Home for the Holidays: The Gift of Perspective
Our Christmas wreath hung on the front door a little early for the season. Inside, a photoshoot crew descended on our den with their fancy lights and tripods and reflectors in tow, all courtesy of my friend the magazine stylist. Meanwhile, I stood nearby trying to act nonchalant—“just a typical Tuesday around here.” I fought to keep my shoulders down from my ears as my eyes scanned and judged—taking in the worn edges of past-their-prime pillows and the dog’s favorite spot on the rug. I nervously wondered if they found our Christmas décor tacky or suburban-predictable or overdone. They moved silently around the room, arranging and snapping, whispering quietly to one another as if it were a library and not the scene of many a tantrum—yours, mine, and ours. They tilted lights and scooted chairs, my anxiety increasing at a parallel rate to their camera clicks. Then the photographer stopped and said, “Look. Come here and look at the screen.” And I saw it. I saw the magic. I saw my home through their eyes.
The photoshoot crew gave me a gift, and it had nothing to do with seeing pictures of our home in the pages of their beautiful magazine. They gave me the gift of perspective. And is there anything more important at Advent?
Shifting Perspective
I find I’m constantly trying to shift perspective in those around me at Christmas (namely the little people who live in my home), focusing on Immanuel and not just how many aisles of the Target toy department we’re asking for this year. But I rarely, if ever, reset my own heart’s focus when it comes to our home. It’s too easy to fixate on trendy, new trimmings or magazine-level cleaning expectations over the gospel spirit I truly want to flow within these walls.
I’ve had too many conversations with friends around this topic of home to believe I’m the only one struggling with this. No matter how much time we spend there on a daily basis, we moms often shoulder the feeling of responsibility for the state of our home. When it’s our special ops command central for life, the dividing lines between work and rest can get muddy and we easily lose perspective.
The magazine crew snapped their pictures and I saw perhaps what others see when they walk in our front door—a welcoming comfort, a cozy spot to sit and stay a while, and a space that values doing real life with those we love. And maybe, just maybe—grace upon grace—it’s what the rest of my family sees when they come home from a hard day. Maybe it’s me with the optics problem. The magazine crew gave me the gift of going a little bit easier on myself in my unrealistic caretaker goals. They helped me remember it’s not just my littles who could use a perspective shift at Christmas—it’s me too.
Remembering What’s Complete
It’s a lot easier to look around our homes and see what’s to do rather than what’s been done for us. I hardly think about our home’s foundation, framing, or roof, but I sure am glad for them. The dirty dishes they house…well, that’s another story. Just as it’s a lot easier for many of us to look around for places to work for our salvation rather than from it—from a place of rest in the completed work of Jesus. Christ himself is certainly the only person to near death and wholeheartedly say to God, as he did in John 17:4, “I glorified you on earth, having accomplished the work that you gave me to do.” The completeness and confidence of this statement is dazzling. I’m stunned—reminded that such perfection is totally opposite of my ability and therefore can only be true of me through supernatural means. My work does not depend on me but on Christ. And there my eyes are lifted off my circumstances, off my messes, and upwards in worship of the One who accomplished the work, fully and sacrificially. He earned his reward, and then in deep kindness said he’d invite us to join him in it.[1]
Coming Home
You know that cozy feeling when you round the corner early in the morning and see that the Christmas tree lights are already on? Or when you’ve left a lamp on accidentally and you walk in after dark and the breath catches in your chest. For a second, you remember it’s the holidays and you’re home. Home. You don’t remember the laundry basket sitting in the middle of the floor or that you really should scrape that overrun cake out of the oven before you preheat it again—just that you’re home. And the sentiment means more than the words. It’s a feeling; it’s being wrapped in a safe hug.
Our homes can provide snatches of heaven—a feeling, a conversation, an embrace—a mere shadow, an outline of what will be to come for those who are safe in Jesus. These snatches increase our security and hope in our eternal home—the only complete home—and the perfect rest that waits for us there. “No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9).
I owe the magazine people a debt of gratitude—they gave me eyes to see what was already mine. Similarly, if we have eyes to see, that which is already ours in Christ is breathtaking and energizing. The gospel moves us into courageous, confident living and bends our hearts toward the people that inhabit our spaces or just pass through them. They are, after all, infinitely more valuable than any item inside these walls. But it is these dear walls that house much of the life of these dear people, and that makes them worth noticing. This Christmas, may our earthly homes—busy, imperfect, lived-in, and loved-in—remind our hearts of the home yet to come and reflect that welcoming hope to others.
[1] John 4:34, 14:3
