Christmas Archives - Page 6 of 6 - Shannon Guerra at Copperlight Wood

In case you missed the news in the video on Facebook or in the newsletter, we have an announcement. Coming soon, summer of 2015, a new baby at Copperlight Wood. And if you ask us, “Hey, haven’t you guys figured out what causes that yet?” we will probably give you any one of the following answers:

1. Yes…haven’t you?

2. Yes, and we like it.

3. Yes — lots of…well, paperwork (high five to fellow adoptive families!).

We’re excited, but the days so far have been a lot like this one:

Fold the next shirt, try not to throw up. Match a pair of socks, try not to throw up. Stay away from the kitchen (or the catbox, or the boys’ bedroom) and try not to throw up.

These days, I subsist mostly on crackers and peanut butter and ask the big kids to make lunch for everyone else while I fight queasiness on the other side of the house. They do a pretty good job. Only two food groups? Close enough.

And yes, we’re thrilled about this new life, and yes, these days will pass and joy will come, but to be honest…everything turns dull shades of grey and blue while morning sickness tries to drain the color out of life for the weeks that it lasts. I walk around in a haze of nausea, not enthusiastic about Thanksgiving, not helpful with cooking, not inspired about Christmas decorating, and not even excited about our first scheduled date out of the house in two and a half years.

It’s just, bleh. Blue. And it’s not me, it’s the morning sickness talking.

And maybe it’s not morning sickness for you, but the bleh happens to many of us out of the blue – or at a certain time of the month – and we are just not who we normally are. The color is gone, our caffeinated superpowers have abandoned us, and we could not summon appropriate enthusiasm if someone were to lay a platter of chocolate and roses in front of us and declare that we’ll never pay a mortgage again. Life for a little while has lost it’s zing. And I know I’m not alone in this…I suspect it also happens to thousands of devoted Downton Abbey fans at the end of every season. Mm-hmm. You know who you are.

It’s easy to turn the funk into an excuse to pull back, isolate, and recoil. And there is room for that, sure — no one wants an audience hovering around when we’re absolutely miserable — but He gives room for growth and productivity within the struggle. It’s a grace-saturated opportunity: no added pressure, no increased burden, just the light yoke of learning boldness in affliction.

We can pursue the Kingdom quietly in spite of pain. The struggle is a season, not our identity.

Epaphras, who is one of you, a servant of Christ Jesus, greets you, always struggling on your behalf in his prayers, that you may stand mature and fully assured in all the will of God.

– Colossians 4:12

Epaphras, my fellow prisoner in Christ Jesus, sends greetings to you.

– Philemon 1:23

I’ve never paid much attention to this name before, but in the last several weeks of reading the New Testament the name Epaphras kept showing up, and I finally noticed. His name means “lovely.” The few scriptures we have that mention him revolve around this theme of both faithfulness and struggle.

The two go together. Anyone can be faithful when things are easy. But being steadfast in the struggle is what reveals faithfulness. And that is lovely.

We always thank God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, when we pray for you, since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and of the love that you have for all the saints, because of the hope laid up for you in heaven. Of this you have heard before in the word of the truth, the gospel, which has come to you, as indeed in the whole world it is bearing fruit and increasing—as it also does among you, since the day you heard it and understood the grace of God in truth, just as you learned it from Epaphras our beloved fellow servant. He is a faithful minister of Christ on your behalf and has made known to us your love in the Spirit.

– Colossians 1:3-8

Through lunch, I’m sitting on the couch, sorting the kids laundry for them to put away later. The girls’ clothes go in a pile to my right, the boys’ clothes go on the other couch. I toss some over in a half-hearted fling – a shirt makes it, but the sock hits the floor. Close enough.

And so, from the day we heard, we have not ceased to pray for you, asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of his will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding, so as to walk in a manner worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God.

– Colossians 1:9-10

Reagan has been coming up to me lately for lots of hugs – no real reason, just out of the blue, she’ll reach out and ask, “Hug, Mama?” like a wee toddler would. And one afternoon last week when I was nauseous and not wanting anyone near me, I hugged her anyway — which may make me sound like a terrible parent, but if you’ve ever been this close to throwing up at the same moment that a child with a history of aromatic breath wants to come near and squeeze your body, you’ll understand. But I let her, and she hugged me long, and for the first time ever, after being home with us for two and a half years, she said something else — all on her own, no prompting, out of the blue.

It was, “Ah yah you.” I love you, in Reagan’s toddler speak. I melted, but it put me on guard a little – there’s still this inner struggle of wanting to trust and enjoy it, but knowing from experience that often there’s a backlash coming after sweet behavior, the swing from hot back to cold, from clingy to repellent.

But there was no backlash, and she did it again today. And there was joy. Her struggle is not her identity, either.

May you be strengthened with all power, according to his glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy, giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in light.

He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

– Colossians 1:11-14

We ran errands, and bought maternity clothes, club soda, and a Christmas tree. We listened to Louis Armstrong sing about a Dixieland Santa Claus while driving home in the snow with the tree strapped to the top of the Stagecoach, and the haze was there, but color and loveliness were, too. And it wasn’t quite enthusiasm, but it was close enough.

We have a tree up, with lights and breakables and strands of popcorn clinging to it. We have a nativity and garland on the mantle, and many years’ worth of accumulated paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling.

We are festive. We are merry. We are…freezing.

It’s minus 22 out there tonight. I didn’t even send the kids out to play today, and we made forts and paintings and other messes instead. The temperature doesn’t really matter, because when it’s cold outside we can still keep it warm inside.

Unless we don’t. Unless there’s bickering and bossing and snapping and strife, and I assign consequences and replay lectures all day long. The temperature drops in our connections, and it takes lots of hugs and kisses and happy conversations to warm things up again.

It was warmer last week – outside, at least – and the kids were sledding and hollering on the hill behind us. And they know – they know, I tell you – about waiting to go down until the people at the bottom of the hill have moved out of the way so they don’t slam into them.

Especially if it’s the littlest sister at the bottom of the hill.

Especially if all five of her siblings are piled into one sled and bowling into her.

But no…there’s screaming and bossing and sheepish giggling and fuming and praise God, no blood, but mine is boiling. I have told you and told you…yada, yada. I wipe tears and give severe looks to older children and send them all off to play again.

Thirty seconds later, I peek out the window to check on everyone. Big brother and little brother are thrashing each other in the snowbank next to the sledding hill.

I knock fiercely on the kitchen window to get their attention. Three kids turn to look, and in my aggressive charades I point to the eldest, who has paused the friendly pummeling of his little brother. I motion STOP á la the Pointer Sisters, and he gives me a questioning look that says he can’t hear me.

I’m about to holler “I KNOW YOU CAN UNDERSTAND ME” through the glass, but the little brother – who I couldn’t see because he was standing perfectly behind the big brother – shoves him from behind, totally knocking him over. Faceplant in the snow.

I go down, too, hiding behind the kitchen sink and laughing hysterically. Sure, whatever – go for it, boys. If you can dish it, you can take it. Just don’t involve the baby sister.

A few minutes later they are back to sledding, going down the icy hill on their bellies, on their bottoms, on their boots. Actually, they start on their boots often, but end up on their backsides.

And after some years of experience, we’ve decided this is a no no, because sliding down rough, icy hills using expensive polyurethane thermal attire as sleds is poor stewardship of snowgear. It tends to create tears and shreds in the fabric.

The preferred method of repair is not, I’m sorry to say, my superior sewing skills. It is duct tape, Alaska chic.

Every winter we take inventory to see what fits, what can be grown into, and what is beyond even the appreciable scope of duct tape and must be replaced.

And we’ve talked about it. A lot. I have told you and told you…blah, blah, blah.

They finally come in from sledding and I assign consequences, and do my best to balance them with warm hugs and kisses. Extra chores to make up for the extra money we have to spend on more snowpants if they keep using them as toboggans. And, just to keep things sweet…they each owe mama a footrub, too. Like hugs for cold feet.

Warming up over tea, we talk about patches instead of replacements. We still have Iree’s old snowpants – the ones that were duct-taped on the rear from the last two years. There’s lots of usable material on them. Nice, thick, padded…hot pink…material.

Perfect. Festive, and merry.

I inform the boys that it will be used for patches on their snowpants, should patches become necessary.

And just to remind them how much I love them…because I have told them and told them so often but sometimes they just don’t listen...

…maybe I’ll even embroider a little something on those patches as a reminder:

XOXO.

Shannon Guerra at Copperlight Wood

living deep + wide

Category Archives: Christmas

out of the blue

warmly, xoxo