We bought a real tree this year. One that's in a big fat pot with dirt and roots. It's extremely heavy and awkward, and in the three days it's been in my house has scattered a lovely dust of something I'm calling pine crumbles.

It was quite the investment, in case you don't know that about real trees. But assuming it survives it's week in the house with all of us, it will then find it's way to a permanent spot in our yard. I like that.

We've talked about having a real tree for several years. It just always felt like too much money. And unnecessary when we had a perfectly beautiful, waiting to be assembled tree courtesy of Sears always waiting in the shed for us.

But there's just been this longing in me that it never quite satisfies. This desire for real and authentic. As I watch my husband put the tree together one branch it a time, it just feels….fake. Because of course it is.  But for whatever reason, I've found myself very disenchanted with anything imitation the last couple of years. I only want the real thing.

SO, this year we did it. 

And I was so excited. Friday night we brought the tree in the house and I couldn't wait to see how beautiful it would look all decked out in lights.

The decorating was challenging to say the least. If you've never had a real tree, let me tell you: those pine needles are sharp. And especially abrasive to someone who has a pine allergy. I was covered in a red rash up to my elbows by the end of the night.

When all was done I turned off the lights and stood back to look at my real tree.

It's kind of crooked. And fatter on one side than the other. From one particular angle it almost looks like it could be tipping over. My star was too heavy for it. It's smaller than my fake tree, so it's glow doesn't dominate the living room like I'm used to.

It was absolutely real.

And not all that beautiful.

Not compared to the fake tree. 

In that moment the irony hit me.

Do I want real, or do I want perfect? 

Because the truth is I have to choose. You can't have it both ways. 

And of course for me perfect is the automatic choice.

Or at least it always has been.

But I think I'm coming to a place where I can finally see that real is better. Life isn't perfect. Love isn't perfect. People aren't perfect. I can never be perfect. Perfect is not a part of now. That's reality.

So, I can keep on going like I have been, not accepting the fact that I'm fighting to reach a destination that's not even on the map.

Or I can let that go, over and over again, and choose real.

Real might mean crooked and abrasive and a little shorter than hoped for.

But whether it's a Christmas tree or life, I'm learning I'd rather have messy and authentic, than artificially perfect.

Linking up with Emily's Tuesdays Unwrapped.

After last year I've come to find myself somewhat less surprised by the unexpected showing up around the week before Christmas. 

So when I was driving to pick up my girls after a quick haircut, I found myself abnormally calm as my van steering wheel locked up and the gas pedal ceased performing it's purpose. 

In the middle of traffic, I was barely able to coast to the far right lane before losing all momentum. There was no shoulder to pull off in. This busy street in our town is lined by sidewalks. So there was nowhere else to go.

I immediately called my husband of course. Then a tow-truck. Then I sat and waited, choosing not to get out of my car because it was freezing cold and my hair was still wet.

I sat blocking a lane of traffic, waiting for help, and relatively convinced that my position on the road was not going to be a big deal because there were two whole other lanes open for traffic going my way.

This would be the point where the unexpected got the better of me.

It wasn't just a small inconvenience that my van was blocking this third lane. It was NOT. OKAY. According to all of those people who came flying up behind me at lightning speed, slamming on their brakes, throwing their hands in the air and laying on their horns, it was really NOT okay.

Four days later and I still can't erase the vision in my mind of the elderly woman with Betty White hair and a shiny little Lexus waving her hands at me and glaring with rage. 

I started texting my dearest friend for a diversion.

"What do these people want me to do?" 

"What on earth is such an emergency that everyone is in such a frantic hurry?"

I kept sitting. The general outpouring of hostility and condescension continued. The honking was constant. That by itself was nearly my ruin. In my mind, honking is equivalent to being yelled at, and for a people-pleasing good girl neither one is even remotely acceptable.

I found myself dangerously close to the point of no return. The tears were forming. The self-pitying internal monologue was beginning and it was quite pathetic.

Why are they all in such a hurry? What's so urgent that they need to be mean to me?

No one has even stopped to offer help. Not. One. Person. They don't even know if I have a phone. They don't know if someone's coming to help me.

And they don't care. Nobody cares. Everybody's too busy. Too selfish. They've got their fancy cars and their nice clothes, but they're not nice. 

I began to recall some news story I'd heard once about a woman being attacked in the middle of traffic on a freeway in New York and no one stopping to help her. No one even paying attention. 

And I was quickly deciding that the whole human race is devoid of all compassion and it's a sad, hopeless world we're living in.

Then I looked up and saw four people approaching my stranded vehicle from the parking lot across the sidewalk.

"Put it in neutral", one of them yelled to me with a friendly smile.

Then they all proceeded to push my car down the long stretch of uphill street until the sidewalk opened and I was able to coast into a parking lot. 

I put the van in park, jumped out to thank them, and excercised every ounce of self-restraint I posessed to keep myself from throwing my arms around them and crying on their shoulders while telling them how grateful I was for their selfless display of kindness towards me. In my quest towards control I just said thank you about twenty times.

They smiled, said "no problem", made sure I had help coming, and then went on their way. 

And I sat there waiting for the tow truck, so thankful to be out of the path of aggravated old ladies and obnoxious boys who can shave.

Here's what I was trying to wrap my brain around: those people who stopped and helped me, they were not the kind of people I would expect to help. They were not the kind of people I would approach for help if it were up to me. They were the kind of people I all too often am tempted to disregard because they're just not anything like me.

Stepping out of their beat-up and run-down looking vehicles and walking towards me, they definitely didn't have the look of knights in shining armor.

Three men and a woman, all in their big baggy jeans. Tattooed, pierced, one of them wearing a leather sheathed knife that was bigger than my head. Scrawny and out of shape. Not exactly the stats rescue material is made of.

But they came to my rescue. And I loved them for it. All the "nice" looking people flew past me without an ounce of sympathy. But this unexpected quartet of people who could very easily place their photo in the dictionary above the word "hooligan", they were kind to me. 

I don't describe them this way to sound condescending or belittling. I'm describing them the way I know my mind would process them if I saw them across a parking lot, and had no interaction with them. Because I feel the need to acknowledge the inner snob that never vocalizes itself, but quietly sits ready to raise itself up in superiority when warranted. 

And I want to give that snob a big punch in the face as I tell myself and you that these were some of the most beautiful people I've ever met.

I recounted my tale of woe to some friends later that evening, and one made reference to the good Samaritan. A fitting comparison for sure.

But there's something else I've found myself processing these last few days as everything is of course passing through the filter of Christmas. I've been thinking about expecting a king and then finding Him in a stable. Watching Him choose the unexpected and realizing that His path to king is not going to be what you thought.

And I've been thinking about how we like to think we have everything all figured out and we know the best way, when really, what we consider to be unexpected disappointments and disillusionments may be His best gifts.

Because the beautiful Gift we celebrate at Christmas turned the whole world upside down and showed us that our vision is unreliable and that there is only One who can see what is truly good.

Gift Wrapping made into Memory-Making and God-Honoring Fun ::: This year, I realized that treating Christmas like a task to be completed rather than a special time of year full of teachable moments and joy was doing a disservice to my children. 

The Case for Christmas Cards ::: In today’s society we are overly connected yet growing disconnected from real, personal relationships.

The Ministry of Mary ::: If what Jesus says is true, these basic mothering acts are some of the most sacred of all – shelter for the shelterless, food for the hungry, clothing for the naked.

Of Kids and Christmas ::: Christmas is the ultimate celebration of the material. Because Christmas is the time when God became man.

Send in the Clown ::: The only sacred space set aside in the Christmas season had been invaded by a clown.

** I read these two posts in the same day, and found myself first conflicted, but then made hopeful by the tension between the two. Because I realized, as in all avenues of life, Christmas cannot be boiled down to a set list of rules. It has to be about seeking Jesus, and then letting our actions pour out of our love for Him. Then, regardless of what we do, He is glorified.

**The Christmas Conundrum ::: I'm dying to rediscover what is simple and magnificent about the Savior of the World coming to earth, putting on flesh and saving my life.

**Of Santa and Jesus ::: What of the truest reason for this season, friends?

How in the World to Get Ready for Christmas? ::: Turning the calendar page to December doesn't turn life into this dance of the sugarplum fairies.

The Messy Girl and Her Messiah ::: I doubt this will ever be the most popular version of the Christmas story but for me this years, it's perfect.

My husband shared this with me and of course I had to share it with you.

According to what info I can find, the song "O Holy Night" (one of my favorites!) was based on a french poem written in the 1800's. 

This is the literal translation of the original poem, courtesy of Wikipedia.

Midnight, Christians, it is the solemn hour,
When God-man descended to us
To erase the stain of original sin
And to end the wrath of His Father.
The entire world thrills with hope
On this night that gives it a Savior.

People kneel down, wait for your deliverance.
Christmas, Christmas, here is the Redeemer,
Christmas, Christmas, here is the Redeemer!

May the ardent light of our Faith
Guide us all to the cradle of the infant,
As in ancient times a brilliant star
Guided the Oriental kings there.
The King of Kings was born in a humble manger;
O mighty ones of today, proud of your greatness,

It is to your pride that God preaches.
Bow your heads before the Redeemer!
Bow your heads before the Redeemer!

The Redeemer has overcome every obstacle:
The Earth is free, and Heaven is open.
He sees a brother where there was only a slave,
Love unites those that iron had chained.
Who tell Him of our gratitude,
For all of us He is born, He suffers and dies.

People stand up! Sing of your deliverance,
Christmas, Christmas, sing of the Redeemer,
Christmas, Christmas, sing of the Redeemer!