Monday, 25 November 2013

..these are the whispered screechings of a heart seeking more than shesees. {Christmas}

My heart groans for something more. 

There's the sparkle and the stars and the pristine, over-told story of 3 gifts; 3 wise-os; sheep-watchers and a non-screaming baby. 

And they preach yet another angle of how much we have - how blessed we are. Of Emmanuel. Of swamping us with catalogues, and feeling sick from too much food. Of indulgence. 

It leaves me wondering about the mother who walks from 2400hrs until 1000hours to find the drink to quench the thirst of her child. There's the war stricken. And the smothered, choked cries of the Beautiful Ones who stand only to be sold. 

My heart sees the commercialism and aches for something more, for something different, for something UPSIDE DOWN...for the ACHINGLY HOLY. 

The greatest story I have to tell my children is of my bestest, closest friend being an angel whilst I was a snorting pig. 

What if we scratched into the very walls? What if we leant {pushed, shoved! elbowed our way} against the grain and actively sought out the achingly holy?

What if we stopped "celebrating" as the rest of the world does and did a 'new thing'?

A thing that breathed life and hope and warmth - as well as redemption, mercy, grace, thanksgiving:
 E U C H A R I S T E O.

What is we refused to contain the light that came down within our stained-glass windows and expensive new-builds, but willed it to break out?

Perhaps we should stop selling the 'true meaning' and start BEing the gift. 

There's the sparkle, the glitz, the glamour. There's the wondering at how so many children can hardly imagine a present. 

And here lies the nitty gritty:

The thanking for the breaking of bread ...and the making that possible for all seven billion. 

Not just us special ones. 

There's no naughty and nice list

...and yet we seem to forget that. 

All is well and rosy in wonderland when every one of us that we can see holds a gift in their arms {that, let us be honest, often they don't want, let alone need}. We all sit on the nice list. We have all we want placed on our laps {and still moan}. 

Do we ever notice that by these standards the naughty list is so much fatter?

And these 'naughty's cry for the simplicity of the bread to break. Or a day at school. Or freedom for their owner. 
Or parents whose love translates differently to what it does now. 

I struggle and I grapple and I don't know what to do. 

There's more to it all - more than I can explain. 

It's personal. And the wound still hurts. 

But this is more than thanking my Saviour. 

This is more than finding quiet in the traditions and the Holy space and the songs of old. 

This is thank you being incarnational. 

This is eucharisteo and love and hope being an action. 

...these are the whispered screechings of a heart seeking more than she sees.