Expectant Waiting

Many of the reflections I have read this month speak of the First Advent in relation to the Second Advent. We cannot fully grasp the first coming of Christ without knowing of the second that is to come. He came to earth to become like us so that we can go to heaven and (finally) become like Him.

Because really, the humble birth, the quiet growing up, the mighty but brief ministry among a small group of people—even the sacrificial death and miraculous resurrection and ascension—none of it would mean much if that were the end.

And all that has happened since then—the message of love that has spread across the lands and centuries, defying persecution and time and sinful misuse and abuse—it has all been in anticipation of What Is to Come. If this were it, if we lived our short matchstick lives here and then burned out—no matter how spectacularly—what would it matter? Why would we brave disease and danger to take the gospel to an unreached people? Why would we give up wealth and luxury to live among the poor? Why worry about the hungry and hopeless? Why sully our reputations with words hateful to some ears? Why make ourselves uncomfortable?

But of course we know this is not the end. He came that first time, He lived among us and died hanging there between time and eternity, His blood dripping down to drench the world in Hope. He went back to heaven but left that Hope with us. He came the first time so He could come back again.

And we take Hope to a suffering world, hold it out in hands that are inadequate, speak it with words that all too often fall short. But like the wind bearing seeds, this Hope needs only our efforts. We only hold it out, speak it aloud, offer it up. Hope does the rest.

We are not taken out of our suffering, but He comes to walk with us in it, and “we behold His glory…full of grace and truth.” And maybe those who suffer most are those who Hope most.

To live in Hope implies that we are waiting expectantly. Like those who lived in darkness and saw a great light, we live in an electric anticipation. He is coming!

Mother of God

What must it be like to hold God in your arms?

I wonder that every year during Advent, especially now that I am a mother myself. I have always admired Mary, wondered what she must have been like to receive such favor from God. To bear His Son. To take that flesh-clad holiness into her own home, to let Him live among her messes and failures and weariness and dirt, to feed Him and change Him and to know He often saw her at her worst.

Yet she accepted the angel's pronouncement with quiet faith. She endured the months of gossip and slander and questioning, mocking looks. There is no evidence of her complaining at giving birth in a stable far from home. Her only recorded words are words of trust and ardent praise. When those around her chattered giddy with wonder and joy, she quietly tucked the moments away in her heart, treasures to ponder in her own quiet way.

Would I want to be Mary, if I could? Would I want to look at the baby in my arms and know He was God? Would I be able to live with those eyes on me, those little hands reaching out, the same hands that made the world? How would it feel to explode in a sudden burst of anger and then remember that God was in the room? What would it be like to impatiently snap at Him with harsh words, only to be reminded of His divinity?

I heave a sigh of relief to know that my own children are only ordinary sinners like myself. And yet. Sinners they may be, but they were created in His image. They bear His stamp, just as Jesus did. And when I hold them in my arms, I may not be holding God Himself, but I am holding holiness. His breath breathed into them. His fingerprints covering every inch. His song of delight hovering over them, just as it did over His Firstborn.

When I speak to them in anger, when I treat them harshly, when I withhold my time or attention or love, I hurt God as much as I hurt them. Why would I not be as careful and gentle with their hearts as I would with the very heart of Christ?

I am convinced only Mary's humility allowed her to live day after day with God under her roof. She surely knew the meaning of grace more than anyone and was able to accept it fully, aware of her inadequacy. But the knowledge of who Jesus was must have made her more thoughtful, more careful, more purposeful.

I have neither the humility nor the thoughtfulness. But maybe, by His grace, I can begin to see my children as God sees them. And maybe, by the same grace, they will see me the same way.

The Holy Among Us

Wrapped in swaddling cloths, my squirming, kicking five-month old makes a ridiculous Baby Jesus. Adorable, yes, but she is all girl with those rosy cheeks and delicate eyelashes. And newborn she is definitely not, as evidenced by her ever-moving, chubby appendages and bright, curious eyes. And who am I to think I could pretend to be the Mother Mary?

Yet here we stand before a plywood stable in a warm indoor garden, "Silent Night" playing in the background as we wait for the hundreds of onlookers to travel through a theatrical Bethlehem in search of the Baby Jesus. I feel anything but holy as Ben and I joke with the teenaged Roman guard. Sylvia, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the moment more than her mother does, promptly falls asleep in the manger, naked arms spread in peace.

Suddenly it has begun. The first onlookers arrive and I hear Ben reciting his lines of welcome and see the look that comes over their faces as they view the child. I open my mouth to say my only line, "He is our precious gift from God," and my voice catches in a sob.

Our precious gift from God.

The holy bursts in upon me with a force that brings the tears to my eyes. I--who so long have loved Mary's heart and story, who so often yearn to have her gentle and quiet spirit--I should have been ready for Christ to come. But I was not looking for Him, and now here He is, quietly closing around me and taking my breath away with His love.

The people coming through our little stable do not see my bouncing baby Sylvia. Looking upon my sleeping child, they see Jesus. Because they are looking for Him. They have come this night to escape the bustle and glitter and clamor and noise, to be reminded of What It's All About. And there in the manger sleeps a perfect little baby, and they don't see my baby but another Baby who was also God.

The wonder and ridiculousness of it makes me laugh even as I am crying. That God would use a harried, exhausted couple and their too-big baby and a fake manger scene in a modern church garden...It's almost as ridiculous as God using a real teenage girl and her fiance and a real manger scene on a real night in Bethlehem.

He is our precious gift from God. The holy has come among us.

I must admit that I love the traditions of Christmas. I love the decorations, the gifts, the cookies, the carols, the family gatherings--all of it. And though I piously agree with all who say that the true meaning of Christmas is Christ among us, I secretly think it just wouldn't be the same without all those other things. I know this is because my heart does not long for Him fully enough, does not look for Him intently enough. Though I long for Him to be my All in All, I must shamefully admit that He is not.

What would happen, I wonder, if I put all the Christmas things away, forsook the gift giving, forgot the food, and truly focused on Him? Would it be Christmas?

I want to want only Him. I had a glimpse of Him that night as I held my baby in my arms and imagined holding God. A God who would give Himself to us in such a way is surely worthy of my all.

(From the archives)

A light has come

Today is the second day of Advent, Day Two of our Jesse Tree journey. I have never done a Jesse tree before, but this year I want to make Christ the center of the season, for myself and for the family. So each evening we read our Jesse Tree devotional to see how Christmas started all the way in the beginning. Day one tells of God's creation, the act of great love that breathed us into the world. Day two is (already) our rejection of Him. We turned our backs to Him, inviting in the destruction, desolation and despair our pride would bring. Yet He pursued us with His love, driving us into a world that would drive us back to Him, clothing our nakedness and protecting us from the Garden which would now destroy us, and most of all promising us a Savior.

God, let me believe. This world is so weary of waiting. It is bitter and cynical and alone and afraid. It lashes out at You while claiming not to believe in You, because believing hurts too much and raises too many questions. Where were You when…? Where are You now? Why don’t You come? Why don’t You come?

And yet You did come long ago to a tiny manger in a tiny town. You made Yourself tiny among us and clothed Your God-glory in flesh that we might bear it. It was enough then, and it is still enough. We long for vengeance; You showed us forgiveness. We long for justice; You showed us mercy. We long to see our enemies punished; You showed us love. We long for all of this pain and suffering and loss and rejection and hopelessness to disappear; You took it all to the cross and transformed it into hope. You did not pull us out of the pit but plunged into it with us, and if we will but learn from You, we will find You in the midst of the mess.

This I want to believe. To know that those who have suffered most will drink most deeply from Your well. To understand that the ruined and broken people of the world can find peace and joy and rest in this place, right now, in Your love. To see the light that entered the world so long ago burning warm and fierce, healing our hopeless, battered hearts.

You used a manger to cradle Your glory. A band of fishermen to spread Your story. A teenage girl to hold all our hopes inside her pregnant belly. A rough wooden cross to bear the weight of Your sacrifice. We keep looking for fireworks from heaven while you keep making miracles of everyday things, quietly filling us—US—with the hope the world hungers for. Or we would be filled if we would let You open us raw and wide and hurting and afraid; if we would give You that and let You use it. But in our fear and pride and loneliness we shrink down into smallness, hovering over our hurts instead of letting them be bread broken for You. We don’t listen. We don’t come. Because we don’t believe.

If we did, we would be crying it out to all the world that our hope is here, among us, as the shepherds did on Your birthday, as the angels did on Your resurrection day, as the true few have done every day since.

Help me believe. Enough to give myself to You. Enough to give up everything else. Enough to proclaim You with all my might.

My Life-Giver

I wake up grumpy, having slept through my alarm with no time to curl into my favorite chair and prepare for the day alone with God. I feel tired already. The house is a mess, the kids are hyper, I have too much to do. Doggedly donning my running shoes, I plop the girls into the stroller, walk Malachi to school, and begin the tedious jog down to the river to give the dog—and myself—some exercise. Along the way my mind churns, drawing up the lists for the day. I can almost see the gloomy clouds settling over my spirit.

Meanwhile, in the stroller, Mikayla keeps up the stream of conversation that began as soon as she jumped out of bed and won’t stop till sleep forces her to silence. “Mom, look at those pretty flowers!” “Isn’t that a cool building, Mom?” “Hey Mom, look at that car!”

She laughs at the dogs we pass, comments upon every building, tree, flower, or person her gaze lights upon, and sings made-up songs about our walk. She waves at every car, and the drivers, surprised out of their morning doldrums, smile and wave back.

She has no agenda for her day. She is not worried about the time, about getting enough exercise, about the impossible to-do list. She lives joyfully free in the moment, enjoying the people and things in front of her, making the most of now.

I find myself smiling. My shoulders relax. My stride lengthens. My heart lifts. The thought comes to me that Mikayla is a life-giver. Where did she learn that? I wish I could say from me. But for my three-year old, giving life is effortless, done without thought or intention. She gives life because she is so full of life, so innocent of the worries I burden myself with.

When was the last time I approached my day with the thought of giving life instead of checking off my list?

Once again my child is the teacher, pointing the way to God’s heart. Isn’t this why God gives us children, to remind us?

Even Sleeplessness

“When Christ is at the center, when dishes, laundry, work, is my song of thanks to Him, joy rains. Passionately serving Christ alone makes us the loving servant to all.” –Ann Voskamp

“The work we do is only our love for Jesus in action. If we pray the work…if we do it to Jesus, if we do it for Jesus, if we do it with Jesus…that’s what makes us content.” --Mother Teresa

I sat through the night holding my sleepless baby, staring angrily at the walls and asking where You are, why this continues, why I have been getting up through the night for 11 months with no end in sight. Feeling exhausted, overwhelmed. Feeling like a mother failure. Feeling abandoned and alone.

I suppose I think it is my right to have a baby who sleeps through the night. After all, this is normal. After all, sleep is supremely important. Without sleep we cannot serve You well. Right?

But here in the daylight I can see You more clearly, can feel Your gentle remonstrance. Let go of your rights. Anyway, is sleep really a right? Maybe it is a gift. And maybe You are trying to tell me that You even give grace to the sleep-deprived. That even my lack of sleep will not stop You from meeting my needs, from making sure I have enough. (But really, Lord? Sleep?)

Let go. Let go. It’s what you keep telling me over and over, and I cling to my idea of my own needs. I whine. I seek pity. I grump. What if I let go of sleep? And what if letting go means I quit feeling sorry for myself, quit dwelling on problems, quit the pity party? What if I accept NOT sleeping as a gift? Can I be willing to explore that, to see what you might have to offer me there?

I want to see not sleeping as part of my act of love for Jesus. I want to sing a song of thanks to Him even in the middle of the night. I want my crazy, chaotic, time-deprived days to be songs of love to Jesus that will rain on my children, my husband, and many, many others.

It begins with thankfulness, with choosing to see all of life as a gift. Even this.

Just Let Go

He has climbed high on the rock, higher than ever before, and now he is paralyzed. I hear his weeping before I even step from the car, the small voice shaking with fear. He looks small up there, eight-year old limbs clinging desperately to the granite face, and my heart squeezes tight with the pain of his terror.

“Let go of the rock, son,” my husband’s voice is patient but just beginning to fray around the edges. Two hours of coaxing and coaching have gotten him nowhere.

“I can’t,” he sobs. “It’s too scary.”

Ben looks at me. What do we do? Having climbed three quarters of the way up the rock face, Malachi suddenly realized what he had done, and now his only thought was of falling. Never mind the rope attached to his full-body harness, running through an anchor that could hold up a car. Never mind his father on the other end of that rope, keeping him from falling. Like Peter who boldly walked onto the raging sea, only to realize his danger and sink, Malachi can see nothing but his own piece of the story, and he knows he doesn’t have what it takes. He’s going to fall.

“All you have to do is let go. You aren’t going to fall. I’ve got you, son. Let go of the rock.”

“No! No, no, no!” His foot slips, and he screams, scrabbling to maintain his precarious hold.

“You have to trust me. I’m not going to let you get hurt. Just grab the rope and I will let you down.”

“I can’t! It feels too scary, Dad. It feels like I’m going to fall.”

We gaze at each other in frustration. In his present position, I can’t climb up to him or reach him from the top. There is nothing we can do for him until he lets go.

“Please, Malachi. Just let go.”

“I can’t. I’m too afraid.” He sobs into the unfeeling stone, ashamed, trembling with terror. My heart wavers between pity and frustration. If only he could see what we see! That if he would just trust the rope and the one holding it, he would be safe on the ground in a matter of seconds.

But how often have I said the same to my own Father? “Let go,” He says. “Grab the rope and trust me.”

“I can’t, Lord. I’m too scared. It doesn’t feel safe.”

A small crowd of boy scouts gathers, waiting their turn to climb, and I can hear the guide quietly using my son as an object lesson. Driven by embarrassment, Malachi begins to inch his way down the rock. Still refusing to let go and lean back, he scrabbles down bit by bit, crying with each slip of the foot, making his descent an agonizing scrape instead of the graceful swing it could be. What amazes me is that he rappelled before only a few moments ago, leaning back confidently into the strong hold of his dad. Why is he so afraid when he has done this before, when he has witnessed firsthand the strength and safety of the rope?

Yet this too is my response time and again, even after I have witnessed my Father’s faithfulness over and over. This time it’s too scary. This time the rope will not hold me. Surely I will fall. I live just as the children of Israel, who “forgot what he had done, the wonders he had shown them” (Ps. 78:11).

I want to be angry at two hours of the afternoon gone, at having to cancel plans to take everyone swimming and have dinner with friends, at the embarrassment of trying to explain that my son is stuck on a rock and won’t come down. I can’t be angry because he is me. I have been clinging stubbornly to my own fear, staring into an immovable granite face, while my Father calls gently to me over and over, “Just let go. Really. I’ve got you. You aren’t going to fall.”

Feet on the ground again, the shame washes over Malachi and he tries to say sorry, tries to undo the two-hour barrage of abuse he has heaped upon his dad. “I wasn’t bothered by his fear,” Ben tells me later. “I was just so frustrated that he wouldn’t listen to me.”

I wonder if the lesson will sink into Malachi’s heart. I wonder if it will sink into my own. Next time, will he let go and trust? Will I?

The Opposite of Faith is Fear

“The lamp of the body is the eye. If therefore your eye is good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in you is darkness, how great is that darkness!

“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be loyal to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon.

“Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

“Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?

“…But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Matthew 6:22-27, 33-34

I read this morning that the opposite of faith is fear. That fear is the notion that God’s love will end. That it will not be enough. I read also that the true disciple is the grateful one. That eucharisteo always precedes the miracle. “Thanks is what builds trust” (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts).

It is so true, all of it. And why then, am I so slow to trust, to build my life on thankfulness and rest? I can look back on a long journey of moving from worry to worry, fear to fear. At every single point You provided, You answered with love. Some of the seeing took longer to come, true. But can I not hold every one of those memories now and say You were there, loving me as always, holding me tight as always?

Yet here I sit this morning bound up by fears and worries.

I will not have the strength for today. I’m just too tired.
Sylvia is NEVER going to sleep!
I’m failing my kids. How will I ever get this right?
I can’t get it all done.
I have taken on too much work. How will I ever grade all those papers AND care for the kids AND do the housework AND AND AND…?
I am not serving enough, loving enough, doing enough.

ENOUGH! Aren’t these fears all bound up in future moments, today and years from now? Am I not saying that the God who has been enough for me through all the yesterdays will somehow fail me today, tomorrow?

My eye is full of darkness. The light that is in me is not light at all. It is heavy, a weight, an oppressive burden.

I gaze out the window at the majestic snow-covered peak that still takes my breath. I will lift up my eyes unto the hills. From where does my help come?

I can hear the morning song of birds, rejoicing in spring. Two of them flit about in the yard, oblivious to my gaze, full of life and busyness. They are fully in the moment. Do the birds sit around worrying that tomorrow they will not have enough? Do they allow an uncertain future to steal today’s song? And why is it so hard for me to learn the trust that is theirs so naturally?

Worry does not add one cubit to my stature. It diminishes me and all those around me. Thankfulness builds me up, turns my gaze back to the One who has promised to always, always be enough.

Thank you that each day of Ben’s month-long absence, I have had enough for the kids. Even when I felt I was not going to make it, I did.
Thank You that You always give me just enough sleep.
Thank You for extra summer jobs that provide…and for the time and energy to complete them.
Thank you for the forgiveness of my kids, their simple trust and love.
Thank you that just when I most needed to hear from my husband, he called…even though he wasn’t supposed to call until next week.
Thank you that I do not have to worry about tomorrow or even today. There is only the now, living fully in You each moment.
Thank you for grace for this falling, failing child.

Ann Voskamp says that trust is a discipline. It is reining in the wild fears, taming the mind. A moment-by-moment work. This is why we are commanded to give thanks at all times. If the opposite of faith is fear, the pathway from fear to faith is gratitude. And I am learning that gratitude is a discipline, not an emotion, a way of seeing that requires choice.

I will choose You this moment. Let my path become one of trust instead of worry, thanks instead of fear.

Spring Snow

May 11, and the snow is falling in buckets. I have been watching it all day, heavy and wet, blanketing everything in thick white promise.

A few days ago we were wearing shorts and sunscreen, splashing around in the river, anticipating summer. Now I’m hauling out the shovel and snow boots.

Maybe I should be frustrated and annoyed. More winter? Haven’t we had enough? But I am filled instead with a strange, quiet gladness. Looking out the window, I sense this from the earth, too—she is offering herself up, accepting this cold blessing as a promise of what is to come. I can almost feel the soil greedily absorbing every snowflake. And the trees almost seem to be raising arms in praise as they are clothed in purest beauty. I can feel life pulsing, rejoicing, ready to burst through into eternity. The bird singing in the tree outside my window feels it, too.

We will plow and shovel, wade through slush and slop, deal with the ensuing mud and mess, putting away the shorts for another day. In a few days this quiet gift will be gone and the world will come roaring and spitting back to life around me. But it will be softer, greener, more robust and alive than ever.

Good Friday

And so You hung, God, suspended over all our sin, blood dripping scarlet onto the blackness of this broken world. And Your heart broke even as our sin split You open—we split You open, God, the God who dreamed us up in love and breathed His own breath into our lungs. And so You came, not willing to be the tyrant, for that would go against Your very self, and that would force us to bow, fearful subjects rather than willing worshippers. You came the only way You could come, in love, becoming one of us.

Outside the wind howls as I survey my domain: on the counter the remains of lunch, a box of band-aids from doctoring a finger, items from yesterday's shopping. On the table some discarded clothing, a puzzle, a dirty plate, a sticky note. On the coffee table a dirty diaper, a bottle of medicine, books, school papers, a box of crayons. Floor littered with kid-made, mom-made, dog-made clutter. I fight the daily feeling that this physical clutter is what matters. I sit on the couch in the little sliver of afternoon sunshine, and I find Malachi's paper.

He pulled it from his backpack the other day, said casually, "Want to see what I did at school today?"

I read in his careful, scrawling, just-learned cursive the words to 2 Chronicles 7:14: "If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land."

"This is very good," I say, still not fully engaged. "Did you all do this together?"

"No, I just found that verse in my book at free time and decided to copy it."

He has my attention. "What made you want to do that?"

"Oh, I just like that verse and I want to hang it in my room to remember it."

"Do you know what this verse means, son?"

"Yeah." Still in that bright, confident, first-grade voice. "It means that if we confess our sins to God and ask for forgiveness, He will forgive us and heal us."

My eyes are filling with tears now. I grab him in a hug, tell him how glad I am that he loves God's word and wants to remember it.

My seven year-old used his free time to copy scripture. While his friends were playing, chattering, or dreaming, he found a verse he liked and wrote it down, just because. And he fully believes that verse, fully expects it to be true.

Once again Malachi is God's messenger to me. All these moments are His. There is grace for every sinner, faith for the smallest child, peace for the most harried mother. The wind is howling outside, but I am sitting in warm sunshine.

The Need for Newness

The new year sneaked in when I wasn't looking. Somewhere in the midst of potty training, diaper changing, dish washing, clutter cleaning, the clock kept turning, bringing the inevitable.

I have always made new year's resolutions and rarely kept any of them. This year I didn't bother, and New Year's Day passed like any other in my life. Why worry about it, since nothing in my life today is any different than it was yesterday? I wake up to the same list of chores, the same routine, the same challenges and fears.

I was wrong. I need newness. We celebrate the ending of the old, the beginning of the new, because we need fresh starts. We need hope. We need to dream, set goals, think about what could be. I need a new journal with fresh, blank pages. I need a calendar with twelve empty months in which to dream and hope and plan.

I need the newness of each day, the renewed promise of a fresh start, another chance.

I am wrong to take newness for granted.

I am wrong not to hope.

I climb out of bed late this morning, greeted with dirty dishes and shouting children and clutter and chaos. Determined to start the day right, I open my Bible randomly.

"O, you afflicted one,
Tossed with tempest, and not comforted,
Behold, I will lay your stones with colorful gems,
And lay your foundations with sapphires.
I will make your pinnacles of rubies,
Your gates of crystal,
And all your walls of precious stones.
All your children shall be taught by the Lord,
And great shall be the peace of your children.
In righteousness you shall be established;
You shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear;
And from terror, for it shall not come near you." (Is. 54:11-14)

The promises shower down upon me one after the other, breaking in upon all my attempts to be gloomy. My Lord loves the joy of hope. He delights in "wills" and "shalls" and in making all things new.

I will plant my new year's resolutions like seeds of hope, watching to see the faithfulness of God.