When it's All Homemade Stockings.

Sometimes I wonder if our place was handed down from Old MacDonald himself. With the landlord’s bootleg, crooked-piped-wood stove that smokes on the inside as well as the outside, the one that melts snow on the rooftop so that it drips down inside our home, to the water pipes that freeze on every ice-cold-night, and take about two days to thaw, to the field mice who seem to coexist with our two cats fairly well now… to my kitchen stove with only two knobs and no handle, the outlets that only allow only a few things to be plugged in at a time without going dark, the coffee can vent system, and door-knobless-doors... I mean, I wonder?

This is my domain, and it’s not from lack of trying that I feel I’ve gone back in time. When I’ve done laundry in the bathtub, washed countless dishes in the sink, when I’m bringing in wood (that I’ve chopped) to heat the house, and even resorted at times to melting snow for water…I can now at least pity the pioneer woman. Although they never knew what they were missing I suppose? I know that toilet is supposed to have water and flush. And if that yellow tub is just there for pretty, than it's failing already. Friends come to my home and say, “Oh, I wish I lived in the mountains. I wish I could live here,” and I smile to myself, wondering how long anyone else could take this house with all its peculiarities.

And as I’m a die-hard romantic, I still try to make something beautiful of all these loose ends. I tried again today. I redirected school this morning to sewing a new set of matching white stockings to “hang by the fire with care.” Little Rowan is two and still didn’t have one to hang. Last year I gave him the furry dog bone stocking of Shadow’s. But neither boy nor dog minded. Between sewing wrong sides together numerous times, Rowan pressing the pedal all the way down at all the wrong times, four sets of little hands in the project, and a toy truck running over my sewing machine, well, they came out looking pretty much like everything else. My perfectionism got in the way. And then upon seeing the results of the first two attempts, the only thing left worth holding onto was the experience of making these little stitches with love, with the little ones I love. A little uneven and homemade—but here they are, all lined up, all six of them, and as I see it: I can’t help but feel blessed to be given this much. I have loved ones for each newly hung stocking to belong to. 

 And as I survey this humble, rickety little home, I must feel the same. It’s imperfect, not even code, yet it’s a domain where I can raise my babies, teach and love them. I look too at my heart. It’s as imperfect as everything else. Yet God keeps working, loving.

So, it’s all really a choice of what I will hold onto, what is worth holding onto? Straight stitches? A perfect house? 

 This time of year, I think of Mary. And I want to be like her-- and hold on to the best thing of all: Jesus. And I want to hold on to what He has given me. And it’s not found in a Better Homes and Garden magazine, or even on Old MacDonald’s farm. It has nothing to do with these fingerprinted walls, but much to do with who is in them. Nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Him, who lives in my heart. That’s what’s worth holding on to. A silver, crinkly-foil-covered-star, dangling by yarn from my ceiling reminds me-- He is the one who has come, born in a manger, to take a hold of you and me.

For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.

Isaiah 41:13

 ¹⁶ So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. ¹⁷ When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, ¹⁸ and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. ¹⁹ But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

(Luke 2)