'Tis A Week Before Christmas

'Tis a week before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature is stirring
Except Mrs. Mouse

The stockings aren't hung
By the chimney with care
Santa Dude's in a box
But I don't know where

I don't own a kerchief
The Hubs sports a cap
What we wouldn't give
For a long winter's nap!

The bare tree is nestled
All snug in it's stand
Well, bare, but for lights
Deftly hung by the hand

Of a kind, handsome elf
Who just drove off to shop
So I've hauled up a bin..
Now a star sits on top

Soon I'll hang shiny orbs
Of green, red, and blue
And in no time at all
Be enjoying the view

Of my festive fake tree
With it's twinkling lights
And the window of snowflakes
They are quite a sight

Sometimes Christmas comes slow
To the outsides of things
But my heart holds it tightly
The Truth, and it's ring

For Jesus came quietly
In a Mid-Eastern cave
Left heaven to free me
Sin no longer enslaves

This is the garland
That hangs round my heart
All the rest are traditions
Not the whole, just a part

We deck halls with bright lights
For the Light who has come
He alone’s the adornment
I need in my home

B. DesChamps 2017

Most Of All

We grandparents tend to develop a mooshy new heart chamber when it comes to our grands. Love pours in. Love pours out. In most cases, unobstructed by any primary responsibility; a mid-life gift of unconditional love. We have been blessed with six.

The three who now live in Maine, and their mama, just spent three weeks with us. Three weeks of in-the-flesh time -- real hugs, squeals, spats, pool splashing, piano banging, Play Doh pinching, puzzles, toys, bubbles, field trips, and read-all-the-books snuggles.

All this followed by the heart-trudge to the airport, the last goodbyes, and the day after of wonderful, miserable quiet. A silence ushering in tears and much reflection, not to mention eight loads of laundry. 

Do I miss those kiddos and all their crazy energy? Yes! But as I sat with my coffee and leaky eyes on that first solitary morning, I realized this: when we're apart, it's my daughter I miss most.

Truth is, I loved her first. 

We've shared twenty-seven years. That's a lot of life glue and heart stitching.

All through this visit when the kids were napping or in - and out - of bed at night, we'd slip right into our shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch thing while planning her next remodel or my first, raiding Pinterest for favorite haircuts, laughing, bantering, or getting real about life. One night, she asked if I'd play the piano "like I used to" when she was little, so we could worship a while. Two hours of singing left us spent, but refreshed; hearts aligned.

You see, my love for the littles is tightly woven into the miracle of watching my daughter become a mother and be a mother. Watching this girl of mine love, teach, train, pull her hair out, fall to her knees, find strength again, and become more beautiful and wise in the struggle. I see a little of her in each of them.

To me, she is friend, cheerleader, prayer warrior. She speaks truth and encouragement over my life and calls me out when my thoughts and actions go south and sideways.

So even as my heart weighs heavy over my wide-eyed, busy, brilliant grands, when a continent lies between us, it's my daughter I miss most of all.

The Faces of Motherhood

I stumbled upon these half-written reflections that began on Mother's Day. My life is littered with unfinished projects, so in a rare burst of determination I decided to circle back and finish this one. Some of you may find kinship here.



Sometimes the doing takes hold so hard that quiet moments drag me off to some mindless distraction. Today, the distraction dragged me back to mindfulness. Even social media can be the all things that are worked together for good. Wonder of wonders.

As I scrolled through my Facebook newsfeed, I was struck by the many faces of motherhood. Women cradling newborns, tales of sleepless nights and toddler antics, bedside hospital vigils, celebrating plays and proms. So many snapshots and shared thoughts that reminded me of my journey as Mom. So many seasons - all of them simultaneously happy, hard, wondrous, tedious, heart-wrenching, mind-stretching, and somehow good for my soul by the mystery of the unseen Hand that held me.

Soon I was nudged back to real-time by tears painting picture upon picture across my older, life-worn face. Tears that longed for the simpler, exhausting days gone by. Streaks that celebrated the joys, mourned the griefs - some yet raw. Tears that declared I've not yet found a place of peace in the so-called empty nest season...

...mostly due to the unexpected season: watching our own moms, and others, age in ways that we celebrate, but also in ways that keep me up at night once again - anxious, wringing hands grasping for elusive wisdom. Who knew the same uncertainty that gripped those long ago firsts would resurface in caring for the generation who raised us?

What I once pictured as carefree, possibility-full days of walking alongside my kids and grandkids has been fraught with cares and dreams deferred. I wrestle to lay down my vision of this season. There's no grace in how it's looked - this struggle - but much grace surrounding me in it. I am trying to find stillness in this storm, to soak up mercy, comfort, wisdom, love.

Who am I in all this? What can I hope for and work toward? Questions that took flight even as our first child married have had no space or length of time to land as I've bounced from one major life event - or crisis - to another these past several years.

Who am I? How do I fit, how does the rest of life fit, in to the new normal of caregiver in perpetuity, for that is how it often feels: never-ending. In part, this is who I am, what I do well, what I'm called to in this season. But the responsibility overwhelms at times, and I am clumsily learning to navigate, delegate, and find healthy boundaries, instead of mentally curling up and giving up.

This is my face today. Acknowledging the joys and sorrows, the struggles, fears, confusion, clarity. So often trying to hide the weariness, anxiety, depression. Confessing the resentment and sad state of a malnourished soul, but lifting a chin to look up, and leaning an over-weighted shoulder into my Savior once more.

This has always been the face of motherhood for me.