Over the last few months I have
been challenged by this one word.
Enough: as much or as many as
required; adequate.
I have realized with a bit of
sheepish shock, that I rarely declare this into my own world and heart.
I rarely practice saying to
myself, “Today, you were enough. You did enough. Well done!”
Instead, I hear so easily the word
pairing of ‘not enough.’
During the last months of
practicing a new way, kneading new words into my subconscious, I have found
many fields of exercise availing themselves to my training.
Take Christmas pictures for
example.
Family photos. Dear me.
I love having them, but my goodness gracious, the ordeal of
it all is remarkable.
And astounding.
And overwhelming.
And sometimes ridiculous.
But maybe that is just in our house.
Way back in the days of yore…back when I obsessed over
Christmas cards and address lists and a long letter detailing our year…
Wait.
What is that?
You never got yearly letters from us with cute pictures?
You only ever received them haphazardly and with no consistency?
Yep.
I said, “back when I obsessed” not “back when I actually succeeded in getting things finished.”
So. Back when, we took a picture every single holiday
season. Every single one.
And for our first decade on the field, I wrote a newsy update
for every single holiday season. Every single one.
We mailed about half.
The other half most likely still sit in a box in my
schoolroom. Half addressed envelopes. Poorly copied letters.
And stacks of photos that never went out.
Stacks of pages and guilty regret paying homage to my lack
and my deficiency and also my lack.
(Yes, I realize I am repeating myself.)
In fact, since I’m opening this pandora’s box of guilty
splendor, let me just go ahead and admit that every single day of my tenure on
the field there has existed somewhere in my kitchen or on my bookshelf or
tucked away on a corner of my schoolroom desk, a stack.
A brooding, diabolical, relentless weight of expectancy that
I never, never found the end of.
A mocking heap of defeat.
Treasured letters that await beautiful responses.
And never found them.
Sigh.
I absolutely love letters. (and Christmas cards!)
They are a lost art, truly.
Very dear souls have written (with pen and ink!) letters to
us through the years and those messages mean SO much to me. I always weave and
spin and create the most loving and eloquent responses---in my head.
And in my heart.
With every intention of putting those profuse thanks onto a
page.
But, by and large, other necessities protrude into my
intentions robbing all of us of the blessing of actual follow through.
But for some reason, I could never get rid of the stack.
I could never admit that I wasn’t going to be able to
complete that task.
I could never ‘delete’ and move on, accepting that for that
time and season I had already done and been enough.
(I couldn’t take the ‘B’)
So the stack would remain.
And shift from counter space, to desktop, to storage
bin accompanied by pangs and remorse and ever valiant resilience that would lie
to my silly self and say, “Someday you will get around to that!”
This week, it looked like this:
Christmas card stock (a stack of it!) that I bought on
clearance in the USofA on furlough over a decade ago. And envelopes with
poinsetta leaves decorating the border awaiting the beautifully printed card
that I have designed in my head.
That I designed in my head 15 years ago.
That I have NEVER printed.
But the Christmas card stock remains.
Stacked.
Waiting.
And ominously reminding me that I haven’t.
With the nagging of ‘I won’t ever’.
And the guilty beckoning of, ‘keep it just a few years
more.’
In a simple, momentary glance at my paper supply cabinet in
my schoolroom, the loud, resonating message of ‘look at all you are failing to
get done’ echoes around me following me into my work and my service of the
present day.
Enough.
I need a new song in my heart.
As I’ve poured through our old Christmas photos this year
I’ve noted again how the imperfect ones are the ones that bring such delight
now.
The ones we laugh about and re-enact are the broken ones.
The lumpy ones.
The real ones.
Those are the ones that flood our souls with profound and
hilarious.
Those are the ones that were in every way, enough.
Today, in celebration of all the glory of broken and
imperfect, I offer you a glimpse into the annual agony of the Cashling
Christmas picture (with a few remakes we attempted just this week.)
I’m learning a new tune, slowly but surely, and it says that
what I am and have already is sufficient. Ample.
Good.
(you are SO welcome to 'sing' along...)
Joy to the World!
Say cheese!
Tone it down a tad, Si!
So close until I suggested they hug each other…
Brothers…
And this week…
We did a retake that year and added Baxter to bring some
cheer…
It didn’t exactly work out.
Pet the dog?
Done.
During this next attempt I was holding four bags of
M&M’s, offered as a bribe for a quick and easy ‘smile and we’re done’
success.
They were all in…
A second try…
Look at the camera!
And this week…
Finally we would get that perfect shot of sweetness…
To be printed.
And stacked.
And stored needlessly.
(and blogged about a decade later!)
Enough.
Merry Christmas!
Celebrate this year remembering the arrival of a grace so
monstrous it could conquer even the most gargantuan of holiday (any day) guilt.
Swaddled atop hay. Surrounded by smelly animals. Attended by
raucous shepherds.
Enough.
More than.
Him. And You.
Together.
Amidst all our stacked up deficiency.
God WITH us.
Immanuel.
“Glory to God
in the highest,
and on earth
PEACE to all on whom His favor rests!”
Luke 2:14
