When H-Boy was first diagnosed, many people aimed to comfort us with the knowledge that once he was older, we’d be able to know more about the extent of his hearing loss and if he’d “need” his hearing aids. Well, we’ve arrived at the point of getting useful feedback about his hearing, which has both helped me process how to best aid him and caused me even more questions about how to best aid him. 

Our biggest challenge: he’s a 4-year-old boy. Often, he’s simply acting like a 4-year-old boy. Example: every time I speak to/with him, I’m met with a W question. What? Why? Where’s he going? Who is that person? What? 

Please tell me that other moms everywhere sometimes simply say, “I don’t know” and move on? I mean, that’s legal, right? Oh, the questions. I love an inquisitive spirit, but it’s exhausting. 

So when I ask him to do something and he responds “What?” I’ve narrowed down his response to mean one of several things:

• Stalling. He simply doesn’t want to get dressed. Typical 4-year-old boy. This is a good 40% of the time. 
• Volume. During a recent bout of repetition I ended up asking if he wanted his ears turned up and he said yes. So I showed him where his volume control was and more than once I’ve noticed him adjusting it (granted, this involved buttons, so we could be back to the Typical 4YOB thing). This tells me we need to get him back in the testing booth to see if his hearing has changed. I’d attribute this to about 15-20% of the time. 
• Speed and sight. One time, after several attempts, I asked him, “do you want me to say it louder or do you want me to say it slower?” He easily responded “slower.” Because we’re all used to dealing with hard of hearing grandparents, our temptation is to talk to them like a train is going by; but what kids like mine really need is for you to look at them and speak at a less-than-expedient pace (this poor kid, being given to a mother like me….).  In my experience, his biggest challenges are the car, where I cannot turn and the music is in the way, speaking from room to room, and speaking in rooms full of people and conversation. Extra visual is needed there, often it’s best to squat to his level to gain full attention. (Um…. this could be true of every 4YOB as well). 

My most recent conundrum regarding what he “really” hears involves music. Miss M, a bigger David Crowder fan than I, will now often recite what David is singing about to me. After a line, she’ll say, “Mommy, David Crowder said that ‘O great God give us rest!'” Yes, yes he did. (Note: she’ll do this through the whole song. I’m trying to remember that it’s endearing). 

H-boy has never done this. In fact, I can’t recall him singing along with anything. He does sing songs very common to him, but the Pre-k teachers have told me that he didn’t like to sing the songs with the class, like the Name Game (now, 3 months later, he’ll break into that song at home). At the Christmas party, I noticed he didn’t sing. I tried asking if he liked the songs, if he knew the words, if he didn’t like singing, but didn’t get much feedback to lead me in any direction. So I have to wonder – does the speed of the verse and the background “noise” of the music inhibit him from hearing the words to the song? Does he not sing because he doesn’t know what they’re saying? Or, like the Typical 4YOB, does he just not like to sing with others? 

My level-headed kindergarten-teacher friend told me it’s something to explore, but unfortunately these will always be the questions I’ll ask: is it because he can’t hear or because this is who he is? Because those each garner different responses. If he doesn’t participate because he can’t hear, I want to figure out how to provide every opportunity. But if he doesn’t partake because it’s not something he enjoys or because of his natural sense of “who I am”, then I don’t want to be that pushy mom who mandates music lessons. It’s a delicate balance to want to make sure doors are open without pushing him through the threshold. 

But enough about what he’s “not” doing…. he’s currently reading to Baby C from the bug book, making her cackle in laughter. He loves to squeeze into the tiny, cozy area between the chair  and table to “work in his office”, tying up the 4-piece cloth nativity set. He loves books and bedtime won’t be complete without a story, frequently, as mentioned, asking 500 questions about the characters and plot lines. He’d rather curl up on the couch with a book than go outside (definitely my child). He’s destined to be a church usher or funeral home director because he’s always counting chairs to make sure there are enough for everyone joining us for dinner. He loves to pick out his outfit and accessorizing is his favorite part – we’ve been to the store with ties and vests and fancy hats numerous times. One of the other moms at school even complemented him on his clothing choices (her kid seems to have an affinity for cartoon characters). 

Discovering the world through the eyes – and ears – of a 4-year-old boy makes for a curious adventure. I’m grateful for the chance to rediscover the world with him. 

“Mom. She’d have the prettier Christmas tree,” said my sister. 

***

I’ve pretty much relegated all Christmas tree duties to JJ. His time at the funeral home equipped him to be much better at making things pretty than I can muster – and his patience with such activity has a higher threshold, especially with kids. So I make some hot chocolate while they dig out the ornaments and wrap ribbon. I have to say, our tree is the perfect balance of beauty and nostolgia. From here I can see ornaments such as baby booties (H Boy’s), a silver martini glass (a gift from my mom), a candy-cane inspired “H”, a pillow cross-stitched in 1981and bright red metallic “peace” “love” and “joy.” With white lights aglow, it’s quite perfect. 

I’ve always tended to sit on the sideline of Christmas tree events. Growing up we had the most perfect tree. It was (quite literally) 8 pieces. a pole, 7 large hanging racks and a topper. Through the early years we’d adorn it with macaroni-made ornaments, some tinsel and multi-colored lights. 

My mom hated it. 

If there’s one thing my mom does well, it’s make things beautiful. But the nature of our tree was anything but. As our home became more and more decorated by Taste of Country, or later, Pottery Barn, the kid-tree just wasn’t hitting the spot for her. So one day she declared mutiny. 

She bought all white lights. My sister was outraged. 

“But I want the tree to be pretty,” mom pleaded. “But it’s just not Christmasy!” Ang fought back. “They’re boooorrr-rrring.” After about 2 more years of making a ruckus, mom finally got her white lights. New ornaments started infiltrating our stockings to be hung the following year. 

Then came the campaigning for a new tree altogether. “Why would you want a new tree? This one works fine,” Dad argued. I believe these wishes went at least 3-4 years, into my late high school or early college years, before she’d had it. 

One day, she went to Bellefontaine and, after rounding a corner in our bus of a van, swiped a parked car. She was frustrated. She had to call dad. After explaining what happened, Dad told her he’d be down to pick her up in the car after a while. “Well, see, that presents an issue…. I also bought a new Christmas tree.”

Thus some serious discussion at home. It soon became a joke, the way mom had caused such a stirring in our arborous life. At some point a loud and comical conversation ensued about how this new tree was going to end our family, that dad would divorce her over an evergreen. Thus, him asking who we would live with. And Angie’s witty response. 

And it was all fun and comedy until we took it out of the box. 5,000 pieces. (Slight exaggeration). And mom had already given away the 8-piece tree to the high school. Color coded limbs, bags upon bags of pieces to figure out what level they needed assembled… “but it’s so full and pretty,” Mom reminded us. 

I believe JJ heard this story a few times before we were wed. He helped me put up my tree once while we were dating, with much complaint. Then again while we were engaged, with a warning: we were going to be purchasing a real tree for our married life. Between the nightmare 5,000-piece tree and his love of tradition (this being his own), he wasn’t going to risk any tree debacles. 

Thus, I sit back and enjoy my tree, as is. 

Surprisingly, the better the week, the more difficult the Sunday. As I’m able to celebrate more and more good things in our life, come Sunday I’m overwhelmed with an ache. A hurt.  As if the advent season digs up this internal reality of the understanding that we’re waiting and holding on for something… more. Something substantial, better than any blessing for which we’ve already given thanks. The penultimate “something more.”  

And now we can add in a tragedy, all these feelings and a sense of grief over the children in Connecticut. The event deepened an existing feeling that I’ve felt in my bones this whole season… God, we need you a little bit closer.

Today during the cantada a verse of We Three Kings struck me (and thus I subsequently cried), about the Magi following the light. I looked it up. After they had heard the king, [the Magi] went on their way and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshipped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.  (Matthew 2:9-11) 

In the midst of the song, the reality I’ve cried over sunk from within my heart down deeper, down toward somewhere close to my liver… it’s in the darkness that we can recognize the light. Oh, how we dislike the dark. We stumble around like a bunch of bafoons, killing each other, blaming each other, or even just knocking into one another by accident. We feel pain but don’t realize that we can’t see the truth in front of us until the light begins to break. 

The most difficult part, the part that turns on round two of the tears, comes when I can’t seem to find the way to point toward the light. To be the light. All afternoon I’ve struggled, wanting to partake in an activity with the kids to help celebrate the meaning of Christmas. I want to show them what it means to be light in darkness, that Emmanuel is more than a song.  A quote by Rob Bell came to mind: Why blame the dark for being dark? It’s far more helpful to ask why the light isn’t as bright as it could be. (Velvet Elvis)

I believe that part of my Sunday misery arises from the fact that each week I come face-to-face with the fact that I’m not always living as the light. Often I’m not pointing toward a guiding star. I spend some time pointing to the darkness and stating reasons why, but I rarely light a candle and visit a neighbor. 

Specifically I feel powerless in the face of recent tragedy. I cannot bring children back. I will not tell others stupid pithy sayings like God “needed” angels or that it was in His plan. God never plans to hurt his people. 

I’m rereading for (14th hundreth time) A Million Miles in a Thousand Years and I just came to the part where Don tells of a friend who was ready to give up on God. This friend then visited Rwanda as an effort to learn more about the atrocities that had happened there. She visited a church museum where several people hid in an effort to be safe, believing they wouldn’t be killed in a church. They were wrong and instead the entire group was massacred. Don’s friend said she stood on the brink of telling God goodbye, that this was where they parted ways. And in that moment, God spoke to her in her heart saying, “This is what happens when people walk away from me.” 

Darkness is dark when no one shines a light. 

Thus, the tears again. God, I want people to know light is available. There is always another way. A kingdom reigning with grace and forgiveness and love exists if someone would just pass a candle. If I would just lift my torch just a little higher. 

But what does that look like? Not in a Jesus-will-make-your-problems-disappear way. But in a God-is-with-us, right here, right now kind of way. Will a plate of cookies show my neighbors that in the light, we see the world as God created it? Will a gift card speak to my mailman so he will know that in the light, we can see the goodness, not just feel our pain?  Will the wrapped packages under the tree remind my family that in the light, we recognize our company and realize that we are not alone?

My Sundays struggle because I know that to show people something more, I must do something more. Not buy something more, but show, in action, God’s presence in the world. I believe God’s presence is alive in my life – how does that seep into the way I live my life with others? God, show me what that looks like right here and right now. 

Amen.