8 Crazy Nights

They say time spent with family is like leftovers--after three days it just goes bad. Sloan and I spent a week in Greensboro with my family. Do the math. No, no--it wasn't that bad. Rather than like leftovers, it was a bit like bad reality television, except no one has being voted off to look forward to. You're just stuck with these people who know all your flaws, cooking and cleaning, sleeping somewhere strange, praying there's wine in the fridge. Or maybe it is like that show that used to be on MTV--The Real World. (Or maybe it is still on MTV. It's been roughly a decade since I've watched MTV.) Do you remember the tag line--"See what happens when people stop being polite and start being real." This sums up my past week. And I'm figuring that for every child under the age of 18, each day is multiplied by 2. So really, using this math, Sloan and I spent 6 days alone with my folks, roughly 8 days with Sloan's parents, brother and sister-in-law and their 3 kids, 10 days with my folks and brother's family of 4 kids, and then 24 days with my folks, brother's family and sister's family of 7 kids. So what is that? A total of 48 days with family. And it's mainly the fact that it is was us, my parents, and my siblings families and the noisy 12 grandchildren running around playing the piano and with every noisy toy on the planet that makes you nuts. Certifiably.

But even if you tally up the days to just be a week on the island, the reality of being with family is skewed. Skewed with a lifetime full of arguments, resentments, disappointments, miscommunication, burnt cranberry apple bakes, messy rooms, missed curfews, missed soccer games, driven under gates, backed into phone poles, lost keys, lost purses, and lost tempers. And it is just so danged hard to remember that since you are not the same person you were living under this roof so many moons ago, more than likely neither are your parents or your siblings. You return home and are treated like you're 12; you resent it. But by the end of the day, you're acting like you're 8. So when you lose your cell phone it becomes the perfect time for your siblings to rehash everything you've ever lost. Certainly the discussion about the vortex that is my (I mean your) life is in loving jest. But eventually, after 10 minutes of frantic walking around the house with the phone dialing my cell straining to see if I could hear my Stevie Wonder ring tone over the cacophony of laughing siblings and screaming children, I yank Sloan into the back hall of my parents' house and yell at him in hushed tones, "I hate this *%3!@ house. I hate my parents and I hate you most of all for bringing me here!"

But the truth is, I don't hate anybody. It's just that my family makes me crazy. I can't seem to remember that my identity is in Christ when I'm with these people. I take it as a personal affront when I make mac and cheese that no one says to me, "My God, Elizabeth. Did you make this mac and cheese? It is as if it were made by the Christ child Himself!"

I get together with my family, the people whom God has given me as a safe haven to be vulnerable with, and I spend most of the time defensive and pissed off. Mainly pissed off that my family isn't perfect. Which means I'm not perfect. And me not being perfect, well that just really gets me fuming. Particularly if you happen to notice. And if you dare to be imperfect near me I just might threaten to never come home again.

But you see, I have to keep coming home. Not because home is where the heart is or any other cheesy sentiment you learned while watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel. But because even though going home drives me bonkers--I would not know how to love were it not for these people. God has given them to me and me to them in order that we might know Him and reflect Him better. And sometimes, my childhood home is so full of His reflection that my heart breaks. I'll see my brother loving on Henry, my sister-in-law and Sloan crackin' jokes, my niece dancing like a maniac with her new Ipod, or maybe in the 20th round of Euchre, and for ever so briefly I catch a glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas.

That God took on flesh and entered into the insanity. That He left the peaceful throne room of heaven to be born in a barnfull of stinky animals so that He could live, love, and eventually die for all of our petty self-righteousness. So that one day, we might experience a REAL homecoming.

It just goes to show me that I still don't get what this whole Jesus dying for my sins and reconciling me to God and my fellow man thing is all about. If I did, I'd have a clearer picture of my own need for grace, compassion, and mercy and I'd be slower to declare my parents, siblings, and spouse as the roots of all evil. I'd see them as my allies rather than my enemies. And Jesus' actions would show me that to love someone, I have to go where it is noisy. And get dirty. And forgive. And forgive. And forgive. Until it hurts.

And forgiveness is death.

Death to being first. Death to correcting every little thing. Death to bringing up someone else's flaws when mine are mentioned. Death to my right to be right. Forgiveness doesn't mean that I have to say, "Oh, it's okay you hurt me." It means saying (and believing), "No. It is not okay. But this relationship means more to me than my right to justice. My love for you mandates I bear the pain without spewing it back at you. "

But FYI--it also means that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't bring up every little thing I've ever lost since I was 5 the next time I lose my cell phone. Maybe you should get off the couch and help me look for it. Maybe.