Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

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Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.
The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.
2 Corinthians 5:17 (ESV)

Wishing you the happiest New Year’s Day!

May you feel peace knowing that you are a new creation in Christ, that He will renew your heart and offer fresh mercies every day. May you resist the pressure and temptation to fill up a blank calendar with lofty resolutions and appointments that will stretch you thin. May you remember that you are more than any goal met, any resolution kept, any to-do list checked. You are loved just as you are, and may you find rest in that truth.

Happy New Year, friends!

Tomorrow Is Full of Fresh Mercies

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Then it will be as though I had sprinkled clean water on you, for you will be clean — your filthiness will be washed away, your idol worship gone. And I will give you a new heart — I will give you new and right desires — and put a new spirit within you. I will take out your stony hearts of sin and give you new hearts of love. And I will put my Spirit within you so that you will obey my laws and do whatever I command.
Ezekiel 36:25-27 (TLB)
Today is the last day of the year, and tomorrow brings with it a new year and a fresh start.

No matter what you’ve faced this year — the hard, challenging, or painful, the lovely, exciting, or beautiful — tomorrow is full of fresh mercies. Because of God’s grace and forgiveness, we are offered a new heart and a new spirit. When we accept the gift of a new year and a new life in Christ, God promises to give us a heart that is once again soft and a spirit that is open to His guiding.

As we close out this year, reflecting on all that has happened in the past 365 days, all the ways we’ve grown and struggled and loved and learned, let’s remember that a new day is coming. God will give us a new heart — as well as a new year!

Happy last day of 2020, friends!

The Inner Simplicity We All Long For

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Don’t be impressed with your own wisdom.
Instead, fear the Lord and turn away from evil.
Then you will have healing for your body
and strength for your bones.
Proverbs 3:7-8 (NLT)

My husband teases me that I’m a hoarder. His ultra-minimalistic outlook says I hang on to way too many items of both clutter and sentiment. I disagree. I also choose not to count the multiple stacks of books currently on my desk as evidence that he’s right. But compared to many, our home and possessions are pretty streamlined.

I don’t have cabinets full of knickknacks, and I prefer cleared-off countertops and tables. But with three kids and daily deposits of school papers and junk mail, my wish isn’t always my reality. Still, I think most people would characterize our material life as fairly simple.

My spiritual life, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as tidy.

While I can find relief purging the junk drawer, donating unworn clothes, and throwing out all the mismatched Tupperware lids, I find it much more difficult to get rid of the unnecessary “junk” in my heart — the noise that threatens to crowd out God’s voice.

I wish it weren’t so. I wish I were more disciplined. I wish I had better boundaries on social media and that I never got sucked into late-night or early-morning scrolling. I long to spend as much time in God’s Word as I do messaging friends and traveling down viral video rabbit trails.

I yearn for quiet. Yet at any given time, I have no less than a dozen tabs open in my internet browser. Yes, I know this slows down my system, but I like to have all the information I might need within a fingertip’s click-reach. I choose this multi-tab lifestyle, yet my head spins with spreadsheets to fill out and articles to read and to-dos to check off my ever-growing list.

It’s a tension I hate, but I also dread the thought of giving it up. I fear the what-ifs — what if I’m missing something important? Deep in my soul, I desire simplicity — like I was made for it — but I’m slow to give up the complexity that masquerades as comfort and convenience.

As I face my inner frazzle, I have to admit that what I really need is more of Jesus. Oh, how I need Him. I long for quiet, for His still small voice to be louder than all the noise. Or better yet, to hush the noise of the world so that His whispers might be the single echo in my heart.

Story written by Becky Keife

A life of simplicity, an un-frazzled mind, and a contented heart come not from what the world tells us to pursue but from trusting God. When we focus on Jesus rather than on what others are doing or thinking, we find a simpler life that allows us to rest and be at peace with who we are. Inner simplicity comes when we stop seeking wisdom in our own eyes or in the eyes of others, and start seeking wisdom from the Lord.

Courageous Simplicity is about learning to fix our eyes and our lives on Jesus Christ. On our own, we can’t do enough or be enough. With God, we have everything we need.

If life feels cluttered, complicated, or chaotic, we get it. God is inviting us to experience a different pace and peace. Oh, how we need it! This study will help you release control of what frays your soul and will lead you to true refreshment. As you train in the spiritual practice of simplicity, you will discover the God who loves you lavishly and wants to show you how to live with a heart open and surrendered to His presence. Start the new year with us by learning to live in the peace and freedom of having and being enough.

Sign up for a FREE week of our new Courageous Simplicity Bible Study! Together, we’ll learn how to abide in the simple abundance of Jesus.

Join us on the journey to Courageous Simplicity.

When the Unexpected Becomes an Invitation

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Every alarm wailed as my three-year-old son’s heart rate skyrocketed. Another hallucination had overtaken him, and this one elicited nothing but terror. Eyes overcome with panic, his screams reverberated throughout the ER. His small-but-strong body fought to get away as my husband held him close, doing everything he knew to soothe him. Nothing worked.

I looked away. My hand covered my mouth, hoping that holding my breath would keep the tears at bay. But I couldn’t shake the dread. For the first time in ten years, I feared I might lose another son.

“No, God. Not again.” My prayers were small but desperate, the words failing to do justice to the ache. My mind scrambled for something to hold on to, anything that might keep my faith from slipping.

All night long our son’s hallucinations continued, wavering between a world we could not see and horror we could not take away. I sat with him in his hospital bed, doing my best to calm him and to keep all the wires monitoring his vitals from getting tangled. While the doctor reassured us that his small body would soon right itself as the substance he had ingested worked its way out of his system, all we could do was wait.

Eventually the nightmare subsided, both for him and for us. Twenty-four hours later, he was released from the pediatric ICU. We were tired but thankful to be taking our son home. We knew all too well what it was like to leave a hospital with empty hands and hearts, and the privilege of taking home our boy was not lost on us.

Back at home, I was grateful but unsettled. Our son’s personality, speech, and ability to use his own body gradually re-emerged. Each toothy smile was a gift. While our prayers had been answered, I felt strangely hollow, like I was still waiting for God to arrive.

I told myself, “I should know better. Have I forgotten everything God has done?”

You see, ten years prior, I had whispered in a cold ultrasound room, “I cannot do this.” And ten years ago, God met me in unimaginable grief. Slowly, gently, Divine Love made Himself known as my soul wretched in pain. Slowly, gently, His presence pulled me through the loss of our second-born son. Darkness is no match for His light.

And yet, why did I find myself in the shadows yet again — especially when the outcome had been so different? Where I thought hope would be alive, God seemed hazy at best. I felt like I had betrayed Him — that by failing to see His goodness in the present I had cheapened what He had done in my past. Shame’s black tendrils crept inward.

My mind became plagued with questions, and my emotions did gymnastics, twisting me in all sorts of unnatural ways. Until, there it was: a glimpse. I caught that first flicker of knowing I so desperately needed — all through a few words from a friend. Full of compassion, grace, and wisdom from one who had also experienced loss, Tarah reminded me, “You knew His nearness regardless of how you felt. There’s no other way to explain crying out to Him.”

In that hospital room, my soul knew what I could not see. My spiritual reflexes had turned toward God in my need as I flung desperate prayers in His direction. Faith was at work; I just didn’t see it. But what my flesh could not feel or my eyes detect, my spirit had already confirmed: God was near.

And just like that, shame left. In the days that followed, I waited for the Gentle Knowing to reveal Himself further, for another peek behind the curtain. I knew that someday, somehow I would again “look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living” (Psalm 27:13). Because while my faith was far from neat and tidy, God was not far off. This barren ground would become a place of remembrance.

In the days that followed our hospital scare, our family was able to get away. A pre-planned vacation turned into a much-needed pause. Little did I know that was where God would make Himself known. In a hundred little things His nearness was evident: an eruption of laughter, the sound of water meeting the shore, the taste of chocolate-raspberry ice cream, a tiny hand slipping into mine.

God did not show up with grandiose answers or neon signs but through the simple pleasures found in shared presence with one another. In small moments, faith that was once slippery found new life, an invitation to let go of what was broken and turn toward Him — into a land ripe with promise, into a new place of remembrance.

Stress, Sin, and the Aftermath of Christmas

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One by one, I clicked “Remove.” I deleted items from my Amazon cart with a sigh. I wouldn’t be getting these things this year, not now, maybe not ever. Something inside of my chest was twisting. Perhaps the pang was guilt. I was grab-happy when I saw “Swipe up” on Instagram this year. All the little things added up. I overspent. I busted our budget. With the angst of everything in our world, I medicated with shopping. My weak spot is wanting my kids to feel extra special at Christmas. On Christmas Eve, I run up and down the Target aisles getting just a few more things to fill their stockings. I want my children to run out on December 25th with hearts beating in anticipation. I want their eyes to widen and their voices to squeal. I want to buy their happiness. I want to buy mine too.

Nothing messes with my soul as much as money does.

I felt the pang of greed as I unsubscribed from online shops. I imagine my life with all the clothes, shoes, and styles I want hanging in my closet and I can almost taste satisfaction. But the closer I get to being satisfied, the further away it seems to get. My happiness is a moving target. I have so much, yet I can’t see what I have when my eyes are only fixated on the things I don’t have. I hate this about myself. I don’t like my continual search for stuff to bring me peace. Instead of peace, all I feel is anxiety. It eats away at me. I manage my angst with my search for more. My appetite is endless. So I buy, buy, buy until I’m almost bankrupt.

I know material things don’t bring peace. I know more experiences don’t make life meaningful. But my eyes are always on the lookout to be filled up. I want to plan the next trip, start the next project, or dream a new dream. I have a lust for life. But I think this lust is just a way to avoid my loneliness. I try to fill my loneliness by buying whenever I need a quick adrenaline rush. I long for the next adventure because my heart isn’t satisfied with what I have. I fantasize about another life because I can’t accept the one God’s given me. If I live with what I have, I have to face my soul and the reality of my shortcomings. I have to see my own sin. I have to acknowledge there is something broken inside of me I can’t fix. And right now, I can’t change the numbers on the scale or my credit score. It makes my skin itch and my heart race.

I avoid looking at my statement. I want to pretend everything is okay. I want to live in denial that we can’t pay the balance. It hurts. It’s hard to say no to myself and to my kids. For me, greed and envy have an evil rivalry. If I’m not craving more stuff, I am jealous that others have what I want. Sin can feel inescapable. I keep trying to click my way out of feeling miserable inside.

Perhaps the current state of my stressed-out soul is an indicator of where I’ve let my hope lie.

Just days ago, I walked through the room with torn wrapping paper and ribbons ankle high. Christmas has come and gone like the fury of a winter storm. In the hustle of more, I think I’ve missed what it means to live with less. When Christ became human, He emptied himself. God Himself became less. He became a baby, innocent, pure, unblemished, and perfect. The image is divine. It stirs joy in my soul. The Bethlehem scene doesn’t have Pottery Barn furniture and gold finishes. The stable is dirty, smelly, and on the backside of the city. Yet, when I think about the birth of Jesus, I can see hope. When I’m clicking on links and devouring deals, what I’m really looking for isn’t more stuff. I am actually looking for Jesus. Jesus is found when I am depleted, strapped, and sulking. He is right there.

When I am at the end of myself, drowning in bills, my greed, and intoxicated with jealousy, God is near. When I feel a deep soul hunger, I’m actually hungry for Jesus. When I want to wrestle my sin away, God whispers, “Come closer.” He is inviting me to move closer to the manger. God is inviting me to less. From the outside, less seems miserable, yet as I step closer to Christ, I can see that less is actually everything. I loosen my grip on all the things I want. I open my hands. I let go.

My Amazon cart is empty. After a few minutes, I can’t even remember what was in there. Instead, I press my empty hand to my chest. Here, Jesus is with me in my brokenness and broke-ness. But instead of feeling stress, I feel satisfied.

Let’s End the Year with Praise

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And let the peace of Christ, to which you were also called in one body, rule your hearts. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell richly among you, in all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another through psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts.
Colossians 3:15-16 (CSB)

As we take a moment today to look back on 2020 and as we ready ourselves for the new year, let’s take a collective deep breath.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

For every pain and every grace you experienced, God has been near. Each tear has been recorded, all the waiting has not been wasted, and God has not left you or abandoned you. So, let the peace of Christ be a balm over your hearts, and let’s repeat these truths from Psalm 145 as we close the chapter on this year:

The Lord is gracious and compassionate,
slow to anger and rich in love. (v. 8)

The Lord is trustworthy in all he promises
and faithful in all he does. (v. 13)

The Lord is near to all who call on him,
to all who call on him in truth.
He fulfills the desires of those who fear him;
he hears their cry and saves them.
The Lord watches over all who love him,
but all the wicked he will destroy. (v. 18-20)

Hallelujah and amen.

Truth to Hold onto When Everything Is Changing

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I have four pieces of paper taped to my bedroom door. Before I face the day, I come face-to-face with a calendar from 2016. Each month featured Scripture verses that were beautifully lettered, and I turned them into a short statement I repeat as I reach for the doorknob and begin the day. It goes like this:

“I can trust everything He does, for He goes before me and behind. I am merely a moving shadow, and all my busy rushing ends in nothing. My only hope is found in Him.”

I said it this morning. I’ll say it again tomorrow. Through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, those words of truth have been a constant and a comfort.

When I don’t understand and I can’t see what’s coming next, I can trust everything He does. When I feel unsure and alone, He goes before me and behind. When I’m overwhelmed, He gently reminds that it’s my heart that He wants, not my performance or a completed to-do list. When I’m worn out or searching for a light in the darkness, He is my hope.

As we look toward a new year, I’ve found myself pausing each morning and swallowing back the lump in my throat as I whisper, “He goes before me and behind.”

I desperately need that to be true. I need to believe that He’s making a way and clearing a path. I need to believe that He’s redeeming all things for good, even when I can’t see it just yet. I need to believe that He’ll be with me no matter what tomorrow may bring.

December will fade into January, and we’ll put the ornaments away as the year wraps up. We’ll look toward the future with hope or fear or a mix of the two. After all, seasons change and jobs shift. We pack houses and close our books after finals end. We say difficult goodbyes and joyful hellos and eventually winter will turn to spring as change comes again. But through all of it, He remains. His love is constant, sure, secure — unchanging.

He didn’t stay in the manger and He didn’t stay in the grave, but He did promise to be with us through every high and low. He is Emmanuel, the God who comes and stays and isn’t confined to a calendar page.

When winter melts into spring and the places that seemed barren and empty suddenly explode with life and joy, Emmanuel, God with us.

When the days stretch endlessly on and the sun beats down and it all seems like one long cycle of wash-rinse-repeat, Emmanuel, God with us.

When the leaves fall and our tears fall and everything around falls apart, Emmanuel, God with us.

When hope is buried deep and yet all is washed clean as the world quiets and learns to wait with anticipation, Emmanuel, God with us.

Bitter and sweet, laughter and mourning, darkness and light, dead ends and new beginnings and messy middles full of ordinary days — in all of it, there He is, faithful as always.

He is the way-maker and the promise-keeper. Although we may not know what’s coming our way and though 2021 may hold more questions than answers, we can trust that He’ll be with us through every change.

Look before you, He is making a way. Look behind you, He has been there the whole time. Look to your right and to your left, He is with you now.

May we dare to say that He is beautiful and true, loving and kind, no matter what story the next page may tell. May we trust the unknown of the future to the God we know is authoring its pages.

Here’s to new beginnings, fresh mercies, a blank page, and an unchanging God.

This post was written by Kaitlyn Bouchillon in December 2018 and was edited for today.

 

Merry Christmas!

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The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. We observed his glory, the glory as the one and only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.
John 1:14 (CSB)

Wishing you and yours a very Merry Christmas! Joy to the world, Christ has come. He is here. He is with us. May your day be filled with more joy and love than your heart can hold as you celebrate the greatest Gift — the never-ending, world-changing, amazing love and joy of Jesus Christ.

As you celebrate loud or quiet, near or far, today or next week, know that you, dear friend, are loved by all of us here at (in)courage. May you see His glory today and every day. Merry Christmas!

A Wonderful Story of a Wonderful God

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In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register.

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
    and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.
Luke 2:1-20 (NIV)

On this holy night, may you let these ancient words sink deep into your soul.

It may be the first time you’ve read these words, or perhaps this is the first time in a long time that you’ve really read them. Maybe you’re somewhere in the middle, slowly losing steam as the hustle and bustle of the season have swept you along.

No matter where your heart is today, pause, reflect, and rest in the story of the shepherds and the straw, of new decrees and new parents, of heavenly hosts and a baby King. What a wonderful story of a wonderful God!

May the twinkling glory of Christmas Eve breathe peace and life into your heart right now.

Making Space for Both Sorrow and Awe

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The darkness of my apartment flees as soon as I light the purple Advent candle in front of me. I kneel in front of my coffee table, watching the flickering of the flame. It is late. I always think Christmas comes fast, but this year it’s come ever so slow. As the pace of my life has slowed down this year, my ushering in of Christmas has been slow and steady too.

I watch the candlelight dance, the abstract reflection against my television set. I sing a hymn, and my voice is low and soft; the only other sound in my apartment is the hum of the dishwasher. 

O come, O come, Emmanuel.

At once, I find myself crying in the loneliness of my apartment. It is just me, alone, and although I’m alone every night, tonight I can feel it more sharply as I ask Emmanuel to come and be with me. 

And yet, the paradox of Christmas is that I know He already is.

I feel as though I don’t have much to offer Jesus this year. I feel tired and worn, and as my candle burns lower, I realize I feel like I’m burning to a waxy stump too. 

This year, I decorated my apartment with all I could muster — a tree and lights and lanterns and candles and wreaths and Scripture and dried out oranges I baked in my oven. And even though each morning I wake up to the see the lights sparkle on my tree, even though I watch every Christmas movie I can find on Netflix and drink hot chocolate most evenings and read the Christmas story over and over and over, none of the holiday magic seems to touch the ache inside of me. 

It is an ache much deeper than just getting through a horrific year. 

It is an ache much deeper than dashed dreams and disappointments. 

It is an ache of longing — an ache only God Himself can touch. 

As I write this, an eleven-year-old boy struggles to survive in my city. He was hit by a pickup truck yesterday as he walked home from school. I read in an article that the crossing guard flailed his arms, trying to save him. It was no use. The boy’s family holds his hand in his hospital bed today, as the news articles about him are shared over and over. I see his parents’ names circulate my Facebook page hundreds of times, each post begging for prayer and a miracle.

I cry as I pray for him. I don’t know him. I don’t know his parents. But it’s December and a young boy is dying, and it’s not supposed to be this way. 

I ask Jesus for a miracle — a Christmas miracle — because doesn’t Hallmark promise that those are the best kind? But the truth is, I don’t know if his family will get their miracle. I don’t know if their Christmas this year will be marked with joy or with sorrow. 

Somehow pain hurts so much more at Christmas time. Sorrow clashes against my garland and lights and cheerful songs on the radio. 

The candlelight flickers in front of my face, and I think of that young boy. I pray again, asking Jesus to hold him and his parents this Christmas, to breathe the breath of God into his body. 

I keep singing O Come, O Come Emmanuel, and I can feel the presence of Emmanuel in my apartment as I sing. 

My home feels smaller, quieter. I still ache, but the ache is different now. I can feel the presence of God with me, and tears stream down my eyes — sadness for the boy, exhaustion for our world, but something else, too. 

Awe. 

As I watch my purple Advent candle continue to light up my apartment, I am struck by the good news of great joy that never fades — even in the midst of sorrow. 

There is awe here too — 

Awe for a God who put on brown skin and was born on a dark night to a world that would treat Him cruelly. 

Awe for a King who deemed the poor in spirit as the most blessed. 

Awe for a Savior who saw you and me and decided we were utterly worth saving. 

As I pray for the boy, for our world, for miracles of every shape and size, I make space for the awe too. 

I take a deep breath, blow out my candle, and everything is dark. 

But the Light of the World is coming. 

No, He is already here.

God Meets Us Right Where We Are

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“You’re Kimberly, right?” he asked.

“Right.”

“My daughter, right?” He nodded in a half statement, half question.

“Right,” I smiled.

He patted my knee and looked at me, “You know I was married before.”

“I know,” I chuckled through my response, “to my mother.” (My parents divorced, and my dad remarried over thirty years ago.)

We sat in silence side by side on the sofa like strangers on a park bench. I longed to find the question that would connect us back together again. I silently searched my mind for one memory we could share.

Talking to my dad is like a waltz these days as wisps of memory dance in and out of our conversations. Timing is everything. Mornings are better than evenings. In person is better than phone calls. Sharing his childhood memories are better than mine. A question answer cadence is repeated over and over — 1-2-3, 1-2-3.

God is teaching me many things through my dad’s journey with dementia.

My dad can no longer join me in the world in which I live. The present day is missing for him. He often struggles with knowing if it is morning or evening or even if he is married or not. When I go visit him, I can’t expect to have a conversation with him as I have had in the past. He doesn’t really know who I am. To him, I have become “that nice young person who comes to visit.”

In order to connect with my dad, I have to find out where he is in his memories and join him there. I have to go to where he is. I cannot force him to see me for who I am and where we currently are; he just can’t connect to me in that way. Trying to get him to be who he was is a struggle in futility that leaves us both frustrated. It is impossible.  He can’t change. But I can.

The struggle I have with connecting with my dad has opened my eyes to the dilemma God faced in building a relationship with us after our sin separated us from Him. He was perfect and holy, but because of our brokenness, we couldn’t go to where He was. No matter how hard we could try, we couldn’t be good enough to be in relationship with Him.

Yet God still deeply desired to be in communion with us, so He chose to come to where we were. He sent Jesus to dwell with us by becoming human, being born as a baby. I can’t expect my dad to be with me in the present, but I can join him in the past. When I am with him, I purposely choose to be where he is in his memories, and God did the same for us. He purposely chose to become like us so we could  have a relationship with Him.

Even when we are in relationship with Him, God doesn’t expect us to be something we are not. He knows we are frail, sinful, and needy. So He meets us where we’re at. In John 4, Jesus met the Samaritan woman right where she was — at the well at noon. He knew she would be there and chose to come into her town, her space, to quench her insatiable thirst for love. He doesn’t require us to be perfect or even good to be loved by Him. Bit by bit and by the grace we have in Christ, God’s love draws us closer to Him. 

That day sitting on the couch with my dad, I asked a question that unlocked a memory. My dad proceeded to tell me a story from his childhood. As he talked of hunting rabbits in the winter snow of Minnesota, I had him back — his voice and expression the same as it had once been. And in that moment, it was enough. Likewise, with each step of faith I take, with each whispered prayer I make, I move closer to my heavenly Father, who never stops reaching out to meet me where I am. With each moment of spiritual connection I have with Him, I sense His steadfast, faithful love — a love that will never give up on me.

I take heart knowing that God will keep working through the circumstances of my life to connect with me, just like I will continue to work to stay close to my Dad as we waltz within his memories.

For the Ones Who Don’t Make the Cut

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Our bodies crowd around the wall outside the gym. We stretch our necks like baby birds reaching for food, trying to find a place where our eyes can see every name on the paper list taped to the wall. I scan the names slowly, stopping and restarting after a friend squeals with delight, and another two friends hug each other in celebration.

Before I can get to the bottom, one of my friends grabs my shoulder and says, “I’m so sad you aren’t on the list. Maybe I’ll tell them I’m going to quit since you didn’t make it.” Another friend announces, “I heard you were as close to the cut off as you could be, and if they decided to add one more person to the team, you would be up there too.” Even at thirteen, I know those attempts to lessen the blow aren’t true.

I overhear another friend talking about how they don’t care what they get for their upcoming birthday, that making this team is their dream come true. There’s talk of practices, performances, and the parties they will have together. There’s speculations and squealing about outfits and how their lives will change for the better now that they are on the inside.

I slip away from the commotion and celebration and walk home from school shuffling my feet. I am aware of each clumsy step. In my head, I make my own list, wishing I can cross off each quality I don’t like about myself with a bold pen. I trudge forward, eyes on the sidewalk, wondering whether anything would be left if I cross everything off.

I learn to laugh at myself and my two left feet. I try to find reasons why it was better not to have made the team. I become a silent detective, excellently skilled at finding silver linings, and in the process, exchange the expression of my feelings for a poker-faced life.

Hindsight is important, and perhaps with time, we are given the grace to sometimes see imperfectly why things were the way they were, or why we are who we are, or why we had to endure specific pain or loss. But most of us don’t get a why or how, and casually telling people to seek answers to such questions is like sending them into a battle they cannot win. It’s cruel.

In my adult years, I keep coming back to moments and memories like these. There are too many to count. I still want to run from them, pretend they don’t matter to me now or make them laughable. But it’s the grace of God that brings them back to mind — not for a second dose of pain but for the chance to see Him with me in that pain, to experience His presence with me now. He holds out His book of recorded tears, ready to record each of mine, giving value and validity to every ache and every teardrop.

You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.
Psalm 56:8 (NLT)

The lie of our culture says to get over it and toughen up. It tells us that if we work hard enough and stay strong enough, we’ll not only heal, but we’ll have a chance at being the underdog that ends up on top. But Jesus says His name is Immanuel — He’s here with us, in all our tenderness and quiet pain.

My own kids are reaching the age that I was when I began to stuff my feelings. I watch them navigate new losses and all the things I naturally want to shield them from. I don’t want them to not make the cut or feel the sting of loneliness and rejection. But do I want them to know the God who comes near, who bore the pain I instinctively want to push away? Will I do everything in my power to keep them from that knowing, or will I come alongside them with my presence and believe God catches each of their tears? I cannot do this for them unless I am willing to receive it for myself.

Jesus knows the pain of being on the outside. He knows what it’s like not to be invited in. He’s felt the sting of carrying a burden alone. He’s been wrought with insomnia — praying through the long hours of an unrelenting night, while the friends He asked to join Him never showed up. He knows what it’s like to wish His life wasn’t what it was. He’s asked God to take hardship away. He knows the sting of rejection and mocking. He knows deep loss and the taste of tears. The Chosen One was unchosen by the crowd that most of us want to be chosen by.

The advent of this Jesus is not confined to December trees and tinsel, but this week, let’s remember the One who came near. Let’s receive Him in every part of our past and even in the memories of the pain we’d like to forget. Let’s receive Him, our Immanuel, that we might be like Him to a hurting heart beside us and world around us.

The Upside Down Kingdom of God

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And Mary said:
My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
because he has looked with favor
on the humble condition of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations
will call me blessed,
because the Mighty One
has done great things for me,
and his name is holy.
His mercy is from generation to generation
on those who fear him.
He has done a mighty deed with his arm;
he has scattered the proud
because of the thoughts of their hearts;
he has toppled the mighty from their thrones
and exalted the lowly.
He has satisfied the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.
Luke 1:46-53 (CSB)

Since sin entered the world, God has been at work to upend unjust systems and to dismantle oppressive beliefs.

In choosing Mary, God turns patriarchy on its head, valuing and centering a woman to bear and birth the Messiah.
In choosing her, God favors the humble, turning His face away from the proud.
In Jesus, the mighty are overthrown, and those without power are exalted.
In Him, the rich aren’t given more privilege. Instead, the hungry are satisfied.

This is the upside down kingdom of God, where the unseen are seen, the unloved are loved, and the dignity of people is restored. As we look forward to the day when Christ will return, may we be about the work God has been doing, and like Mary, may we be bearers of the good news that He is making and will make all things right again.

This is the hope of Advent and the miracle of Christmas.

‘Tis the Season to Celebrate

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I start watching Christmas movies in October. While finishing my kids’ Halloween costumes, eating their candy, and planning my Thanksgiving menu, holiday movies are on in the background.

I also start rockin’ around the (musical) Christmas tree with Christmas music in September.

You know what else? In November, I have my first red cup drink at Starbucks. It’s usually a skim one-pump chestnut praline latte, and I love every calorie-laden sip.

We put up our tree before Thanksgiving too. It’s pre-lit, so we enjoy the glow without decorations for a while, and then the day after Thanksgiving, we trim it! It goes up early and stays up late — well into February.

I hear a thousand of you inhaling sharply.

I also believe I may hear a thousand of you clapping. I know I’m not actually alone in my stretch-out-the-celebrations-as-long-as-possible style.

If you know me, you know I love me some holiday season-ing. (Yes, I made it a verb.) I’ve written two holiday books and countless social posts about holiday-ing with my family. We try to go all in with our whole hearts, and we try to squeeze every drop of joy out of each one. Throw in my kids’ Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter-time birthdays, and our family festivity motto is “Celebrate big!”.

It seems that sometimes when people express their holiday joy outside of December, they’re met with scoffs and scowls and general Scrooge-iness, and I always wonder why. I understand letting each holiday breathe on its own, giving each its own space and time to be enjoyed, but what in the world warrants actual anger at someone simply enjoying a holiday or celebration that brings them deep joy? Can’t ‘tis the season mean just that — this is an entire season full of opportunities for celebrating?

The God we celebrate and praise created each of us with unique hearts and likes and things that bring us joy, and I’m pretty sure He wants us to lean into them. Irenaeus’s famous quote, “The glory of God is man fully alive,” resonates with my year-round, Christmas-loving heart because loving and celebrating holidays both big and small is part of who He made me to be. I hope it brings Him glory when I lean into that, operating in who I am by His design.

Friend, when it comes to celebrations, you do you. It doesn’t matter one bit when you jump into the holidays. October? November? Christmas Eve? Not at all? Whatever works for you! All Thanksgiving all the time? Okay! Put up the tree tonight or keep it tucked away til Christmas Eve? Game on! Have a holiday movie marathon and cookie swap in November? Go for it! You get to celebrate in the way that’s most meaningful for you, and no one gets to tell you there’s a better or different or right way to do that.

Just over a year ago, my family celebrated my mom’s twentieth year of being breast cancer free.

We celebrated every one of the gifted-to-us days from the last twenty years with pink everything, loud laughter, tearful stories, and being together. The week before our party, I attended the funeral of a friend who punched metastatic breast cancer in the face for eight years, right up until the end. Hundreds of us gathered to celebrate her life through our tears. With such a different kind of celebration so fresh in my mind, the celebration for my mom was even deeper and more meaningful than I’d expected it to be.

We have today, which means we have a chance to celebrate.

So do it. Celebrate — whatever you want, whenever you want. Put up all the Christmas decorations your house can hold. Eat the cake. Keep your tree up into February. Lean into celebration whenever you can because there is extraordinary in every single one of our plain old everydays, and each one of them deserves to be celebrated.

Whatever brings you joy and God glory, do that — during the holidays and all your days.

When You Want to Forget This Year

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I’ve been wrestling with the idea of forgetting 2020.

We’ve all seen the social media memes about 2020 that make us laugh so we don’t cry. Maybe using our extra toilet paper stash to wipe away this last year and start over is a good idea?!

I laugh and nod in agreement with most of the jokes about this year. But as I do, the Holy Spirit whispers to my heart a tender message that I hope you and I will listen to: This year has not been a waste. Look for Me and My marvelous works.

Will we dismiss this year with all its gut-wrenching nuances, grief, and turmoil, or will we look for the miracles God has done? Will we be filled with joy because of who God is, or will we focus only on our tough circumstances?

Blaming 2020 and being ready to be done with this year is probably the most natural response we could have after all we have endured. Our experiences have each been so unique based on our health, family, the color of our skin, location, age, political stance, career, and even our expectations. We have all grieved, struggled with loneliness, felt angry and overwhelmed, been hopeless and just plain tired.

Unfortunately, our feelings and personal struggles, the global pandemic, racial injustices, and our nation’s political divide will not magically disappear when we turn the calendar to 2021.

But thanks be to God, there is hope! Not the sappy Hallmark Christmas movie kind or the “stick your head in the sand” kind but the kind of hope that King David knew:

I will praise you, Lord, with all my heart;
I will tell of all the marvelous things you have done.
I will be filled with joy because of YOU.
I will sing praises to your name, O Most High.
Psalm 9:1-2 (NLT)

David did not write this psalm after a miracle or a victory. David chose these words in the middle of being attacked, exhausted from the enemy, and wondering if God has abandoned Him. Sounds familiar, right?

As we approach Christmas, I wonder if the year Jesus was born felt similar to 2020 for those living during that time. The Roman Empire was a worldwide tyrant, persecution was the norm based on beliefs, race, and culture, and a census had created upheaval with heavy taxes looming in the future. Not to mention the grief, frustration, and hopelessness each individual experienced.

But God sent angels to proclaim good news, long awaited prayers were answered, and Jesus came to save the world — all in the middle of a year that most probably wanted to move on from and try to forget.

The focus of that year could have been the hardships that preceded Jesus’ birth or the months that immediately followed with Herod’s deadly decree. But the focus was on Jesus and the beginning of His rescue plan.

The outcome of that difficult year a little over 2000 years ago should remind us that God never ignores our cries for help. We can trust Him with our afflictions and praise Him in the difficult middle and not just in our victory. God is always doing miracles, even in a year we would like to forget.

As we approach the celebration of Jesus’ arrival, let’s choose not to dismiss this difficult year but to look for God’s marvelous works in it. May we be honest with Him about the difficulty of this year and praise Him for all He has done.

Lord, thank you for the real hope of Christmas in the middle of this trying year. When times are especially hard, help us to remember what You’ve done and be filled with joy because of You.

In the comments, bring a gift of praise to Jesus. Share with us how you have seen God’s marvelous work in your life in 2020. 

 

How to End This Year Strong

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In two weeks we’ll have what we’ve been looking forward to for a long, long while: a new year. If ever there was a year that demanded a do-over, 2020 is at the top of the list. I understand. It’s been a lot.

Though tempting, let’s not be so quick to put the year behind us. Between now and then, we have fourteen days to  make the most of. That’s 336 hours or 20,160 minutes, and I don’t want to squander a single one of them. We can finish the year strong. And with Christmas just over a week away, our hearts and minds are already tendered toward what can make this possible, or rather, who can make this possible — Jesus.

Yet, isn’t it right about now when you can feel the panic of last-minute shopping, desperate to find the perfect gift for those remaining on your list? Maybe you’re already at the point where any gift will do. Shipping for online orders is at a premium. Department stores know this. It’s why they have entire spaces devoted to novelty gifts and gadgets you never knew existed (and no one actually needs).

Honestly, I struggle with the gift-giving part of Christmas. Not with gift-giving, per se, but with the commercialism and excess that often comes with it. While I absolutely delight in finding the perfect presents for the people I love, it’s easy to lose sight of Christ amidst the chaos. If only the tangle of tree lights was the lone Christmas trapping.

As I was praying about all of these things — ending this tumultuous year on a positive note and finding beautiful and meaningful ways to celebrate Christmas with my loved ones — the image of fruitcake came to mind.

Ummm, what in the world?

Fruitcake is a mystery to me. I’ve never understood its appeal. If I’m going to blow calories on cake, it’d better daggum well include chocolate or buttercream icing, not all manner of dried fruit and allspice.

But as much as I don’t like fruitcake, I knew it came to mind for a reason. I was sure God was leading my thoughts, and I just needed to follow. 

Though fruitcake might not be mentioned in the Bible, fruit definitely is —

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.
Galatians 5:22-23 (ESV)

On the surface, this passage has nothing to do with Christmas, and yet, doesn’t it have everything to do with Christ? His incarnation ushered in the gospel, the good news a broken people were desperate to hear — good news we are desperate to hear.

It is in Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection that we find our hope.

God sent His one and only Son to accomplish what man failed to do — to live a holy, righteous, and perfect life without sin. Then, Jesus died the death we deserve because of our sin, enduring God’s wrath upon the cross and in so doing, assuring that we would be remembered, forgiven, and redeemed. He conquered sin and Satan and even death when He was raised three days later.

And when we put our faith and trust in Christ, He gives us all He has — He gives us Himself.

As daughters of God, we carry the good news of the gospel in us, and we have the privilege to impact the people around us by sharing it. As we approach the end of the year and look forward to the new one, what if our lives were characterized more by the fruit of the Spirit? A world with more love, more joy, more peace, more patience, more kindness, more goodness, more faithfulness, more gentleness, and more self-control would be a more beautiful world, indeed. 

As the image of fruitcake lingers in my mind, I’m reminded that living the gospel is the way to make the most of the last fourteen days of this year, and just as lovely, the best way to begin 2021.

Thankfully, ending the year strong doesn’t depend on anything we can do but on what Jesus has already done. What a reason to celebrate!