is without hope, we should repent of that.  But hear this--Jesus never said, “Don’t cry, it makes you seem unfaithful.  Don't be sad, it makes you seem ungrateful.”  Rather, he said, “Blessed are the poor in Spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”  Or, to quote the brilliant Jen Hatmaker, “...we still get to cry tears and feel our feelings, folks. Jesus did. And I’m pretty sure he went to heaven when he died.”

So as we enter into a holiday that is all about waiting for a baby and you hear me crying for my child that is waiting too, understand this--my waiting is nothing.  It is not the hardest part.  The fact that there’s a child out there with no Mommy or Daddy to tell him he is loved and that I will be inviting that heartache into my home will be the hardest part.  Parenting will be the hardest part.  Not the waiting.  

*To read more about my awesome pastor’s sermon about lament, go here and check out the accompanying study guide.