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This Magic Window

This Magic Window

Last updated on: December 10, 2015 at 8:32 am by Erin Wathen

This Magic Window 2015-12-10T08:32:48-07:00 Erin Wathen

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Most years, I’m a Christmas minimalist. My kids get 3 or 4 gifts each—some of which are books, some “boring” things they needed anyway. I refrain from planning lots of festive family outings, opting instead to nest in and avoid the rushing, shopping madness out there in the suburbs. We do our church things, we put up a tree, we bake stuff for the neighbors. It is simple and good.

So why is it that, this year, I cannot stop shopping for toys? And have thrown myself into the ‘daily surprise’ frenzy of Advent, instead of a peaceful family candle lighting ritual? And I can’t help but notice that my calendar is filled with things like “Plaza Lights!” “Ice Skating!” “Go see Santa!”

Also—also, just lately—I have been overcome with an inexplicable desire to plan a trip Disneyland. Disneyland. In the name of all that is merciful, I cannot even handle the Saturday mall crowd. What makes me think that a theme park is a good idea??

But I know. I know what it is that makes me over-do all the things I usually vow to keep simple. I know why I’m trying to grab every moment of joy and light and elfishness that might float by on a winter breeze…

My kids are in the magic zone. And I know how short it will be.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved them when they were babies. But also, I was terrified of them. Utterly perplexed by the weight of having produced another human form, and then finding myself responsible for their immediate and long-term survival. They were so small and fragile, I feared I might break something just by pulling a tiny t-shirt over their heads. (Thank goodness my husband was a baby person, or we wouldn’t have left the house for 3 years).

And I loved them when they were toddlers. Bouncing, jabbering, wrecking balls of joy. They were so much fun, and so adorable. But also, I was exhausted.

Now, those tiny people are 5 and 7. They talk to us like big people; they dress themselves; they help around the house and do not require constant supervision. And yet, they still believe in Santa Clause. In other words… We have arrived. This, right here, is the perfect age. I have hit my parenting stride. I would like to hit the pause button and just soak up what smart, creative, compassionate and yet still-wonder-filled little people are becoming in my house.

Of course, you can’t hit pause. So instead, I am buying maybe a few more toys than I should—knowing that a few short years from now, our Christmas mornings will be about gift cards and it-jeans, and probably some weird technology thing that hasn’t been invented yet, and which I will never learn to work properly once it is.

Like the rest of the thinking, compassionate world, I’m increasingly horrified by the toxic rhetoric that swirls around us. It has become commonplace for politicians to nudge us towards apartheid, and so-called faith leaders to call for genocide—and it’s all in a day’s news cycle. As a pastor and a writer, I spend my days immersed in that dialogue. Like many of my colleagues, I’m looking for the right words to counter the madness; the right balance of urgency and a peaceful spirit; the right times to ‘do’ and ‘be,’ as a faith community seeking to transform the world. And every day, there is a fresh outrage. A higher body count. Another voice of privilege, insisting that his privilege is good for everyone. Even the ones that have to die for it.

I’m committed to the work of changing that narrative, offering a better story. But I also know that 5 and 7 will be 15 and 17 before I know it. And then 35 and 37. And so I am also committed to this moment. Even as it flies by—fragile and dancing—like the flakes in a breakable globe.

I don’t actually want a freeze frame Christmas. I don’t want to keep them small and reliant on me, fearful and stuck close to home. I want them to grow and be brave, adding their voices to the chorus of compassion. I want them out there, making a way in the wilderness for the stranger. But this year…for now, there will be toys. Their belief in the man who brings them may be fleeting. But the joy, the surprise, and the sacred time to play and just be—that is a part of their becoming. And, I have to believe, will be part of their gift to the world.

This week we light the third candle, the light of Joy. It feels indulgent to seek joy when the world so desperately longs for peace; for some small measure of hope; for any tangible glimpse of love. What is joy but a splurge? A fourth wise man or a fifth line of harmony?

But joy is what keeps us singing in the wilderness. Joy is what calls forth the better story, from the depths of our so-human despair. Like any wondrous thing, it is fleeting and fragile. If we hold it too tightly, the weight of our grasp will shatter it. So we find ways to cling loosely to its momentary invitation. To play, dance, float and fly through the spaces between.

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