When I tell you about my childhood Christmas adventures, when I tell you about the way we would open our presents and hop in the car on Christmas day, heading to up-state New York just in time to get hit by a snowstorm somewhere between Cleveland and Buffalo, when I tell you of the two packed houses, the 6 teenage girls in one room and the piles of presents we affectionately called “the mother load” a product of two ridiculously hard working and generous Grand parents, do not let me forget to tell you about the cookie porch.

My Grandma must have baked for weeks, because every single year their screened in porch was covered in delicious homemade treats. Pie crust cookies from my Grandma’s mother’s recipe , molasses cookies, and the standard chocolate chip. Home made caramels naked and covered in dark chocolate, peanut brittle, butter brickle, and homemade fudge (with and without walnuts). There were fancy cookies like the chocolate ones covered in fudge, a maraschino cherry hidden in the middle, and sugar cookies wrapped around an Andes mint with a mint chocolate drizzle on the top.

The aunts would come and add to the bounty, peanut butter cookies with a Hershey kiss pressed in, or clumps of Chinese noodles and peanuts covered in a mixture of melted butterscotch and chocolate chips. Some family members called them cockroaches, but my grandma insisted good farm girls like her called them haystacks. My mom always brought the sugar cookies in various shapes with colored frosting lines and squiggles. We all made sure we were up for breakfast the day that Aunt Julie’s gorgeous stolens made it into the oven. We hoped we were lucky enough to get a bite of that super gooey center.

In the corner, on the floor you would find a bag with a couple pounds of gummi-bears. Everyone ate them; but they were their for her oldest grandson. I remember the taste of frozen gummi-bears melting in my mouth. I have the fondest memories of sneaking out to the porch with no shoes on to dance on the frozen ground, hopping from foot to foot, as I frantically searched for the treat I was craving before my toes went numb.

There was more than enough for everyone to have their fill for a week, and get sent home with a heaping cookie plate. When I tell you about the abundance of God’s love at Christmas, make sure I use the metaphor of my grandma’s cookie porch.

My Version of Cockroaches Haystacks

Some salted peanuts, some chinese noodles, some butterscotch chips and some semi-sweet chocolate chips.

1.Melt all the chips together in low heat on the stove. when everything is stirred and melted stick your finger in their and then lick it to ensure it is delicious.

2. Dump the peanuts and chinese noodles in and stir it all around. Ensure delicious-ness.

3. Remember you were supposed to put wax paper on your counters. Clear the counters and put the wax paper down. Over estimate the space you will need.

4. Spoon clumps of the goodness in the pot on the stove onto the wax paper. Wait for it to harden and cool. This part takes a long time. This part is my least favorite.

I don’t have exact measurements because it doesn’t matter and it always comes out delicious, my kind of cookie.

This post linked to the cookie exchanges of Leanne Penny and LoveFeastTable. Check them out, this was fun!

When the opportunity presented itself I jumped at the chance to be on the blogging team for The Exodus Road, but when the emails started showing up in my inbox it took me a few days to open them. I had never committed to a blogging schedule like I did in my first Advent post, and I really wanted to stick to it. Plus, my grandfather was in the hospital on the way out of this world, finals were coming up and I hadn’t written anything for them (which is sort of what I get paid to do) and the Rooster no longer believes in sleeping through the night. I do not have time for one more thing, I told myself. Maybe in the New Year.

Those weren’t the only reasons I shut myself off. The reason I wasn’t even opening the emails was simpler than that. I did not have room in this brittle heart of mine for one more sad story, one more set of statistics about how terrible our world is. I’ve got enough going on over here thank you very much. Besides,i t is Christmas and now is not the time for a story about bondage.  The readers that I do have want magical happy Christmas land. I cannot blog about sex trafficking.

WARNING: Do not blog, the Lord will use your words against you. I may have written earlier this week about God showing up in the mess. God shows up in the greatest of disasters, in the cold and the hopeless places God brought hope. And that is what the Exodus Road does. They bring hope.

It is sick and twisted to think that a woman would be in such a dire situation that she would sell her daughter. And it is worse to think that someone would come along and buy that girl and turn around and sell her virginity for $600. I don’t want to know that this not only happens, but there is a system set up to allow this to happen and there are people in this world who are getting very rich off of selling people.

The Exodus Road not only seeks to rescue individual girls. Girls like Sarah, who scribbled a note and placed it into the hands of investigators, but they also seek to make it super easy for law enforcement to do raids and collect evidence that will shut the trafficking organizations down. If the traffickers can’t make any money because the risk of getting caught is too high and the clients are scared, they stop the trafficking. No profits no point.

The Exodus Road has been doing some really great work and is seeking to build a whole cabinet full of resources that they can hand out to all the different groups in the area fighting this darkness. The Exodus Road is bringing hope to the hopeless.

I’m not sure where my place is in all of this, but I can feel the Lord turning my heart toward this cause. There is a contest going on between the new blogging team and the person who raises the most money will get to go and see all of this first hand, but when I prayed about doing that, the Lord told me “not yet.” Seems it is a season of waiting all over the place. So how do I join in on this hope?

1. I will be praying for the Exodus Road team.

2. I will be keeping up with the stories they send me and prayerfully sharing them with you.

3. I registered my credit cards with Pure Charity and will donate my free money that I pick which charity to donate to,  to The Exodus road.

This is my candle in the darkness. This is me saying this matters. Won’t you join me?

(Seriously, register for Pure Charity. I am ashamed I didn’t do it sooner and the money I stole from these charities by not getting around to it is currently haunting me. Just sign up.)

This December has been unreasonably unseasonably warm. I was sitting on the porch discussing my grandfather, the life he led, the ways we will miss him, with my sister when dusk came. I was surprised it was getting so dark so fast. The weather tells me it is early September. The sunset has other plans. I went inside a little disoriented and looked at the clock on the microwave. Surely I missed bed time…nope, just that time of year. Simply not enough light in the day.

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When the term “modern-day prophet” crept into my thoughts so did the sounds of the street-preachers I have become familiar with. First there was the guy my dad was friends with. Brother Richard used to pray for healing over the phone if he called the house and we answered, sick from school. I don’t remember meeting him, but I do remember his voice, soft and rich in my ear. My dad used to say you could see the remnants of the glory of the Lord on his head.

The street-preacher I have the strongest memories of is Pastor Neal. He used to stand outside the theatre department and hurl fire and brimstone at the homosexuals and the fornicators just trying to buy a ticket to the university’s next show.  I went to his church once, “The Revolution,” where he preached a beautiful sermon filled with the grace and love of our God. I wonder now, why he saved that message for those who already had it, and hurled the condemnation at those who had yet to experience the grace.

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I have become increasingly convinced of the prophetic act of spending. Money talks. What is the church saying? Are we saying the poor matter? Are we proclaiming that injustice will be redeemed? Are we shouting, DRINK! all who are thirsty? Are we affirming the dignity and humanity of every soul born into the flesh? God cares desperately about you? Or are we saying, this gospel is for me and those like me, God cares desperately for my comfort?

There are so many in my circle who are proclaiming good things through the cause they back. My husband walked 6 miles with 5 gallons of water for Charity water. My dear friend Brooke is running a marathon for She’s the First and raising 26 girls worth of education in the 26 miles she runs. My favorite bloggers are building a school in Haiti. I got accepted on the blogging team of The Exodus Road, an organization that fights for the lives of those who have been trafficked, combats modern-day slavery. I am humbled, but overwhelmed by the opportunity to raise money for their cause. It seems everyone has a cause they want you to contribute to. It is hard sometimes to feel like it matters.

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The darkness creeps up so quickly these days. It is enough to disorient me, the darkness of this world. But the Prophet’s job is to shout into the darkness, light a candle in the abyss of the night, promise that dawn is coming, and point to the light that is already breaking in. It is hard and lonely in this wilderness, and sometimes I need to be reminded that what I proclaim matters.

Confession: I haven’t bothered to register my credit cards with Pure Charity. The aforementioned bloggers for a Haitian school asked me to, and I keep forgetting or am just too tired. The idea is simple and brilliant. Many businesses that I already shop at will give a percentage of the money I was going to spend anyway to my giving account, and then I decide where that money is going to go. Free money to that project, or the Exodus Road project to fund raids on brothels where they are holding girls against their will. Seems like a no brainer, and yet I still don’t have an account. I think I have been giving into the darkness, believing that it doesn’t really matter.

If I pray every Sunday “on earth as it is in heaven” if I believe that God has more for this world than what we’ve already got, then I am a prophet of hope. As the advent season continues and I lean into the waiting, I don’t want to wait silently in the dark. I want to point to the dawn, the promise of light to come.

I have a lottery ticket in my top desk drawer at work. I bought it a couple weeks ago when the power ball was at a record high. I don’t know why I keep it, but I have not yet been able to throw it out. I feel like it symbolizes something. Or maybe I just keep hoping that I read the numbers wrong, or there will be an announcement about a consolation prize. I know that this is silly, but I can’t quite bring myself to throw out that ticket. It is worthless and empty, the kind of hope the world tells us is available. Maybe, what if…, someone has to win, why not me? Ending in not you, maybe not, someone did win but it sure wasn’t you. The hope the world sells seems to leave one or two with way too much, and the rest of us with worthless slips of paper.

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Last night, after the girls went to bed I re-lit the first advent candle and read the guide I had been given by my church. I sat in my dining room, with one white candle lit (the only ones the Kroger had) and prayed through the guide. I sang the suggested song, and tears ran down my face.

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel, shall come to you oh Israel”

Last Sunday Jill came over to borrow some paintbrushes and told me that my grandfather had been rushed to the emergency room. This Sunday my dad called to let me know that they had made the decision to stop restorative care. Every time the Peanut sees me crying she climbs into my lap.” You sad mommy?” She asks, “You sad?” I tell her I am and she pats my back. “Is okay mommy, daddy come and give you hugs.”

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel, shall come to you oh Israel.”

Emmanuel, God with us. This is not an empty hope. It is not a ticket that some people win from and most people throw away. Even in my dining room, with the wrong color candles and my Grandfather slipping away on the other side of the country, I can rejoice. Emmanuel shall come to me, He shall come to my family. It is a certainty. There is hope eternal. God is with us. Hallelujah.

One of my friends has so many Christmas movies in her collection, she starts watching them the day after Halloween just to get through them all. Two a weekend from November first to Christmas day she watches movies where everything looks like a disaster, but by the time Santa Clause comes to town hearts have softened, relationships have been healed, the gift that the child wished for secretly in her little heart of hearts managed to find it’s way under the tree (the adults have no idea how) and Look! (gasp) it’s snowing!

We love a good Christmas movie. It’s a Wonderful Life or The Miracle on 34th street, maybe it is A Christmas Story (You’ll shoot your eye out!), maybe it’s Elf (Candy, Candy cane, Candy corn, and syrup!). But we love a story where it all comes together in the snow dusted end. Where everyone is the very best part of themselves because, even if just for right now, it’s Christmas! A Christmas Miracle indeed.

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I walk into Target shortly after Halloween and am blinded by the neon sign hanging from the ceiling “All is BRIGHT.” I blink a few times. It certainly is. Somehow they forgot the “all is calm” line that comes just before the bright part. Perhaps because calm doesn’t encourage blindly tossing pre-wrapped candles into your cart just in case you forgot someone. There is glitter everywhere, on the decorations, the sweaters, the signs from the ceiling, the purple scarf I pick out for my 7 year old niece (mostly because I am tired of her borrowing my sparkly accessories when I want to wear them). Glitter makes these things special, the signs promise. These pillows, that doormat, these things will make your house festive. Come buy the Christmas spirit!

I put a mat under the cart because my cart is full of small children. It is navy and matches the wreath I made last year that is hiding somewhere in the depths of my spare room closet. I look at the holiday throw pillows but want more than just one and at 25 dollars a piece and I can already hear my husband asking me “you spent 50 dollars on throw pillows we can only use in December?!” I see his (that I just made) point. I remember the Christmas of my youth, gingerbread houses and decorating the mantle. I just want Christmas to be special for my girls. It is easy for me to be convinced that I can buy that at Target.

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A couple of weeks ago I took my girls to Disney World. The Magic Kingdom just the Peanut the Rooster and our double stroller ready to hang in the most magical place on earth. I guess not very many people attempt to take their kids to Disney World by themselves. Everywhere I went I was met with the need to have just one more set of adult hands. Meanwhile I noticed the people everywhere whose job it is to put the magic in magical. There were folks quietly moving the stroller to the “official” stroller parking when us harried parents attempted to start an unsanctioned lot, and people to sweep up the goldfish crackers as the Rooster tosses them out the side of the stroller. They even have this new way to wait in line at Dumbo (I am now an expert, I rode that ride three times in a row.) where you are given a buzzer and let your kids run around in the play place until it is your turn on the ride. Even the waiting has been whisked away.

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My Nativity set is one of my most prized possessions, a wedding present from my parents that represents the rich spiritual history that was passed down to me, that I will pass forward to my children. It is beautiful. But lately, looking at it, I can’t help but think it is certainly a “Disney-fied” version of the incarnation.

I think we have claimed the birth of Jesus as the most magical story ever told, and whisked away all of the ugly parts in an effort to protect the magic. We throw on sparkle and sequence of a beautiful virgin, a silent baby, a snow kissed Bethlehem. We proclaim the scene in our imagination and shout “It’s THE Christmas Miracle!” and imagine Mary and Joseph living happily ever after. At least I am guilty of these things.

While we prefer tight packages bound up in perfectly jaunty crimson bows, the Lord does his  mightiest works in the messiest places. There are gigantic messes all over the Christmas story that never fully get cleaned up. Whatever happened to Mary’s reputation? Was Joseph seen forever as a sucker probably raising another man’s baby? I’ve been through two uncomplicated births myself, and I will save you the details, but it is not a tidy process. Mary, most likely faced that alone, in a stable. We talk about the this stable like it is some beautiful place, when really there was probably animal poop everywhere and she chose this place out of complete desperation. Then there is the whole part where Herod tries to have Jesus killed and slaughters all the baby boys in the town, and Mary and Joseph take their son and run for their lives. I haven’t heard too many Christmas Eve sermons preached on the fleeing to Egypt and I have never scene a Christmas pageant where animal poop makes an appearance. But that part is there too, it just is a little too messy to be a part of the decorations on top of my entertainment center.

As I read about Advent, I discovered that the early church saw this time as less of a reflection that Jesus came as a baby, and more as a time to anticipate that Jesus is coming again. They used advent as a time to celebrate the waiting. We don’t do a great job of celebrating the waiting. I think we have taken the Dumbo ride route and whisked it away. Sure you are waiting but look, fun, fun, fun! But if the Christmas story tells us anything, it is that God’s miracles work in the midst of the very things we are trying to get rid of. This advent season I want to reflect on God’s work in the unlikeliest of places, and lean into the good gifts of advent Hope, Joy, Peace and Love, as I wait for my Savior to come back again.

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In an effort to really lean into this season I will be posting on the following schedule:

Week of December 2-Monday Can’t Buy Me Hope, Wednesday Modern Day Prophet, Friday Hope in the Waiting

Week of December 9- Monday Can’t Buy Me Peace, Wednesday Modern Day Bethlehem, Friday Peace in the Waiting

Week of December 16- Monday Can’t Buy Me Joy, Wednesday Modern Day Shepherds, Modern Day Kings, Friday Joy in the Waiting

Week of December 23- Monday Can’t Buy Me Love, Wednesday Modern Day Angel, Friday Love in the Waiting

It is that time of year again. The holiday music, the twinkling lights, and the massive amounts of guilt that I am not doing it right. The house is not pretty enough, the activities are not festive enough, the gifts are not good enough. I’m not enough to turn the holiday into The Holidays, even though I am the mom and that is my job. The “not enoughs” is the holiday song that runs through my head, and frankly it is less welcome than a loop of “all I want for Christmas is you” as sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks. So I am writing a new holiday manifesto and it goes a little something like this.

In this house, we will celebrate. Our savior came, a perfect gift to an imperfect world, and we will trust that in our imperfection the Lord can work miracles of love, and joy, and peace and hope and laughter. Maybe even a Christmas miracle or two.

In the midst of my crazy house and this crazy season, my soul will commune with Mary the Mother of God, who gave birth in a stable and allowed so many to come worship. She perhaps, was hoping for a moment of peace after pushing out her baby boy in a barn with neither a midwife or her mom to help her, but she chose to embrace the strangers, the foreigners, the animals wandering in and out. I will join her in taking my crazy circumstances and pondering all these things in my heart, because the Lord gives good, good gifts, all year long.

I will not trade in my blessings for perfectionism that can only be found on Pinterest and in Lands End catalogs. I will reject the lie that the people around me are disappointed in me and proudly give the gift of home-made baked goods. Because they are made in love, and they are delicious (if just a little wonky).

When the Toddler takes the carefully crafted hand-made wreath and uses it as a hula-hoop, we will laugh. When the dinosaur gets added to the nativity scene, we will laugh. When the baby takes a header down the stairs and ends up looking like Rudolph, we will slap the reindeer antlers on and take the holiday picture anyway. We will laugh, and we will invite all our relatives to laugh with us. The third candle in the advent wreath is joy after all.

We will recognize that now is not the season for perfectly placed white twinkle lights and candle-lit advent readings. The lights take too long to put up and would likely never come down, and even if the girls don’t burn themselves on open flames, both have been known to take large bites out of things made of wax. We will decide that this is okay, plug in the snowman inflatable and give that man a hug on the way out the door even if we are already running late for church, because sometimes the two-year-old should get to make the rules. Merry Christmas.

We will delight in the repetition of the exclamation over the lights, and the snowman, and the penguin, and the baby Jesus. We will not be annoyed, because it is all really neat, that is why we do it.

What we lack in elegance we will make up for in exuberance and we will stop apologizing for that, because Christ came, and is coming again and this is to be celebrated!

I’ve been thinking some more about My Body Being a Temple. I’ve been wondering about the implications of the temple verses I know so well. Not the ones with cubits and gold bricks. I, like most evangelicals, post evangelicals, emergents, Jesus lovers, hang out in the new testament, and only occasionally visit the old.

Among the things I   never remember reading but somehow learned about Jesus and the temple is this: on Good Friday, when Jesus died the current that separated the place where God dwelled with the rest of the space was ripped top to bottom. I also picked up the bit about how only Jewish dudes were allowed in the temple, and only the Levites allowed behind the current. When someone did go behind the current the other folk tied a rope around his ankle so in case you dropped dead from the Glory of the Lord. That way, they could retrieve your body without having to face God themselves.

I’ve been thinking about my body as a temple, the space where the Holy Spirit dwells. I’ve been thinking about how the life and death of Jesus granted everyone access to the deepest parts of the temple. I’ve been thinking about the curtains I put up in my heart, the places where I say “that is far enough” “you can only enter the outer courts” “oh, you, yes proceed, come close.”

I can feel the curtains lately. I can feel myself pulling that curtain around my heart. “You don’t belong here.” I stoop around my heart, clutching the curtain, in an attempt to protect it a little. Instead it all makes me feel a little numb, this posture is difficult and uncomfortable, it stops the blood flow both ways.

I can see myself as I walk through my day, assigning how close exactly everyone can get to this temple of the Lord most high. You, come here, close as you want, experience this love that the Lord gives through me. You, you may only come so far, maybe tie a rope around your ankle, we aren’t sure you belong here…but we can try. You, you may not even come into the temple square.  I don’t have time to show you God’s love.

Sometimes my boundaries and courts are drawn nobly, but most of the time it has everything to do with me. I don’t want someone who is not like me. Or more likely, I do not want someone who mirrors something ugly in me to come that close. I do not want someone who has hurt me allowed back into the deepest places.

But that isn’t the way this is supposed to work. The Lord tore the curtain with His great sacrifice, and I am not supposed to go around re-constructing them.

Your body is a temple.

I grew up in the church, I’ve been told that before. Sometimes in reference to how tight a girl should wear her clothes, where hands do and do not belong before marriage, in defense of refusing my 16 year old request for a belly ring.

Your Body is a temple.

I have heard it as a reason to by that expensive coat, skip the Sunday service and instead hit the gym. I have heard it used to shame the overweight, the inked, the sickly.

Your body is a temple.

This seems to be a part of the Bible that even my atheist friends believe, as they by the organic groceries and scold me for handing my daughters french fries. “You know Abby, your body is a temple.” Yes, I think, one of the Holy Spirit…but you don’t believe in Him, so why should you care?

But this Sunday, when Jesus cleansing the temple was preached, and the stuff in Isaiah and  the stuff in first Corinthians were suddenly holding hands. Suddenly the shame in that verse melted away.

Because my body is a temple, the dwelling of the most high God.

As a woman, a gentile woman at that, I would not have been good enough for the outer courts even. But now, my body, the same one that would have called for me to be called un-pure and unequal, it is a temple, a dwelling place of the Holy Spirit.

I would have never been allowed to set foot into the furthest of inner-courts of that temple. My body, as female, would have denied me access to the place where glory dwelled. But Christ changed all of that, and now I am the place where Glory dwells.

My body is a temple, and it isn’t a cause of shame or a reason to be guilty. It is a miracle. Proof that the Lord can redeem all things.

Alleluia

She stopped by on her way out-of-town to kiss the girls and pick up some odds and ends she had left here. She came bearing gifts, books I should read and one I lent her, and a handbag she had no use for. She travels light these days, easier to go where she’s called. Someone had given this bag to her and she thought maybe I could use it somehow. We hugged and looked at each other until we were both sure our tears would not well over. I wished her well, and meant it.

Last week I could not find the canvas flowered bag I bought for $16.99 when I was attempting to cloth diaper two butts. So, the handbag came out of its silky pillow case protector bag and my stuff got tossed in so I could make it out of the house on time.

I liked this bag more than I thought I would. It is the perfect size and the zippers on the sides change the size when I miss judge the amount of space I have and am desperate need of just a few more inches of space. (I have some serious spacial awareness issues.) It is a solid color and doesn’t have a logo splashed all over it. It fits my netbook perfectly. It makes me feel like a lady and not like a mommy.

The mistake I made was googling it. I had never heard of this particular brand (it wasn’t Coach or Gucci) and I was curious. Apparently, the bag that was sitting on the floor of my classroom could cover half my mortgage if sold on eBay. And I wondered if it was ethical to keep it, this gift that is now twice owned but still looked brand new. How much good could I do if I sold it? With bloggers I read building schools in Haiti and friends running marathons for She’s the First, to raise money for 26 girls to go be educated in India, was it okay to keep an expensive gift?

I took the kids to the mall on Saturday. I wanted to wander around Kohl’s in the hopes that inspiration would strike and I would find gifts for those impossible to buy gifts for. The Peanut was not having it. She had her own agenda from how we should stop at every single Christmas tree so that she could touch all the ornaments to which direction the stroller should be pushed. When she refused to go upstairs to look at kitchen appliances I gave up and headed for the inner-belly of the mall. After looking at Santa (but do NOT broach the subject of talking to Santa) both before and after he “went to go feed the reindeer” and came back a different race, the train came by. The Peanut was mesmerized and the Rooster was shouting out “Yeah!” “Wee!” “Yeah!” Follow that train! We went speeding after it, me and the double stroller and found the place where it parks. The man selling tickets even let me take the Rooster on for free.

We (read: the Peanut) selected the green train car and we hopped in. As I squished against the bench I asked the Peanut if this made her happy. “Yeah!” she cried, “We ride the train!” She did not deserve this ride, this thing that made her happy. This was not a reward for being patient while mommy shopped.  I suppose I could have spent those five dollars on one of the projects listed above. But, when I bent down to look in those shining brown eyes I saw the wonder of the moment. “I am so glad this makes you happy,” I told her, “I love you and I like to give you things that bring you joy.”

This is not to say that I value happiness over all else. This Sunday singing “Lord prepare her, to be a sanctuary,” over Rilla’s head made me aware of the depth of this prayer. There will be pain and grief, but the Lord desire to give us good things, things that give us joy. The trick is learning to hold them with an open hand.

I stumbled across the website of a literary agent I deeply respect. She is taking submissions for the kind of book I want to write. I just need a proposal and a query letter. I could do that I think. I have about the first five chapters written. But I’m scared, this the lie I am believing: I don’t deserve this. And maybe I do, and maybe I don’t, and maybe that isn’t the point. Maybe doing it is the point, walking it out with the Lord.

I have exactly zero idea whether this will amount to anything or not. I am well aware an expensive handbag isn’t really something that anyone “deserves.” But I am learning to let my head rest in the hands of the giver, let Him look into my eyes and smile softly into my life, hear the whisper that is meant for me, “I am so glad you like this,  I am glad it gives you joy.”

This perspective was partially shaped by Margaret Fienberg’s new book Wonderstruck being released Christmas day. I read the first few chapters and it is going to be good! Pre-order here.

I’ve been a little tough on the church lately. I suppose, for me, the church is a lot like my family, and thus I treat them like so. It is a difficult thing to love something, some people, so much you see the things that God wants for them. Sometimes you end up seeing the could be as the should be and then judge the space in between as failure. Failure of the person, failure of the belief, sometimes even failure of your God. It is a difficult thing sometimes to pray and live “as earth as it is in heaven.” The should be, the could be, the one day will be, it is sometimes difficult to tell what is what and what is your responsibility to be worried about.

Late this summer the Hughes family started going to our church that can only be described as “good people.” The first women’s Bible study Sarah (the mom of the Hughes clan) attended she asked how my week had been and I burst into tears. She immediately offered to bring me a meal that week and then started laughing. “Hi, I’m your Baptist friend Sarah, and I can make you a chicken.” Is there a faster way to my heart than self deprecation?

When they invited our church to come serve the homeless for Thanksgiving, I decided it sounded like a worthy way to spend Thanksgiving morning. Last year Christian had to write all morning, so I thought it sounded like a good way to burn the morning while leaving him a quiet house to write.

Christian was able to join us this year and we all took off to drive through the Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast before heading downtown. Did you know that crazy people run half marathons on Thanksgiving day? We do because it took about twenty minutes to find a way around them and to our destination.

The day was beautiful and the volunteers abundant. More than one to one volunteer to homeless person means that every person had someone to talk to them, look them in the face, say and mean “I am glad you are here. I hope you have a good holiday.” Christian manned the mashed potatoes while I wrangled the girls. I may have gotten yelled at by a homeless man to get my baby out of the dirt and wash her hands! I may have scooped her up only until he had his backed turned.

The day was wrapping up and we were all putting away the folding chairs when I heard someone calling for women’s shoes. Some of the people from the Hughes’ other church had brought some things to give away, and Gina had come and eaten and had no shoes. She needed a nine or nine and a half. I wear a nine.

Moments later I was one of the women surrounding Gina in some sort of inverse Cinderella scene. One by one these women took of their shoes to see which one would fit this woman’s foot best. Suburban southern women, with their lipstick, just so hair and “bless her hearts” were peeling off their shoes in the middle of a parking lot downtown hoping that they could give away the shoes off their feet. I heard one women demanding to know the shoe size of her teenage girl’s Ugg boots. Gina walked away in a new pair of tennis shoes, and a pair of sparkly ballet flats that had an impressive name written across the sole.

Tonight, I am thankful for the brokeness, for my brokeness, for the way God uses broken people to mend brokeness in the world. I am thankful for the church, for what God calls it to be, and that this Thanksgiving morning I saw the church in all her glory, taking off their shoes on holy ground.