Packing the Boxes of My Heart
Posted by Arwen Mosher in Faith on Monday, December 14, 2009 10:00 AM
My childhood home is in the footprint of an upcoming public works project. In September, the state bought it from my parents, and they were given 90 days to vacate it.
As my parents looked for a new house, my mom began a daily prayer, “Lord, please send us the right house at the right time.”
We assume God answered her prayer, but he did it in an interesting way. My parents closed on their new house right under the deadline, and they’ll be moving the last weekend before Christmas. They’ll be celebrating the Feast of the Nativity in a place where they’ve been living for four days.
My mother loves predictability, and this is nerve-wrackingly difficult for her. I can understand the feeling: for me, Christmas is the most preparation-intensive day of the year. I prefer life in December to be in order, not wildly out of order.
And although my parents will be experiencing the most upheaval, my own life is being shaken up by this move as well. We normally spend December weekends taking care of all the extra Christmas-prep details. This year we’re spending all of them in my parents’ town - 90 miles away - helping my parents renovate and move into the new house.
This weekend is the third Sunday of Advent. We traditionally get our Christmas tree this weekend. Instead, my husband spent his time installing flooring at my parents’ new house while I corralled the children and packed boxes at the old house. Obtaining our Christmas tree, normally a leisurely Saturday outing, had to be crammed into a weekday evening.
When we found out that we’d be spending the month of December painting and hauling instead of in our usual peaceful Advent preparation, I felt wistful. I knew I would miss lighting each new candle on our own wreath as the Sundays pass, and miss having time to wrap each present lovingly. I expected that traveling to help my parents each weekend would make all our free time disappear, and it has. I feel far more frazzled this Advent than any I can remember.
I wouldn’t dream of having it any other way, of course. My parents have sacrificed immeasurably over the years for the sake of their children; the least we can do is be there to help when they need us. This month, though, being there is more of a sacrifice than it would normally be.
Yesterday I wrapped dishes in paper and packed them carefully as my children played among the boxes in my mother’s kitchen. My parents’ house looks like a loading dock right now. The Advent wreath on the cluttered table is the sole sign of the season.
All of us would have been happier if this move had happened a month earlier. It seems strange that this is God’s answer to the “right house at the right time” prayer.
But as I wrapped and stacked, I thought about our Lord’s parents as they got ready for his birth. The Blessed Virgin must have experienced the urge to nest like every pregnant woman I’ve known, but she didn’t get to stay home and do it. She spent those last days before her son was born riding miles away from home on the back of a donkey, and ended up giving birth in a stable.
Every year, my goal is to complete my preparations as soon as possible so I have time to sip tea by the tree in peace during the last week before Christmas. I’d regretted that this year, with so much to do to help my parents move, I wouldn’t be having a “normal” Advent. I’m happy to wrap some presents and hang some ornaments, but moving an entire household is much more preparation than I care to do, thanks.
Maybe God sent us this new house at exactly the right time, though, to give us a metaphor for the kind of spiritual commitment he’s looking for during this season of preparation. Hanging ornaments? That’s more like symbolic preparation. Packing dishes? Moving the whole household? That’s preparation with a capital P.
Am I ready to pack the boxes of my own heart? Perhaps that’s the question God’s asking me this Advent.
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