Silent Night

All was not silent or calm in our house on the night of Christmas. Even though our day was laden with the things of Christmas songs – matching Christmas jammies, beautiful church hymns, stockings overflowing with treats, mountains of wrapping paper discarded with joyful haste, eggnog mustaches and matching American Girl doll dresses – too much of a good thing is often a bad thing for our kiddos.

While the adults were enjoying appetizers in the dining room, one child was poking at the fire with the metal poker, before dropping it hastily onto the carpet in an attempt not to get caught. The hot poker burned right through the rug, and when a consequence was calmly given (even though the rug was ruined), this child proceeded to stick out their tongue and blow a raspberry in my direction, rather than apologize. 

Now they needed to go to their room. It's one thing to get in trouble, but another to get in trouble and then be disrespectful about it. Getting them to their room was difficult, but the crying and screaming continued until well after my sister and her family left. 

Imagine this: you made a homemade cheesecake, the candles are lit, and as your beloved family members pass around the Bible and read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke, a child is screaming from their room a floor above you.

The juxtaposition crushed my soul that night, but three days later, I recognized the truth.

I allowed their behavior to crush my spirit.  Yes, I was exhausted (because what mama isn't by 7 p.m. on Christmas day?), but I chose to let my child's bad choices ruin the rest of my Christmas. When my husband and I decided to adopt our last two kiddos with special needs, we knew we were inviting their trauma into our home. Yes, it was done with the hopes of healing, but the truth of the matter is, trauma has repercussions that won't disappear after a year at home, or two, or even ten.

Our open door to adoption has always been an open door to their pain, hurt and maladaptive behaviors. They're not going to hold it together on Christmas simply because I want it to be a sweet day. The more special the day is, the greater the chance that they'll ruin it... because too much of a good thing is too much for their hearts, souls, and minds. Christmas is overstimulating even for our neurotypical children and the adults in our home, why wouldn't it be all the more so for them?

When God's love for us overflowed enough to birth our Savior in a smelly barn, we were changed. So will our home, when children come into it who are hurting and sad (even if they don't realize it). As His love overflows into our hearts, may we make more room for the mess. Though He was perfect, the life He lived never was, and it won't be for us either. Living lives of radical love will bring pain in the form of burned rugs and Christmas night tantrums. Who really needed a silent night anyway? I doubt that Mary had one.