The Small Kingdom
Requiem
We knelt on our kitchen floor, unclean
Gingerly fingering the pieces of her memory
As one might touch an open wound, shattered
And shining like struck glass in the slanting rays of noon.
You looked at me and I looked away, afraid
To hold even this moment for fear of breaking.
We lifted each piece up to the light, marveling
At how even the smallest among them split the ceiling
Into quivering rainbows when held just right, wondering
At how every broken thing—even death—makes us whole.
In April of 2019, my husband’s dear mother—Jan—passed away after a long battle with COPD. Among many things, she was a gifted writer and poet, a loving mother, sister, and friend, and a passionate lover of all things Christmas. My husband likes to tell the story of the time they kept their Christmas tree up all year, decorating it for every sequential holiday until Christmas came around again.
We inherited most of Jan’s vast Christmas décor collection and have taken it with us through two moves, waiting to go through it until we were emotionally ready. This past weekend, it was finally time. We sat on our kitchen floor surrounded by antique Santas, snowmen on ice skates in various comical poses, and a stuffed collection of the entire cast of the 1964 stop-motion production of Rudolph. Eventually we pulled out a jolly miniature Santa with a miniature sleigh filled with even more miniature 1-2 inch carefully wrapped presents.
For reasons I cannot explain, we decided the best course of action would be to unwrap each tiny present to see what was inside—knowing it was probably cardboard or Styrofoam but curious nonetheless. With the eagerness of children, we tore open the vintage wrapping paper bound by tiny pieces of tape and garnished with fairy-sized ribbons and bows. Each package was simply a wrapped block of wood, but we kept opening them as if the next one would be a surprise—as if the next one would contain some clue or memento from the sparkling woman who wrapped them many years ago. As if the next one could bring her back.
Tears filled my eyes as we came to the last gift and I looked down at the small pile of crumpled paper and wood blocks at our feet. I cannot quite say why, but what we had just done felt sacred. It seemed that by taking the time to unwrap what Jan had so carefully created, we were honoring her memory—honoring the part of her that cherished making and collecting tiny treasures that brought her joy. To be honest, I used to wonder in amusement why such small things were so significant to my mother in law. But now, I am starting to wonder if maybe she had learned the secret of what it means receive the Kingdom of God like a child.
Jesus described the Kingdom of God in terms of small things: a mustard seed, a lost coin, a treasure buried in a vast field. He even taught His followers that the Kingdom of God belonged to the people the world deems smallest: children, the poor, the outcast, the brokenhearted.
Indeed, the very life of Christ warns us not to discard the small, simple things which comprise our everyday lives. Instead, the coming of Christ in human flesh transforms the humus, the organic matter of our ordinary lives, into the very place the Most High dwells. But the people of Israel expected someone grander than the humble and lowly person of Christ—so they rejected him. Many are still waiting for a gift that has already been given.
This makes me wonder—in my attempts to cast aside the ordinary elements of my life in search for the extraordinary, have I missed the Messiah in my midst? Have I looked at the evidence of Kingdom life all around me with dead and empty eyes, simply because I have been unwilling to believe it could be so simple? Have I spent my whole life working, searching, yearning for something that has already been given to me? Have you?
Today—in the midst of my un-vacuumed room and piles of mismatched socks and broken-hearted places and flabby stomach and anxieties about loved ones—I hold up these aching, hopeful questions like dandelions in the wind, like candles in a storm:
What if the ordinary things we have looked past or ignored could very well be the place God’s kingdom is at work in our lives?
What if the ugly and broken parts we would rather turn away from might be the places God’s glory most longs to dwell?
What if even our wounds hold within them the keys to our wholeness, an invitation to redemption?
What if this changes everything?