Being small
When I was living in Italy a few years ago, I wrote this about my youngest Fiona during Advent. I think it is the perfect memory—and food for thought—for this final day and week of Advent.
Fiona has been especially spicy these past few months. She's five, she's adorable, and she's a handful.
The other day before dinner, I heard a few of the kids arguing in the bedroom. After a minute or so, Fiona came running into the living room, where I sat and collapsed to the floor in front of me in a pile of glitter, red hair, and tears. I got down and sat on the floor beside her, listening while she wailed. A million miles a minute, she explained in an extremely high voice that she hated being small. She was the smallest, which, she explained, meant everyone got to things before she did — the cookies on the counter, the last blueberry muffin at breakfast, the remote control, the brighter and better pink marker, the red game piece in Candy Land, the last stick of gum, etc., etc., etc. … She went on to complain that because she was small, she wasn't faster than anyone, she wasn't taller than anyone, and she wasn't bigger than anyone and she was DONE! She ended at a slightly louder volume than when she began.
I took her into my arms and said all the mom things — everyone else was once your size, you are the only one that can fit into the best hide-and-go-seek hiding spots, good things come in small packages, etc., etc., etc. She listened, not buying most of it. I want to be big, she said.
A few days later, we were opening up the tubs of Christmas decorations to find the creche. As my husband pulled out each gently wrapped piece, Fiona's eyes widened. Which one is that? She asked with each figure. Fred unwrapped the Wiseman; all three were long and sturdy. Then he pulled out Joseph, who stood strong against His long staff. Mary's figurine was next. She knelt, but the beautiful folds of her mantle made her a bit wider than the others. Finally, Fred pulled out the smallest wrapped figurine. What's that one?! Fiona asked. It's Jesus! We both said, laughing. As he unwrapped the tiny figure, Fiona watched intently. After thinking about it for a moment, I held Him up and said, see, Jesus is small like you. Then we set Him down in the center of the manger with all the other figurines gathered around Him. Then she asked intently, Why would God want to be so small?
You know how long I have been chewing on that question? From the mouth of babes…
During this time of preparation for Advent, we are all invited to mediate over this question, Why did Jesus become small? Our all mighty God could raise or strike down the walls of the greatest temple with the blink of His eye, yet He made Himself small to worship within the temple walls alongside His family and neighbors. At the dawn of time itself, God instituted the sacrament of marriage yet made Himself small to attend a wedding feast and to delight in showering the bride, bridegroom, and their guests with wine. God is the author of all life, the science of generation, and the power that begets all things, yet He made Himself small so that through the womb of His mother, He could enter into the vulnerability of man.
In today's Psalm 89 we read of the psalmist’s hope, but also his despair… One of the darkest pieces in the Psalter, the fragility of our human condition is captured with the rise and fall of each verse. Joy then despair, confidence then doubt, innocence then guilt. Man is small. Man is vulnerable. Man needs hope, healing, and redemption. And this Advent, we get the gift of preparing for a God who humbly gives us these gifts in the way we can most effectively receive them — by being small. When God became man, He taught us how to be small, how to surrender, how to be vulnerable, how to receive the gifts He wants to give us.
Fiona's smallness — the smallness of a five-year-old — brings with it a simplicity that can receive and rest in joy. In her smallness, she doesn't resist me or her father's embrace, she seeks comfort curled up in the warmth of our laps, and she runs to us in both her excitement and sorrow. No wound can heal without our kiss, no road can be crossed without our hand, and no day is complete without the assurance of our heart. The vulnerability of her smallness isn't a weakness; rather, it’s a strength that allows her to receive all that she needs to grow and flourish.
In our all-mighty God's humility, He became man so that we may understand that it is precisely in the vulnerability of our smallness that we can grow and flourish as a child of God. We read in Scripture that Jesus hungered, slept, prayed, laughed, cried, and enjoyed friends. In doing so, He sanctified our every tender moment of need and vulnerability so that we can slip our hand into His and walk through these moments together. In His smallness, He teaches us how to take the lesser seat, how to be last, how to serve, and how to suffer while always putting another first. He teaches us to seek comfort in our Heavenly Father's lap, to run to Him with the joys and sufferings of our hearts, to ask Him to kiss and heal our wounds, to hold our hands as we navigate our path, and to always settle in the assurance that He is with us, always.
It took a few days for me to answer Fiona, and I pray that as Advent continues and as the years pass, my understanding will grow as I learn how to become smaller myself. Over a bowl of Cheerios, I told her that God, who has the might to move mountains, to command the seas and sky, and to hold the sun, moon, and stars in their place, made Himself small so that you can easily fit your hand in His and follow where He leads you. With a smile and milk on her chin, she said, “Good! I like holding hands.”
