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.

My own personal countdown has begun.

Every year around this time I start counting the days. Not until Christmas. Not like one of those signs that tells you how many shopping days you've got left.

I count every day around dinnertime. When I'm just starting to prepare our dinner, and I already need to turn on all of the lights in the house because it's dark outside. 

Every morning when I linger in my bed….refusing to start a day without a peak at the sun. (As you can imagine this has led to a significant delay in our daily schedule.)

I count down to the shortest day of the year. I tell myself "almost there". "Not much longer". And "after that, every day will get a little bit longer".

I know some people love the early nights. They take advantage of the darkness and send the kids off to bed hours earlier than they could get away with the rest of the year.

I've been diligently working towards a heart of gratitude about the excess darkness this time of year. I don't want to be a complainer. But it can truly be work for me to try to appreciate the early nights and late mornings.

I suppose that's why I find myself so enamored with one particular aspect of the Christmas season.

Lights.

The beauty in the darkness. The one really good reason to appreciate the early exit of the sun each day. Because the lights just wouldn't be as pretty against a summer sunset kind of sky. They're only so beautiful because of their boldness against the dark.

We visited the local courthouse square this weekend. All decked out for Christmas. I do feel so thankful this time of year to be living on the outskirts of our state's "Christmas City".

This makes me enjoy the dark. It's just so pretty.

If I had more patience I would learn how to take really glamorous Christmas light pictures. Instead I just settle for the best I can get. Maybe next year I'll attempt to learn.

We put lights on our house for the first time this year. I always want to do it . And every year it just seems like one more unnecessary expense. So we just don't do it. We talk about saving some money and trying to do it the next year.

This year I was tired of putting it off. I love the lights. Our girls love the lights. We needed our own.

One lone little strand outside, and one more inside the front windows. It's not much. But I love it. It makes our house glow at the end of our dark street. 

I'm really kind of glad we never got around to Christmas lights until now. Before I certainly would have chosen all white lights. But my recent love of color had it's influence, and I think it's so much fun.

Of course I do still love the glow of white lights in our living room.

I've been turning them on the second it starts to hint of dusk outside. Trying to warm our house with the glow before the cold darkness takes over.

I never considered them as anything more than plain old Christmas lights all of my growing up years. But now, probably because I'm getting so old and contemplative about everything, their brilliance always draws me to consider and savor the reason for Advent.

Arise, shine; 
For your light has come!
And the glory of the Lord is risen upon you.
Isaiah 60:1

Joining Emily today for Tuesdays Unwrapped.

Sunday afternoon we started pulling all of the Christmas decor out of the schoolroom closet. The girls had been begging since Friday.

They quickly found their favorite things, and rejoiced like they were being reunited with long-lost friends.

We emptied boxes and and replaced everyday decorations with our beloved seasonal ones. Dusted shelves to make everything look shiny and clean. Returned all of our fall and Thanksgiving books back to the bookshelves and replaced them with our treasured Christmas stories.

It was fun to see how after so many years of doing things exactly the same, all my girls know quite firmly where each decoration goes. 

Dinner time came and went. Things still weren't finished, and the thrill of bringing out all of the Christmas stuff had fizzled to a strong desire just to be done.

Only I didn't feel like getting it done. But I didn't like that it was un-done. So I was stuck in an awful state of discontent with no hopeful solution in sight.

I wanted to relax. Quit for the day, and just rest. But of course that's always a hard choice for me.

With much help from my husband, I made the choice to stop for the night and leave it all to be finished the next day.

The table remained littered with dirty dishes. The dishes that had made it to the sink stayed there piled high. The unloaded closet in the schoolroom remained. No floor in sight.

The boxes stayed in random piles and the vacuum sat in the path of the front door with the cord completely unwound and draped everywhere.

I forced myself to disregard all of the practical and responsible things that extra twenty dollars was going to go towards, and instead sent my sweet husband to pick up pizza.

We threw a blanket on the living room floor and turned on our first Christmas movie of the season. Ate pizza and wings, kicked back in our pajamas, and just relaxed. All in the middle of a mess.

And it was wonderful.

Ninety-nine percent of the time I am driven by an overwhelming need to be responsible. Time, money, possessions; all must be handled in the most disciplined and purposeful ways.

But sometimes I just want to let it all go.

For one night I chose not to think about all that I should be doing, chose to ignore the budget, and chose not to analyze if our food was good for us. 

I realized that I often miss the gifts available to me because I choose my agenda over receiving a gift.

Clearly I am still learning how to rest. 

It occurs to me now that what I unintentionally chose Sunday night was to receive the gift of sabbath. A choice I need to make much more often.

*So excited to again be linking up with Tuesdays unwrapped.

Pretty much the only guarantee with small children is that nothing will go as planned. At least that is how it goes around here.

Something I have learned in the last couple of years, and that I have been growing in understanding of continually, is that my sweet, beautiful, perfect little girls are not perfect.

Mind-blowing revelation, I know.

But seriously, my eyes have been opened to the misconception I was carrying around. I never would have put it into words, but somewhere in my brain it was there, shaping my thoughts and views of things. 

The misconception: if you are a good enough parent, your children will be perfect. If you train them well enough, if you protect them enough, if you make your home holy enough, your children will be pure and perfect.

I'm hesitant to ever blame my wrong ideas on anything, but I honestly have to point my finger with this one and say I think it's a product of well-meaning but not quite right Christian parenting and home schooling books. 

The problem with this idea is of course the obvious: my children.

They are sinners. Just like me. 

At times they choose to do wrong. Just like me.

It is impossible for them to be perfect. Much to my own sorrow, just like me.

I must stop thinking that they are my little creations to tweak and primp until they meet my heart's desire.

They are made in the image of God. Just like me.

And they are His to prune and correct and mold into something beautiful. Just like me.

There are times when I need to be the mom, and take charge and be the boss and assert the fact that I know better than they do.

But there are other times when I need to recognize that we are the same, and need to be stopped and humbled and seek forgiveness. 

Because they make mistakes. Just like me.

Because they are not perfect. And they will mess up. That's why they need a Saviour. 

Just like me.

I'm so thankful that I may come boldly to the throne of grace. And I'm so thankful for the privilege of being able to lead my girls to do the same.