The pressure’s on and the countdown has begun.

I’ve made my list, and I’ve checked it twice to make sure I’ve accounted for the many people we buy gifts for.  I’ve marked catalogs and purchased gift cards and come up with some pretty snazzy photo gifts for grandparents.

I’m left, in the beginning days of Advent, wishing it was all over.  I’m wondering, as we prepare for the joy of the season, where the joy can be found.  I’m tired, on only the second day, and wondering if I could leave the country and return on January 2nd.

Every year, I battle Bah-Humbug.  I find it in the discussion about when we’re going to put up decorations and in the struggle not to see Advent as just the time to get all the details lined up.  I am surrounded by it in the juggle to buy gifts for people I’d like to just spend time with instead.  I grow weary, and it infects me when I’m not looking, filling me with resentment and memories and a longing.

I long for the days of Christmas being about whether it will snow and which of the far-away relatives we’ll get to see.  I remember days with less money and more meaning, with less rushing and more spending time together, with less cynicism and more belief.  I don’t find those sepia-colored ideals in all of my memories, but I find them when I think about what I would like Christmas to be about and in those memories that I most cherish.

It’s right before Thanksgiving that the Bah-Humbug bites.  Inevitably, in the discussions about food and family, there’s an anticipation about when we’ll celebrate Christmas.  And then we have to discuss who’s going to host.  And then we have to talk about the exchange or the price limit or none of that.

There’s a part of me that just loves buying gifts.  I love finding just the right thing.  The problem is that it’s a big list.  And, inevitably, I just don’t have time (OK, truth time:  I don’t start in July) or energy to do justice of what I envision.  (I’m out to solve world hunger, remember?)  Part of the Bah-Humbug is filled with disappointment in my own inability to fulfill my expectations for a slam-bang Christmas gift-giving experience.

My standard reply about Christmas is that I hate it.  But, as my husband has pointed out to me time and again, that’s not true.  That’s the Bah-Humbug talking.

The truth is, I do love Christmas.  I love going to midnight Mass and feeling like it matters that I’m there.  I love holding my husband’s hand in the cold dark air as we walk to the car, with little bodies in our arms, and thinking of the memories we’re making.  I love seeing the living room lit up by only the colored lights on the Christmas tree, and I love the flair we’ll have when I give in and let decorating take place, because we will have a helper who has a style all her own.

My Bah-Humbug problem stems from a priority problem.  I forget what the real reason for this season is.  We’re preparing: our hearts, our lives, our homes.  There’s a baby coming, and there’s a lot to be done.  Maybe we need to cut out some of the noise, slow down some of the bustling, remember how it must have been long ago as Mary and Joseph started a long, cold journey.

This year, instead of wondering where my Bah-Humbug comes from and accepting it as some sort of fate for the season, I’m going to take my own advice.  I’m going to keep my eyes turned toward the star in the sky and think about how much rejoicing there is going to be.  I’m going to sit in the silence with my cup of tea, and I’m going to hold out my hand for Jesus to take it.  Maybe we can walk together through this Advent, hand in hand, toward the endless Christmas Miracle.

This used to really bother me.  Maybe, I’d think to myself, this is a sign that I should be sitting down and concentrating.

But perhaps, a small voice persists in my head, what you have planned and what actually happens aren’t as important as you think.  God loves you, despite your imperfections.  Could it be that it’s better to go through my day praying than it is to get sidetracked by an unrealistic expectation of perfection?

Usually, when there’s a small voice in my head, it doesn’t belong to me.  I say that, because voices in my head tend to be loud and raucous and, well, slightly rude.  They tend to be generally unhelpful (that’s not counting the husband-in-my-head, who, aside from the small voice, tends to encourage me).

So if the small voice doesn’t belong to me, it could either be a personal tempter (or the devil himself) or my guardian angel (or God).  It could be good or evil.  The thing is, it’s usually about something encouraging, and it often points me back to God, so I feel safe in taking it as a little message from God.

I have two small children.  The gap between what I plan or expect to have happen and what actually happens on any given day is sometimes narrow, and other times as wide as the ocean.  As I was praying my Rosary the other day, realizing that I had probably added an extra Hail Mary, I couldn’t help but see how adding an eleventh Hail Mary is the perfect metaphor for a young mother’s life.

So often, as a mother, I question what I do, I wonder how I could do things better, I quake in the face of the challenge of raising other humans.  So often, as a mother, I find myself at a complete loss, unable to fathom what lies before me and without the resources to continue along.  So often, as a mother, I find myself wishing for different circumstances and trying to juggle too many things at once, and failing.

And then I add an eleventh Hail Mary.

Adding that Hail Mary certainly doesn’t bother God.  He isn’t offended.  Why, then, do I worry about it?

God doesn’t ask me to be perfect.  He asks me to seek, and he reminds me to pray, asking HIM for help, relying on HIM for guidance.

I pray the Rosary because it helps me, even in my most distracted moments, to dwell on Jesus’ life and stay in prayer throughout my day.  I pray the Rosary because it has a pattern that I can remember, one that goes well with my active lifestyle — ten fingers, ten Hail Marys.  And now that I’ve considered the extra Hail Marys I must add in my journey through my daily Rosary, I realize that I pray the Rosary despite my imperfections.

WHY?

There is always a question mark behind it.  There is also an urgency to it, as though it cannot wait.

So what is it about this word that has been driving me over the edge in the last few weeks?

At first, I thought it was just the persistence.  But yesterday, when she piped up with “Why?” after a discussion in the car about how it was so hot, we would go to the store and buy a slip-n-slide and some squirt guns, I realized something.

For her, “Why?” is shorthand for any number of things.  Sometimes, it means “How does that work?” and other times, it’s her way of asking “When will that happen?”  There are times, like when she asked me why my legs were itchy as she sat on my lap the other day, when she’s really looking for the answer to a “Why?” question.

So my job, as in so many other things in her life, is to teach her what questions to ask so that she gets the answer she’s actually asking, not, as I was thinking late last week, to refrain from strangling her when “Why?” punctuates every conversation.

I ask “Why?” a fair bit myself.  “Why do I have to have such a difficult day?” I’ll yell up to God.  “Why can’t you give me a break?”  “Why is there all this suffering?”  “Why can’t I believe more easily, be better at this, convince others of the truth?”

Thankfully, God is used to “Why?”  I wonder if he expects it, if he savors it, if he wishes we would ask more and assume less.

Sometimes I think I know the answer to “Why?”, only to find out that, in fact, I was mistaken.  The damage is done.  Many times, it’s because I didn’t step back to trust God.

This week, I’m going to work harder on the things that make me ask “Why?” and focus more on trusting God before I ask “Why?”  I’m by nature an information-seeker and “Why?” is a firmly-rooted part of my lexicon, but this week, I’m going to pause before the word comes out of my mouth and say a little prayer — maybe a Hail Mary or an Our Father.  And when my young companion brings up “Why?”, I’m going to thank God for the reminder that I need to turn to him first with my trust.

I had to take it off the bed the other day, because it’s time to wash it, and it’s been in my laundry room for a few days waiting patiently, brightening the room with its patchwork of oranges and reds and pinks.  I hope it doesn’t lose that smell it had from my aunt’s linen closet, a smell that took me back to my earliest childhood memories, when I was huddled under a quilt much like it, up in Great-Grandma’s upstairs, surrounded by foreign antiques and the expectation of being seen and not heard.

The quilt has a tear at one end, along the seam, and I have no idea how to fix it — and there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to fix it.  It looks like it’s been that way for a while, and I treasure this little imperfection as much as I marvel at the close stitching and the amazing handiwork the quilt is.

I look at Great-Grandma’s quilt much the way I look at my old farmhouse, wondering just how much it would cost — in time and money — to do something like that now.  I look at the imperfections, like that tear in the seam, and reflect on the many lessons a patchwork quilt can offer.

How many little sins have I gotten used to?  What are the things that could be mended and easily fixed by a trip to the confessional?  There’s nothing sentimental about my bad habits, and there’s nothing flattering about them either.  They might be a part of me, but they don’t have to be.  I should strive to be a beautiful arrangement of fabric, like Great-Grandma’s quilt, and not let a little tear keep me from being the soul God created me to be.

What makes Great-Grandma’s quilt such a treasure to me is knowing that her work — which must have taken hours of old-fashioned eye-straining labor — was done out of love.  She made dozens of these quilts, and they’ve weathered the years much as she did, gaining value as they aged.  Now quilts like these represent a hobby, not a need.  We of the twenty-first century can buy warm blankets far cheaper and far more easily than we can make these beautiful nineteenth century quilts, but in buying them, we don’t pour out our love in the same way.  We don’t meld our creativity with our practical passion for keeping our families warm.

How can I be more like Great-Grandma’s quilt?  How can I be true to how I have been made, to how I was designed, to what God intended for me?  How can I strengthen the stitching of those many different fabrics that are a part of me?  Maybe I’ll start by curling up on my freshly-made bed with the quilt tossed across me, inhaling the smell of wind and age, reflecting on how I can let God lead me to the greater works He has in mind.

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.  

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build. 

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. 

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces. 

A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away. 

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace (Ecclesiastes 3:2-8, NAB).

I’ve heard this passage many times, mostly at funerals, but the other night, during one of the harder-than-usual interruptions in the middle of the night, I realized just how hard it is for me to accept the current season of my life.

I’m always looking forward at what can, could, and should be done.  My gaze seeks the possibilities, the likelihoods, the opportunities — often at the expense of the present moment.

Outside, the world is in bloom.  The spring flowers have made their appearance and I know from experience how quickly they will fade.  Spring won’t last long, so I have to appreciate it while it’s here.  Sometimes that means sacrificing inside chores for outdoor play.  It means diving for my camera and getting my sandaled toes wet in the morning grass as I try to capture the colors.  It is a brief respite from winter cold and a pause before summer heat.

Spring is a time of frenetic activity, whether or not you have a ball schedule to keep.  There’s hustle and bustle enough to make anyone weary, and I need to remember to look around me — to pause — lest the season slip away while I’m busy.

Inside, my world celebrates a different sort of spring:  my two young children blossom anew everyday, opening their eyes wide at the wonder around them as they discover something new — again and again — with enthusiasm I’d do well to embrace.  They keep me busy and they make me better, if only I slow down long enough from my looking forward to enjoy the gift of “now” they give me.

I’m in the spring of my motherhood, where the blooms are fresh and new, the days long and the nights short, the weather a bit unpredictable despite reassuring forecasts.  This springtime won’t last long, for the children will grow fast and I’ll soon be one of the women advising “Enjoy them while they’re little” before I know it.

Spring is beautiful, but it’s not always easy.  It’s enjoyable, but it’s often fraught with thunderstorms.  It’s busy, but it’s full of reminders of grace and moments of joy.

Even as I plan my summer, let me not forget to enjoy the spring.  While I wonder about winter, let me look heavenward NOW to find the strength to stop and savor the spring.  As I anticipate autumn adventures, let me remember the gentle moments, so quickly passing, of spring.