Tunnel Dwellers

She sat there, across from me on the wagon bound for an evergreen dotted hillside, with a smile as sweet as sunshine. She had her little girl on her lap, a nearly equally little boy beside her and the baby was bouncing on her father knee right across from me. I knew the feat it was for them to bring their very young, very close-in-age offspring to a Christmas tree farm at all, nevertheless first thing in the morning which it was. It was impossible for me not to acknowledge out loud the impressive appearance, complete with hats, gloves, coats and pacifier clip where needed. She thanked me and I told her that it wasn't long ago our first three were that little. She was still smiling, but I saw a familiar look cross over her face, as it had cast it's weary, subtly desperate pallor over my own many times (and still sometimes does).

"Does it get any easier? I'm just waiting to see even the tiniest light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm just not seeing it"

As one who doesn't cry easily, I was surprised by the lump in my throat. It was a question I was only used to asking, not answering. It took me a few seconds to realize I was qualified to answer her. I am still in the tunnel with her, only a few paces closer to the light which I am starting to see.

"Oh you dear, beautiful thing. Where you are there is no light. I KNOW. It's just really, really, really a lot of hard, wearying work. And even though the light most days still seems rather dim for me, I have SEEN IT. It is there, and you are walking towards it even though you don't know it. It starts with small flickers and suddenly you realize it's lighter than it was before."

This is, more or less, exactly what I told her. It was honest...when you're in the midst of being the all-in-all teeny humans who haven't learned even the basics of self-maintenance, there is very little opportunity to even lift your head up and look for a light. 

Trust me. I know. It was only four years ago our Christmas tree excursion looked like this: 

Now, here we are, with children ranging in ages seven to four and these kinds of memories are not only good to do (and get through!), but now have the added possibility of FUN (mostly) with them. It's still pretty crazy. But it's do-able. There were many who encouraged me in the early years by their equal parts empathy and encouragement that it would get better. I still recall their words easily and often. 

There will are more tunnels (life experiences, seasons in parenting, etc.) ahead in which the light I'm looking for will not be found. I am confident that again, He will send those who have already been there, whose words will offer the flicker needed to just get through. He's an incredibly thoughtful God like that.

It was a poignant experience for me, to realize that one does not need to have "arrived" to a place where everything is resplendent in light and everything is mostly figured out to offer solid hope to someone else. That kind of "state" can't even happen until Heaven is realized here on Earth in a tangible way. Yet, in terms of life experiences in which we share with friends and strangers (such as one met on a bumpy wagon ride at a Christmas Tree Farm), even when only a few steps ahead of another, some times remembering  and speaking the truth (the light is impossible to see in the place I once was and you are now at) and offering real hope (but you are walking in the right direction) is an encouragement to both tunnel-dwellers. Perhaps it is itself, a flicker of light.

The rest of this post is simply pictures from our annual trek for the perfect Christmas tree. If Facebook hasn't yet met your quota of photo albums of families picking up their yearly evergreen, I'm happy to oblige. Otherwise, thanks for stopping by the Coffee Cottage  and Happy Two Weeks til Christmas! (I'm done panicking over this. If you get a card/gift/anything Christmasy from me or our family in these next few weeks, consider it a miraculous occurrence--albiet a few pegs down from a virgin birth.  As for me and my family, I think I'll just make a big vat of Figgy Pudding, serve it up by our one seasonal accomplishment (the tree) and call it a Christmas).