One of the problems with writing again is the inevitable loss of sleep. It is 4am. I should not be awake at 4am. The little people in my house are sleeping peacefully—gaining energy that will far surpass mine if I do not swiftly pen the thoughts that awakened me!

First things first…yesterday’s journal ended with a cliffhanger…did she or did she not defeat the toilet?!? I am pleased to report that after many more repetitions with the plunger and a few prayers that may or may not have ended with, “Come on, God! You say you care about the littlest things in my life—surely that includes this stupid toilet!?!” I did achieve victory over the clogged toilet before the clock struck midnight. No lost glass slipper for this princess!

All of that plunging left me thinking about Mary. Seems like a stretch. I know. Bear with me. This past year I have done a lot of things I never knew I could do—moved a small houseful of belongings, whitewashed a fireplace, wielded electric hedgetrimmers and other outdoor power tools for the first time, installed a new toilet handle and a doorknob, bought and learned to use a drill, started a generator (with help), built a dome climber and a picnic table, added antifreeze to my car, binge-watched seven seasons of Gilmore Girls… I know. A lot of these are everyday occurrences for most people. But for me they were unexpected and more than a little scary and once accomplished, incredibly empowering.

Moving forced me to downsize my life in many ways. When I came upon the Willow Tree Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus Nativity set I love so much that I always kept them out year-round, I was dismayed to find Joseph’s hands broken off. Just snapped right there at the wrists, poor guy! I looked around for the missing members, but they were nowhere to be found, so I reluctantly chucked poor Joseph into the trash bag. (The minimalist book I had read for inspiration said to be merciless.)

I picked up Mary next, unsure what to do with her. She was completely intact and quite beautiful, but she seemed incomplete without Joseph somehow. The symbolism did not escape me, so I moved her to the Keep box. After all, she was holding baby Jesus, and that alone made her worth keeping even if she was suddenly single. When I unpacked Mary a few weeks later, the obvious place for her was my newly, self-painted mantle—mostly because she was wearing blue and matched the room nicely.

I think about Mary a lot actually. She inspires me. Mary, the young teenage girl betrothed to Joseph, whose life plan did not include an angelic visitation, a supernatural incarnation in her womb, a scandalous out-of-wedlock pregnancy, a bumpy donkey ride in her ninth month, childbirth in a stable, or a crucified son.

Mary didn’t shirk in the face of the unexpected. Quite the contrary. Oh sure, she had her questions—“How will this be?” (Luke 1:34). But when the angel replied, “For nothing will be impossible with God” (verse 37), her response was, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (verse 38).

Whether my unexpected circumstances are divinely orchestrated or self-inflicted messes, I want to look at Mary on my mantle and remember her response…questioning is acceptable as long as I look for the answer from the One who truly knows—and then trust the truth of His response.

“And Mary said, ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever.” (Luke 1:46-55, ESV)

Day 2 of Advent, and I spent a large portion of it trying to unclog a toilet. I’m still trying. In fact, I am writing this because my arms need a break from plunging and because I am determined to defeat the toilet before the night ends, which may mean missing my midnight deadline on the second day of my journal-writing commitment, which is just not happening.

Last night as I read to Titus and Lydia from Ann Voskamp’s family devotional Unwrapping the Gift, I had the should-have-been-obvious revelation that this would be their first year to experience Advent. Lydia had been too young to understand the last few years of devotionals shared with “the originals” (as I fondly call the oldest four children), and we didn’t do any Advent devotionals that I can recall since the twins were born.

This realization came to me as I watched Titus play with the childproof nativity scene I had just unboxed. I saw him stacking the angels into a Babel-like tower and realized that he was fresh meat when it comes to Christmas—both an exciting and terrifying prospect.

Already, the dynamic duo had posed the Santa question unexpectedly a few days ago. I am not anti-Santa, though the originals still talk about the year we “killed Santa,” which actually just involved downsizing him to stocking-filler status so that the kids would actually know who took the time to select, buy, and wrap the gifts they received on Christmas Day.

I hadn’t really given much thought to what I wanted to teach Tess, Titus, and Lydia about Santa until they began their musings about our chimney and whether the reindeer could fit down it (another part of Christmas that needs a little clarification for them). Just as I told the originals that someone “secretly filled their stockings in honor of the generosity of Saint Nicholas,” I do want T² and Lydia to experience the fun of anticipating Santa on Christmas Eve—complete with the cookies and milk, stockings, sleigh tracking, sleeplessness and of course, peeking!

But more than that, I really want to teach them that Santa is not just a rotund, jolly fellow who lives in the North Pole and accomplishes impossible feats once a year but that he is present every day—all year. Santa is Mr. Bob who gives of his time, resources, and talent to be our “fixer.” Santa is Ms. Mary who teaches them to swim and plans fun adventures. Santa is our Starbucks barista-friends who serve their tall, iced, Decaf waters and add a little joy and sunshine to our day. Santa is every Bible study leader, children’s ministry volunteer, Special Olympics coach, and Trail Life leader who donates his or her time week after week after week. Santa is all of our care attendants and babysitters who serve the “least of these” with so much faithfulness and love. And Santa is Pastor Steve and Ms. Beth and Ms. Laura and Ms. Kelly and Ms. J.J. and Becky and Paul and Ruthie and Frank and Granma and Papa and Leia and Uncle Robert and many, many others who devoted countless hours of their time helping their mom put back the pieces of what she thought was a shattered life but is turning out to be a beautiful masterpiece–the kind of simple but glorious art God makes out of our mess-ups. Santa is all those people and more—the hands and feet of Christ loving His broken people through other broken people.

That’s what I really want them to know.

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever, you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'” (Matthew 25:40, ESV)

Every morning when I wake up, I reach for my cell phone.  I look for text messages first to see if my grown children (whose lives continue far later into the night than mine) had anything to share.  Then I check my email in case any of my students in different time zones had questions about their work.  I scroll through Instagram for no reason whatsoever and land on the weather so I know what to wear that day.  This ritual happens daily regardless of early-rising children or other unexpected interruptions.

Four years ago, I kept an Advent Journal in an attempt to discipline myself to focus on the season daily instead of scrambling to do the “work” of Christmas and then breathlessly stopping on Christmas Eve to think about the meaning—too little, too late.  That Advent season was by far the best of my life, and I have been wanting to do it again.  So this year, instead of reaching for my cell phone habitually each morning, I am committing to reach for Him.

My class is reading a book called The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.  It argues that to change an old habit into a new habit, the cue and reward that precede and follow the habit need to remain, but the routine or action of the habit needs to change.  So for Advent, I am literally placing a small devotional on top of my cell phone each night.  When I wake in the morning and instinctively reach for my phone, my hand will find the devotional instead, and I will commit to reading it before reading anything on my phone.  A small gesture, yes.  But I know what God does with small things—like mustard seeds and coins and fish and nails and babies in mangers.  And I’m pretty sure whatever He does with the gesture will be of far more value than anything my iPhone has to offer.

At some point in the day—and it may very well be near midnight—I am going to write in this journal, partially for the accountability, but mostly because I love to write, and I know God is calling me to write again.  A lot has changed in my life since that Advent four years ago, and it is tempting to think that I can no longer do something like this.  But God is all about stretching us, and I am pretty confident that if I do the reaching, He will do the rest.

“Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.” (Jeremiah 33:3)