Mary with a Belt

Amelia was the perfect age to enjoy, and personify, the magic of Christmas this year.  This is the first year that she truly bought in and even anticipated the celebration right along with us.  She never tired of looking at decorations and asked questions constantly about when Christmas was coming and about every aspect of the holiday.  Amelia had specific gifts she asked for this year and insisted on being a part of buying gifts for others whenever we gave her the chance.  She is enthusiastic about most things and this was no exception.  Amelia’s animated (some may even say dramatic) approach to everything Christmas related was contagious.

At church, Amelia was an extremely enthusiastic sheep in the church Christmas pageant, complete with pointing and waving in addition to singing “Away in a Manger.”  It took us a while to convince her that she should sing the song with her friends; she maintained that sheep don’t sing. 

She also had another part to play.  After we attended the Christmas Eve service in Boone, we had our annual advent wreath lighting time as a family at my parents’ house.  Eventually Eleanor will be a part of it all, but for now, Amelia owns the spotlight.  This year, to help tell the Christmas story, she was apparently insistent about being Mary.  Not just regular Mary though, it had to be “Mary with a belt.”  So, Amelia donned a makeshift Mary costume complete with a belt.  She and her Nana told the Christmas story to the rest of our family. 

I don’t know what translation of the Bible you’ve read, if any, but I’ve never heard a version that described Mary as wearing a belt while she pondered all of these things in her heart.  Amelia either added that part herself or saw a picture somewhere that made her believe that Mary wore a belt.  Either way, that detail doesn’t matter.  Mary can have a halo or wear overalls or a belt or be bald and the story doesn’t change.  While we all laughed over Amelia’s insistent qualifier that Mary must wear a belt, we knew, that she got the point.  Baby Jesus was here; God personified. Sometimes we get so caught up in the details that we miss what’s truly important.  We argue over issues that shouldn’t be tearing the church apart and spend our time condemning others for disagreeing with us. 

Jesus’ birth is the best example of God’s love that we have.  While three-year-old Amelia would argue that not much is more important than birthdays, with cake and celebrations, Jesus’ birth may not be as significant as his life, death and resurrection, but it is the beginning of it all.  

The beginning that started with love, a plan, a teenage girl and her family of refugees, a star, a small town and who knows, maybe even a belt.

As It Could Be

The other day, we went on a walk.  Not an unusual or unexpected activity for us.  We chose the greenway for our adventure and took advantage of the warm weather before winter’s (hopefully) last foray of the year enveloped our whiplashing town.  The wind was a little colder than we had anticipated, but it didn’t deter us and we set off on the trail.  There were intramural games going on in a field; a birthday party was wrapping up at the picnic area and there were many others who shared our idea. 

Scout loves the greenway; sometimes it seems that she saves up certain things in order to do them in abundance in public, on the greenway.  She loves seeing other people, other dogs and scouting things out ahead. 

Amelia also loves our walks.  She loves to see things, to kick her feet around in the stroller as we walk and to babble to herself.  Of course, the babbling and constant movement are not exclusive to time spent in the stroller.

As our walk concluded, Adam and I discussed our next move.  Should we take Amelia to the playground to try out the swings for the first time?  Should we go straight home?  Should we let her play some outside of her stroller before we leave?  Sadly, the playground was eliminated since we had included Scout on our family outing.  We opted to let Amelia play in the grass with Scout before heading home.  Then, we realized. 

Amelia had never played in the grass before.  Ever. 

With what may be construed by some as disproportionate excitement, we inspected patches of grass until one particular area was deemed grassy enough, mostly clear of dirt and completely clear of the big business of dogs.  We sat Amelia down, took a step back and watched.  At first, she did nothing; she simply looked at us.  We sat down opposite her, with Scout in between us, intent on her reaction.  She put her hands out to crawl toward us, and then, she realized that she wasn’t on carpet, or tile or even hardwood floor.  This was different.  She flexed the fingers of both hands, and stretched one out to touch this new, green stuff that she had been forced to confront. 

Her hands began to move faster and almost immediately, both were working in the grass, exploring, pulling, feeling.  She discovered that if she pulled hard enough, she could get a few strands to come up out of the ground.  Unsurprisingly, she made several attempts to get a piece to her mouth that were quickly thwarted.  Soon, she came to the conclusion that this stuff was ok.  It wasn’t going to swallow her up or hurt her or do anything unexpected.  With that realization came the confidence to crawl and flop and act just as she does everywhere else…in other words, to move incessantly.

While this story may seem anticlimactic or even mundane to you (I did leave out the part where Amelia spit up spectacularly onto Scout’s back, which apparently did nothing but cement their friendship), it stood out to me this week. 

Every once in a while, I find myself overlooking the wonder of babyhood.  In the midst of diapers and feedings and cries, there are smiles and amazement and frank hope.  I keep up with achievements, milestones, wants and of course, needs.  But, how often do I stop and truly understand that everything she sees and touches and experiences is a first for her?  She is literally (and I don’t use that word lightly) seeing the world with brand new eyes.  I’m thankful for the privilege to see that wonder, to foster those experiences.  I’m humbled by the responsibility of being an influence on how she sees.  I’m hopeful that I can be part of a childhood that may help her to kindly and courageously see the world both as it is and as it could be.