When Your Hope Is Wearing Thin

When Your Hope Is Wearing Thin

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O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel

My daughter is sick. It’s serious and it’s mysterious; we don’t know what’s causing it or how to treat it. We’ve tried every avenue available, and nothing has helped. Our hope is wearing thin.

It’s been going on long enough that I’m losing my grip on my belief that God is with us, that He will bring my family strength and healing and peace. It’s been going on long enough that I whispered, just once, in the dark where my kids couldn’t hear, “What if God doesn’t fix this?”

A few years ago when I wrote Create in Me a Heart of Hope, I was searching for reasons to hope when the world is confusing and ugly. After seeing horrible, unexplainable things happen to people I loved, and also watching the news and experiencing the same “unprecedented times” as the rest of the world, my faith was shaken and I found it hard to hope the way I always had before.

Writing that Bible study was a gift and truly saved me in a dark time, bringing me back to what I knew to be true and revealing to me more layers and textures and angles of that Truth than I’d previously understood.

So I know about hope. But it’s one thing to rewrap my arms around hope in a general sense — the kind that feels warm and fuzzy while still having the real bones of what Scripture teaches us about who God is and why He is our hope and how He gives us hope. And it’s another thing altogether to hold on to hope when my actual life is pulling me apart, piece by piece, tossing aside promises I’ve clung to and throwing unanswered prayers (or prayers that get a big fat “no” in response) in my face. It’s hard to hope when I feel like I’m fighting the biggest battle of my life alone.

My daughter is sick for so long that we no longer measure this season in weeks. As I’m writing this, it’s been more than two months.

And I get it! That’s not that long in comparison to a whole lot of things experienced by a whole lot of people. If that’s you, I’m so sorry you’ve been suffering for so long. But as anyone who’s faced trauma knows, when you’re in it, it feels like an eternity. And that feeling is overwhelming, whether your pain started an hour ago, a month ago, a year ago, or a lifetime ago.

I began this calendar year determined to read through the entire Bible chronologically. But a difficult year has taken its toll, and I’ve gotten out of the habit of regularly reading Scripture. The thing about the Bible, though, is that no matter how long we neglect it and no matter how far away we wander, it’s here for us when we return.

I guess it’s like God that way.

A couple weeks ago, the message at church began with the story of Jesus calling Peter and Andrew to follow Him (Luke 5:1-11). The sermon had little to do with hope or trust or healing or hard times. But thinking about those fishermen hearing someone tell them to put their nets out one more time, despite the long hours they’d just spent doing that very thing with no results? And imagining their resignation coupled with the tiniest sliver of hope as they did what He said? And then? When their nets were filled with so many fish it nearly capsized their boat?! Because they’d had just enough hope or, at least obedience, to trust Jesus and try one more time?!

Well, if you think I didn’t sit in that service sobbing like a baby, you would be wrong. At that moment the reason for my hope came flooding back. I remembered those nets full of fish. I remembered the woman who’d been bleeding for more than a decade, reaching for the hem of Jesus’s cloak (Mark 5:25-34), and the religious leader whose daughter had already died (Matthew 9:18-26). I remembered Sarah and Ruth and Hannah and Anna. I remembered the shepherds in the field and the weary world that pined for centuries, waiting for a Savior.

And I remembered the words of a melancholy hymn.

My daughter is still sick, and on the day I’m writing this, I’ve cried a lot of tears. I’m still struggling to hope, but I remember why I hope — and in whom I hope. I know God may continue to say no when I pray (or He may say wait or not yet or not that way). But I’m going to trust that He won’t leave us in this dark place, that He’s never left us. Christmas might be gone for now, but my hope is not — and I will keep singing carols of gloomy clouds of night and lonely exile, while still asking, “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”

Are you in a season of waiting? Of pain or confusion? That can make this festive season so much harder, I know. So today I pray that you and I can remember why we hope, that we can join our voices as we fall on our knees in weariness, thankfulness, sadness, and whatever measure of belief we can muster as we sing, “Come.” As we whisper, “Are you still there?”

Lord, be with us.

 

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The Hard Work of Healing

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The practitioner read my results, turned to me and said, “You are exhausted!” Surprised and relieved by her declaration, I sat up straight to expel a greater exhale. The test results amplified what I’d been trying to articulate for months. I was exhausted! To be clear, I was not just worn out or weary, drained or depleted. I did not feel like I needed a nap or retreat. I had been feeling busted beyond repair – as if life had been drained from me and there were no reserves and no energy to muster replenishment.

I felt like I needed to press the stop button on my life, lie comatose for about a month, and then be restored. 

A few years ago, I began experiencing chest pains and headaches. Years and rounds of cardio and pulmonary testing left me with three different inhalers and no specific diagnosis. More recently, I began feeling like I could not get enough oxygen. I was scared. The act of having to train my husband and children how to use my emergency inhaler spiraled me into despair. Again, I turned to God searching for answers. A friend proposed that mold may be growing in our home and causing my sickness. Environmental specialists tested our home and confirmed that I had been exposed to toxic mold spores growing in our HVAC system. 

Once I had answers, I sprinted towards solutions. I enrolled in a twelve-week intense detox/cleanse protocol to eliminate mold and other toxins from my body. I invited people to share their mold sickness stories with me. Learning from other people’s experiences helped me feel hopeful. And when someone asked me how I was doing, I gave an honest answer: I’m suffering from long-term toxic mold exposure and want to be healed. 

When I shared my honest answer on a routine visit to my chiropractor, she responded, “Dr. Michelle, across the hall, specializes in getting mold out of the body.” A few days later, I sat across from Dr. Michelle as she used morphogenic field technique (MTF) to test energy in my organs and muscles. She explained that the results indicated that my body’s systems had been working extremely hard for an extended time trying to eliminate the mold toxins from my body. My adrenals were shot. My lungs were compromised. This is how, without me uttering a word, she knew the magnitude of my exhaustion. She then crafted a healing protocol to replenish my body so that it could grow strong enough to eliminate toxins.

Then, the hard work began. I had to start my mornings two hours earlier than usual for the daily ‘Ten Steps’ that helped my body flush toxins and stored waste. This included things like oil pulling, dry brushing, neti potting, at least twenty minutes of sitting in a sauna tent, making and drinking a heavy metal detox smoothie, and doing breathwork. The detox required a primary all-juicing diet. Prior to this protocol, I knew nothing about juicing or where to purchase potent quality herbs. So, I did a crash course in efficient juicers, batch juicing, and storing fresh pressed juice. I had to figure out where and how to purchase produce wholesale, locally, and when dining out, and how to navigate a menu to choose the cleanest and most nutrient-dense, toxin-free options. I even learned how to test my kidneys’ filtration levels to detect proper functioning. I was required to prioritize rest. I was advised to normalize saying “No” to any requests that caused stress or strain.

Over months, I committed myself to these healing protocols. I didn’t get to eat my special batch of birthday cookies. I missed out on my annual candy corn indulgence during Halloween. For Thanksgiving, I ate no turkey or sweet potato pie. When I shared about the healing protocols with friends who asked, they responded in disbelief. “That’s brutal!” they said. Yes, at times it feels that way, but it simultaneously feels beautiful! Yes, it is a whole lot of work – hard work. But it is the hard work of healing. It is the hard work of love. I am giving myself the time, attention, and support needed to be replenished and restored. 

Two weeks in, my foggy brain cleared. Exhaustion lifted. My skin began to glow. Monthly, Dr. Michelle tests my body’s energy, and each time the results tell the story of a body in repair. The healing protocols – research, learning, strategic nutrition, and focused care — are working new life in me. The daily ‘Ten Steps’ that started off feeling laborious eased into feeling special, like a luxury spa treatment. I’d always wanted to experience this type of abundance, but until now, had no idea how to live it.

Along the way, Spirit reminded me that THIS is what healing looks like. Instead of fighting sickness, healing is intentional love and support lavished upon the burdened parts of my body that have become weak, bruised, and depleted. The daily hours, the focused care, and months of commitment taught me that healing asks for a significant investment – one that I deserve because it’s what God wants for me (John 10:10). Healing wants me to not just acknowledge my suffering, but to seek restoration. Healing ushered me from isolation by calling in community –  people who shared their stories, wisdom, and professional experience. 

Through all of this, I am learning how to do things that improve my mindset and overall quality of life. I am doing hard things that I never thought I could do. Honestly, I am so proud of myself. 

While I am not certain what ‘finished’ will look like, the ongoing work of healing has already given me abundantly more than mold tried to steal from me. Isn’t that the way of God? He works through ALL things for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). Whatever kind of restoration you need today — whether that’s physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually — I pray that you will be strengthened to endure and embrace all that healing’s work has to offer you.

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.
John 10:10 (NIV)

 

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For When You Dread the Day Ahead

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My eyelids slowly blinked the sleep away, groggily struggling to greet the new day. Foggy shapes started to find their edges as the soft blue glow of morning light peeked in from behind the closed curtains. There was always this fleeting moment of comfort as my mind lingered in dreamland. But as reality came more clearly into focus, an electrifying jolt of shock would inevitably strike my heart. Once again, I’d be jarred awake to the living nightmare that was now my life.

I would not awaken to find my one-month-old daughter sleeping peacefully in her pink bassinet beside the bed. I would not hear the gentle sound of her nasally breathing or her small cry for milk. Instead, I would live another day as a mother without her child.

I dreaded waking up in the days and months following her death. Our empty house felt like a tomb. Facing the days without my baby girl filled me with a new type of morning sickness — a mourning sickness that really felt more like a soul sickness.

No one wants their worst fears to be realized. No one chooses to wake up under a weighted blanket of dread. Yet, there I was. I found my thoughts repeated in Job’s first lament:

For the thing I feared has overtaken me, and what I dreaded has happened to me.
Job 3:25 (CSB)

In thinking not only of Job, but of Jesus and all the saints who walked unwanted paths and knew dread and fear, I discovered a truth I struggled to accept for myself. There is no skipping over dread. There is no pushing away the pain or running from the path set before us, although we might be tempted to try and do so.

This temptation to skip over the things we dread is one our Savior knew. In the wilderness, Satan tempted Jesus to bypass the way of suffering. But Jesus chose the way of suffering and endured by turning to the Word of God.

In the Garden of Gethsemane, on the eve of His crucifixion, grief and dread filled Jesus to the brim. Blood-like sweat dripped from Jesus’ forehead, mixing with the salty tears streaming down His distraught face. He prayed and asked for another way. Jesus knew what it meant to face a path He asked not to take, but He surrendered to God’s will and endured.

I used to think, with some snark: Sure, Jesus can endure suffering. He is God, after all. But, focused on Jesus’ divinity, I dismissed the fullness of His humanity. The more I leaned into the frailty found in Jesus’ humanity, I began to wonder: How do we — like Jesus — endure the days ahead?

Jesus did not endure the eve of His crucifixion by human strength. He endured it through supernatural equipping and provision — an angel that appears and strengthens Him. Jesus, the pioneer who walked unwanted paths, endured suffering by God’s strength . . . and by fixing His eyes on the joy set before Him.

Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider Him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)

We endure the days ahead by acknowledging the dread and then choosing to fix our eyes upon Jesus. We follow where Jesus leads, not where dread leads.

Dread tried to pull me deep into my bed and deep into the dark, hopeless places in my head. Dread tried to predict future pain and push away possibility.

As much as I thought I knew what each day would hold after my daughter died, I didn’t. As I focused on the Lord and processed all my dread with Him, I was able to stay awake to new possibilities: How might God make His presence known to me? In what unexpected ways might God surprise me with His lovingkindness today?

I found help in practices like journaling prayers of lament, meditating on Scripture, and immersing myself in the beauty of God’s creation. It wasn’t easy, comfortable, or quick, but my newfound expectancy and delight in the Lord helped me face, move through, and eventually release the dread that held me captive.

Maybe you know this type of dread that comes with life after loss. But dread can come in other forms, too. Maybe your dread has to do with anticipating a difficult conversation, awaiting a phone call from the doctor’s office, or enduring another day in chronic pain.

When we’re facing dread over the days ahead, difficult paths and uncharted territory we’re struggling to navigate, we can seek the One who gets it — the One who has gone and goes before us . . . and whose Spirit strengthens and leads us.

If you’re walking through feelings of dread, what is one, small way you can set your focus on Jesus today?

Just As the Angels Said

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On this Christmas Day, we invite you to take a journey with storyteller Sherri Gragg as she leads us in a meditation of what Christ’s birth might have been like. This story is likely not the version you are accustomed to, but regardless of the details, we pray that your heart will be led to celebration and worship of our humble, miraculous Savior! Merry Christmas!

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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 2:14–20 NIV

The rising sun breached the horizon behind the shepherds. The walls of Bethlehem were bathed in pale, silvery light. The men quickly made their way inside the city, then paused with uncertainty. The streets were as familiar to them as the rooms of their own homes, but which house held the Messiah?

They clustered together for a moment, trying to remember which families were expecting babies. Just then the midwife, her birthing stool hooked over her arm, rounded the corner.

“Ah!” Zachariah said with delight. “Do we have a new baby in Bethlehem?”

“We do!” she responded. “Young Joseph’s wife, Mary, gave birth to their first child just a few hours ago. A son!”

“Of course!” Judah exclaimed. “They came to town for the census. The wife was due to deliver a baby at any time.”

A few minutes later, the shepherds stood before Joseph’s family compound. Zachariah stepped forward and called into the courtyard.

“Joseph, son of Jacob!”

A moment later, the door to the home directly across the yard opened and Joseph stepped outside, wincing into the bright morning sunlight.

“Welcome!” the weary young father said as he motioned the shepherds forward. Zachariah led the way across the yard to where Joseph stood waiting for them.

“Joseph, we understand your wife has given birth to a son,” he began as the other men hung back nervously.

“Yes!” Joseph said proudly. “He was born just a few hours ago.”

Zachariah cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and then explained why he and his friends had come.

“We were in the fields watching the sheep at that same hour,” he said. “Suddenly an angel appeared in our midst, his robe shining as brightly as the sun. He said he came to bring us wonderful news that would be a source of joy for all people.”

Joseph’s eyes grew wide as the old shepherd continued. “The angel said the Messiah had been born right here in Bethlehem! He told us that we would find Him swaddled in cloths like a peasant child and lying in a manger. Then, the sky above us was filled with angels singing praises to God. They sang, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests’” (Luke 2:14).

“Is it true, Joseph?” Zachariah asked, his voice breaking. “Has Messiah truly come at last… as one of us?”

Joseph’s eyes filled with tears as he remembered his own angelic visitor many months before. The angel’s message had changed the young carpenter’s life. Joseph smiled and turned to open the door behind him.

“Come and see,” he said.

The shepherds gathered in the entryway and paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. Joseph led the way into the stable on the lower level where Mary was resting on fresh straw beside a manger hewn out of stone. Joseph explained to Mary why the shepherds had come to visit. She nodded, her eyes crinkling in a smile above her veil, and motioned for the men to come closer.

Timidly, the shepherds approached the manger. A small bundle was nestled into the straw. The tiny baby’s cheeks were round and pink. A dark, feathery swath of hair encircled His head. As they watched, the child began turning His head to the side, stretching His mouth wide in search of His mother’s milk.

“What is His name?” Judah asked softly.

“Yeshua,” Joseph answered.

“Yeshua… The Lord Saves,” Zachariah whispered in awe. “And He is wrapped in cloths like a shepherd’s babe…”

The men stood silently for a moment watching the child. Suddenly Judah spoke. “This is a Messiah for everyone, even shepherds like us! It really is ‘good news that will bring joy to all the people.’ Come! We must tell people!”

With one last glance at the baby in the manger, the men turned to retrace their steps back to the fields, proclaiming the good news of Jesus’s birth to everyone they met.

“Messiah has been born at last! An angel appeared to us as we kept watch over our flocks. He said we would find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger like a peasant child. We have seen it with our own eyes! It was just as the angel said.”

As written by Sherri Gragg in Advent: The Story of Christmas. Connect with Sherri on Instagram and her website.

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We’ve journeyed together through this ancient story for weeks, and now we’re here! Merry, merry Christmas. May your day be bright as you celebrate the Greatest Gift — the never-ending, amazing love of Jesus. He is our Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, and Prince of Peace, and He loves you dearly.

Like the angels and shepherds, we cry, “Glory to God in the highest!”

Merry Christmas, friends, from all of us here at (in)courage!

A Divine Birth Announcement

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On this Christmas Eve, we invite you to take a journey with storyteller Sherri Gragg as she leads us in a meditation of what Christ’s birth might have been like. This story is likely not the version you are accustomed to, but regardless of the details, we pray that your heart will be led to celebration and worship of our humble, miraculous Savior!

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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 2:8-20 (NIV)

Judah stood to throw the stick into the flames, then walked away to gaze out over the moonlit field where a large herd of sheep bleated softly. He turned his eyes to the hills surrounding them. Each family had their own sheepfold on those hills — a cave with a rock wall leading out from each side. At night, the sheep were brought in from the fields to the safety of their fold. The shepherd lay down in the gap in the middle of the wall, serving as the door. Any predator or thief who came to harm the sheep would need to go through him first.

But Judah and his friends had no family sheepfold to call their own. They were camped in the fields at night because their sheep were special sheep. Judah was a temple shepherd, and the sheep in his care were Temple sheep, destined for sacrifice. The irony that he was guarding sacrificial sheep was not lost on Judah. Most people he met on the street each day considered shepherds to be more in need of atonement than others. He wanted to believe they were wrong, but with each new assault to his self-worth, it was getting harder and harder.*

He scanned the flock with a practiced eye watching for any disturbance, but the warm summer night was calm. The other shepherds settled into a companionable silence as they watched the animals. The only sound in the stillness of the night was the crackle of the fire and the gentle bleating of the sheep.

Suddenly, a blinding light rent the darkness to reveal a man robed in white. He was tall and powerful, and the air around him shimmered with light. Judah and all the other men cried out in alarm and trembled as they fell facedown before him.

Then the angel spoke, and his voice was like the sound of both music and rushing water.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “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” (Luke 2:10–12).

Instantly the entire sky was filled with angels lifting their voices in praise to God.

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests” (2:14).

Then, as suddenly as they had all appeared, the sky was dark again and the night silent. The shepherds turned to each other.

“Messiah has come!” old Zachariah exclaimed.

“Let’s go to Bethlehem and see the baby!” another man said.

“I don’t know,” said another. “If Messiah really has come, do you think His parents would want a crowd of shepherds coming to visit?”

Then Judah spoke. “Weren’t you listening to what the angel said? The Messiah isn’t in a palace. His parents haven’t wrapped Him in silks or placed Him in a gilded cradle. They wrapped Him in cloths and placed Him in a manger, just like we do for our own newborns. I don’t understand it, but somehow He is like us.”

The men sat thoughtfully for a moment as each one absorbed the significance of the fact that, instead of God presenting long-awaited Messiah to the world in the trappings of royalty, He had swathed Him in the raiment of the poor and the despised.

When Zachariah broke the silence, the old shepherd’s voice was heavy with emotion. “Let’s go,” he said.

One by one the men stood, wrapped their cloaks closer around them, and began the short walk to Bethlehem. With each footfall of their sandals they drew closer to Israel’s long-awaited hope — a hope as wide as all creation and yet as near as their own broken hearts.

As they neared Bethlehem, the prophet Isaiah’s words seemed to come to life, walking alongside them, whispering ancient words of promise.

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given” (Isaiah 9:6).

A baby swaddled in rags and lying in a manger. King . . . and peasant. A Messiah come for even the lowliest of men.

*James C. Martin, John A. Beck, and David G. Hansen, A Visual Guide to Bible Events (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 2009), 146–147.

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As written by Sherri Gragg in Advent: The Story of Christmas. Connect with Sherri on Instagram and her website.

Advent: The Story of Christmas traces God’s ribbon of redemption – from Eden to Jerusalem – through thirty-one biblical stories. Sherri Gragg’s unique storytelling, infused with cultural accuracy and color, has been described as “Bible stories for adults.”

We’ve been journeying with this ancient story for the full season of Advent, and it’s led us here to Christmas Eve. May you experience God’s Word in fresh ways tonight, as we anticipate Christmas morning.

Welcoming Joy as We Walk into Christmas

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A year ago feels more like a thousand. Maybe that’s just me? At least for our family, we are in a whole new place in life this year than last Christmas.

This year, my husband’s position on our church staff was abruptly eliminated, and we lost both his job and our decades-long church home in one fell swoop.

This year, my son broke his leg badly and we journeyed through months of pain, stress, fear, pauses in our routines, and temporary new plans.

This year, we are no longer in a raging pandemic (it’s not over by any means, but our mitigations are many and life is a kind of new normal) and all four of my kids are back fully in regular school and activities.

This year, the weight I used to let some things have now seems to have shifted. My priorities have changed.

As I write this, my halls aren’t fully decked. The bins of decor sit and wait because of life happening all around them. My kids have projects to do, programs to attend, and performances to plow through. My list is long too — gifts to wrap, cookies to bake, cards to mail, traditions to fulfill. . .

But we are almost there, and maybe along the way we forgot that Advent isn’t just a season of passive waiting. Advent is a season of preparation. Our hearts, our homes, our very selves. And now, as we sit nearly on top of Christmas itself, we begin to look both behind and ahead at what we’ve done, what we’ve left undone, and what we’ve yet to come to.

Every year, just before Christmas, I start to panic a little bit. I see how quickly my favorite season flew by, and I think about how quickly the years have flown by, and then I wonder if I’m doing all that I can to soak it up, and then I eventually melt into a puddle of feelings — joy among the least of them.

Last year, I wrote something here at (in)courage that stuck with me:

What I want to tell you today, mere days before Christmas morning, is that both light and dark, wonderful and hard, joy and difficulty, is okay to feel — maybe especially at Christmas.

Last year, I was encouraging us that feeling not okay, is okay. And it still is. But this year, I feel a little tug towards joy.

Me. A self-proclaimed Eeyore, pulled toward joy.

I laugh, but here we are. I find myself lingering and laughing longer with my husband. Sharing stories with my kids about Christmases when they were babies and beaming at the memories. Smiling at every gift I wrap as I picture the recipient opening it. Getting teary at every holiday movie I watch. (The girl gets the promotion! The guy finds the secret gingerbread family recipe in time for the contest! They fall in love! I can’t help myself.). Letting the tears of pain and relief fall as I sit with my family in the pews at a new church. Giggling as I move our elf and Shepherd on the Search each night (unless I forget, and then still giggling but also scrambling before the kids get home from school).

My tasks are still there, both the holiday extras and the daily grind varieties. But there’s a flicker in my heart not terribly unlike that of the Grinch. Remember that scene, where his heart grows three sizes? I have those Grinch-heart moments every so often, and they feel like a gift. That God would design us so that our hearts could grow to hold more love, more joy, more peace. . . what a gift.

We are welcome to feel difficulty and sadness at Christmas time. We are also welcome to feel joy.

Last year I wrote about how we see Jesus feeling the other emotions — anger, sadness, grief, burden. I am convinced, too though, that Jesus had an incredible and indescribable spirit of joy. People were drawn to Him, constantly and consistently. I have to think that His gentleness and His joy were magnetic. He hung out with the fun crowd and had dear friends. He was invited to parties. He and His friends went to weddings together!

Maybe we need to talk more about the joy of Jesus, and dive deep into Scripture and history, but for today it’s enough for me to imagine with certainty: Jesus knew joy, because Jesus knew God.

. . . for the joy of the Lord is your strength, says Nehemiah 8:10.

We can lean on the strength of this joy. His joy. We don’t have to live into a frenetic pace; we can let God’s peace draw us in. We can suggest joy take a front seat for once, and we can be amazed at the glimmers of hope we feel. We can lean into joyfulness of the season, even if everything around us is hard. Doing so just might be a gift He’s waiting for us to open.

Jesus, God with us, offers a spirit of joy that can carry us through long after the holidays. There’s hope. There’s joy. Christmas is coming, friends. May your heart be light. And may you have a very merry Christmas.

 

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The Birth Story That Changed Everything

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My first pregnancy was hard. I was nauseated and vomiting almost the entire time. I prayed that if God ever wanted me to go through this again, at least my delivery would have to be easy. And it was! Delivering my daughter was such a beautiful and peaceful experience — thanks to the epidural and the angel of a nurse I had coaching me through the process.

As the time got closer to delivery,  I was really nervous. I was told that they were going to take the baby from the womb and place her immediately onto my chest. It may seem silly, but I faint at the sight of blood, and I am sort of a germaphobe. So the idea of having this baby covered in all sorts of fluids flung onto my chest was not how I had imagined this precious moment. I wanted it to be perfect, like in the movies where the babies are cleaned off and photo ready. Would my own baby gross me out so much that I would ruin this magical moment? I was thinking of all of this as I pushed my little girl out. They placed her on my chest, blood and all, but I didn’t even notice. We made eye contact. She reached her little arm up and placed her hand on my neck as if she was giving me a hug. I began to cry; she was already crying! It was magical and perfect.

Even though she was covered in a lot of mess, she was perfect. She was mine to hold. The one for whom I had been waiting nine long months and loved more than I knew I could love.

I always wondered about Mary, how she must have felt the moment she first held Jesus. I wonder if she was looking at all the cows and thinking, this is not the way I imagined this moment. But she was the one chosen to hold Him. She was the one who would birth the Perfect One who came to make His home among the messy and broken.

As Mary held that little baby covered in blood and all, knowing He is the Son of God, she must have cried so many tears of joy. He was the one that they had waited for, the Messiah. The angels sang and the shepherds worshipped. It was indeed the perfect moment.

In Luke 2, Mary and Joseph took baby Jesus to the temple in Jerusalem to present Him to the Lord as required by the Law of Moses. There they met a man named Simeon who confirmed that this child was indeed the one through whom the world would see God.

Maybe Mary needed that reminder — after all, Jesus was still a human baby who probably kept her up all night and needed his cloth diaper changed often. Teenage Mary was probably breathing a sigh of relief as she was reminded that her work of mothering is hard but it is holy.

Then Simeon looks at Mary and says “…a sword will pierce your very soul” (Luke 2:35). As he reminded her of Jesus’ purpose, he reminded Mary it won’t be easy for her; in fact, it will hurt her to the core.

So, the million-dollar question, Mary, did you know? Yes, she did. God loved her enough to reveal that her son didn’t come to stay in the world, but to save the world.

Unlike that starry night, with angels singing and cattle mooing, the day Simeon’s prophecy came true was dreary and somber. On the hill of Calvary, Mary held her son, covered in blood, pressed up against her chest. Indeed her soul was pierced. She would cry, but heaven would be silent. She had waited along with all her people for the Messiah that Isaiah had prophesied over 700 years before. And as much as it hurt, Mary knew indeed He was the perfect lamb who would take away the sin of the world.

It is easy to get caught up in all of our Christmas traditions and creating magical moments for our family, that we forget that Jesus was actually born to die. Christmas is more than a birthday celebration; it is the crux of the Gospel message: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

Christmas is remembering that God reached down to dirt to create man, but man rejected Him. Then God came down in flesh into a cradle in the dirt to restore man back to Himself. He didn’t just lie in a crib, He wore a crown of thorns and died a criminal’s death. Christmas was Love Himself reaching out for you and me and that’s what makes it a moment of celebration. So even as you remember the manger, remember the cross.

 

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In Our Lack, He Draws Closer

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I hung up the phone with my friend, her words echoing across my mind and heart. I’ve thought about her words hundreds of times since she said them to me last November. “There is no such thing as too much love,” she said. “Only a lack of it.” 

I have fought the fear of too-much-ness my whole life. I’ve felt too loud, too different, too eccentric, too weird, too awkward, too strong-willed, too passionate. I have felt like I needed to withhold love if only to protect my too-soft heart from ever breaking. But my friend’s words pierced something within me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake them.

What if there’s no such thing as too much? 

I think about my sister and the love she has for her kids. Whenever my niece or nephew fall, their cries swelling in the room, my sister goes to them. I’ve watched her do this hundreds of times. She’ll scoop them into her arms, intertwining her body with theirs, bringing them close. She holds them as tight as she can, and slowly their crying stops and their breathing deepens. 

She draws near to them, as close as she can possibly get. She can never get too close. Her love for them is never too much. 

God does the same with us. Like a mother hearing the cry of her child, God came ever close. God – who formed the stars with His hands and sprinkled galaxies we’ll never even know about – allowed His body to grow within the body of a teenage girl, the closest fathomable human connection, bodies tangled and intertwined together. 

God drew near, as close as anyone could possibly get. As His muscles and lungs and fingernails formed in her womb, He drew nearer to dwell with us. He came to all who lacked. Jesus often seemed to surround Himself with poor and unspectacular people. A teenage girl. A step-dad who wanted to choose divorce. A group of shepherds whose names we never even learn. 

They all lacked, and yet He came closer. Their lack was never something to keep Jesus at bay. He can never get too close. His love is never too much.

If you are lacking, or if you feel too much, know that God is not held back. He comes closer and closer. He hears your cries. He holds your hand. He wants to sit with you as you tell Him your story, as you pour out your fears, as you lean your head against His chest. He is as close as the skin on your body, as close as the air that you breathe. He comes nearer and nearer and nearer still. Having or being or offering enough is not a prerequisite for nearness with God. He has always been coming closer and closer. He always had a plan to dwell with us. He is always near.

There is no such thing as too much love, only a lack of it. But here’s the thing: Jesus lacks nothing. And with Him dwelling within you, you don’t lack anything either.

When it feels like I don’t have anything to offer God, when I come to Him with nothing but empty hands and a worn-out heart, He takes my lack and gives me something in return: far more love than I could ever fathom. 

It’s more than I could ever deserve. But with God, I can step past my fears of too-much and step into the abundance He offers me. 

He pours out His love, lavishing it. In our lack, He comes closer and closer still. 

 

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We Can Bear Witness to the Glory of God in Each Other

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Each year at the start of the Advent season, I find myself thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus. This teenage girl was to be a womb for God, the mother of His one and only son. That day when the angel Gabriel came to her, I imagine light refracting in all directions in her humble home in Nazareth. I have three daughters hovering in the tween/teen years, close to Mary’s age. I can’t help but think about what it would be like if one of them received such outrageous and magnificent news from an angel wrapped in light.

Mary’s heart must have been racing like half a dozen horses galloping in her chest when Gabriel called her “the favored one.” I imagine she trembled when the angel revealed that her body would embody God Himself.

Pregnancy and birth is a season of uncertainty. The body of a pregnant mother stretches and morphs daily to build a sacred space for new life. I remember my midwife telling me that pregnancy is like your body climbing a mountain even when you’re not moving. (That certainly explained why I was so often exhausted during my three pregnancies!)

There is pain and purpose wrapped up in each moment as a mother waits for her anticipated child to arrive. I found this to be true also for my friends who waited and anticipated through months of an adoption journey.

I am inspired by Mary’s brave response to the angel Gabriel in Luke 1:38 (ESV): “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”

There’s a distinct courage and unmistakable faith in Mary’s words even as she stands at the crossroads of so many unknowns. She risked her future with Joseph, her reputation, her life. Her “yes” was an invitation into a life of grief and glory.

After Mary’s encounter with the angel, she hustles to the hills to visit her older cousin Elizabeth, who is also pregnant as an angel predicted. (I like to call her Aunt Lizzie out of love and respect.) Aunt Lizzie was pregnant with John the Baptist, who was the cousin and forerunner of the Messiah in Mary’s womb. Aunt Lizzie was in her third trimester and Mary was in her first. Aunt Lizzie had been secluded for the first five months of her pregnancy, making this visit with Mary that much more meaningful. When the two women are united, the baby leaps inside Aunt Lizzie’s womb and she is filled with the Holy Spirit.

Aunt Lizzie offers up words of affirmation to Mary:

God has blessed you above all women, and your child is blessed. Why am I so honored, that the mother of my Lord should visit me? When I heard your greeting, the baby in my womb jumped for joy.
Luke 1:41-44 (NLT)

Mary needed Aunt Lizzie to provide confirmation, affirmation, and encouragement to her as the mother of the Prince of Peace everyone had been waiting for. She was to be the home for God wrapped in flesh. That was quite a job description for a teenager.

Aunt Lizzie needed Mary who would labor for her long-awaited Savior. She also needed a friend through her geriatric pregnancy, someone to celebrate and anticipate this long awaited birth with her.

Sometimes it takes another woman to help ground us and remind us of our God-given callings.

When I was a young mother, women like Serena, Michelle, Eunie, Chris, and Jane spoke life into me through our Bible studies and MOPS group. Today, as a writer, leader, and mom of girls, women like Jo, Tasha, Stephanie, Bev, and Vivian infuse me with courage and remind me of my gifts and calling.

Aunt Lizzie and Mary stayed together for three months. I imagine this was a sacred time when the two women delighted, commiserated, and prayed together, a sacred time of encouraging one another. These two chosen women — one older with wrinkles dancing across her cheeks, the other younger with eyes full of hope — were able to bear witness to His glory in each other. Mary probably stayed there in the hill country to celebrate the birth of John, who would also one day bear witness and affirm Jesus’ identity.

Friend, God designed us to bear witness to His glory in each other. We were not made to weather life’s storms or taste sweet victories alone.

Perhaps you are hurting today. Perhaps you are lonely and wondering if you really have what it takes to wake up tomorrow and continue on this life journey. Perhaps you are navigating loss, disappointment, and grief in this season. I want to encourage you to reach out, to connect, to find an Elizabeth or Mary among the women in your community.

Let’s choose to offer courage to each other. Let’s choose collaboration over comparison. Let’s bear witness to the glory of God in each other. Let’s be an Elizabeth or Mary to someone today. You and I were designed to flourish together.

Do you have an Elizabeth or Mary in your life? Tell us more about her in the comments. How has she infused you with courage?

Dorina has created a four-part, audio + print Advent devotional on the theme Rejoice! Subscribe to Dorina’s Glorygram here to get a copy gently delivered to your inbox.

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A New Kind of Artful Conversation

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A few weeks ago, my husband and I spent a weekday morning at our local art museum, Newfields. The museum was hosting a series called “Artful Conversations,” and we signed up to attend without knowing exactly what we’d learn or encounter.

Standing by Robert Indiana’s gigantic LOVE sculpture with a handful of other strangers, we were greeted by an unassuming museum curator. He led our group into another area of the museum where we stood facing two large works of art: one wall tapestry, The Miraculous Draught of Fishes, made by Flemish artist Hendrik Mattens in the 1500s based on the design by Raphael, and another more modern wall sculpture called Duvor, made by Ghanaian artist El Anatsui in 2007.

The curator went on to describe the way he had been curating pieces in this particular wing of the museum by intentionally placing unexpected artwork duos side-by-side as if they were in conversation with one another and with us, the viewers. I’m not a visual artist; I admittedly don’t know that much about art. I’ve only been in a handful of art museums in various cities in the world, but in most of the museum experiences I’ve had, the artwork was arranged and separated by time period, location, or movement.

The experience of seeing art and thinking about what it was saying in this new combined way was fascinating. On one hand, I could hear Fiddler on the Roof’s “Tradition” playing in the back of my mind like a fearful protest. Yet on the other hand, I was enthralled by the way these two pieces — that no one would ever expect to have anything in common, that bridged generations and geography, worldview and experience, dark history and the hope of transformation — worked to illuminate one another. One made centuries ago with the finest materials of its time for an elite group of people, and the other, a modern work, made from recycled liquor bottle caps and copper wire as a statement “on consumerism, disposability, and the colonial legacy of the rum trade.”

I stood there staring at this intentional pairing thinking about how much like our Creator God it is. God, the ultimate Creator, Curator, Artist, Designer, Storyteller, Mathematician, Scientist, Gardener, Forester, and Accountant of every star, human teardrop, strand of hair, and grain of sand, has made the world to be diverse and to thrive together in and through diversity.

Like those works of art, we are a communal reflection of the immensity of our Creator God. We are a connected conversation that bears the weight of God’s image and love over space and time.

Similar to this museum wing experience of conversation and connectivity, I recently learned that in nature, it’s diverse forests that are the healthiest forests. The forests with the most variance and difference living side-by-side become the strongest. According to scientists, biodiverse forests are nourished more deeply because of their diversity and dependence, and in return, they are able to offer nourishment that stretches far and wide.

Diversity isn’t a trend, it’s a sacred system and divine intention for our nourishment and thriving.

In his lettered response to the church in Corinth thousands of years ago, the apostle Paul argued and exhorted our spiritual ancestors to remember that their diversity was their strength and divine design. They were intentionally placed side-by-side as walking works of art who make up the body of Christ, intentionally made to depend on one another.

“If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has placed the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body.”
1 Cor 12:17-19 (NIV)

After our day at the museum, I spent time further researching the artwork we saw that day. I learned the meaning of El Anatsui’s wall sculpture Duvor is communal cloth. Perhaps that ancient 16th century tapestry and this modern recycled sculpture had more in common than first meets the eye.

As we prepare for a new year, may we each seek to be our fully unique and connected part of the communal tapestry we were made to be.

This new year, may we allow those different from us to illuminate and weave together the image of God in us and vice versa.

This new year, may we be the body of Christ who is willing to be a new kind of artful conversation.

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When Mothers Travail in Birth Again, at Christmas

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Christmas began in a surge of bodily, motherly fluid. Blood and water, water and blood. Jesus didn’t come neatly — giving birth to the Savior of the world was not without pain.

I am nursing pain of my own, struck by the fact that blood and water still vividly convey the travail that Christmastime can bring to a mother’s soul. This Advent, I am sitting in a slew of questions. In many ways, I have nothing but question after question, upon a decade of waiting for answers. Such is life when you are the parent of a pigpen-dweller, the mother of sons who have run away from God. Yes. I have more than one son who cashed in on the reputation of a good father and ran away to live life on his own terms.

These would be easier words to type ten years ago. My fingers would not hover over the keyboard, straining for the meaning behind a decade of their wandering and my own bitter sorrow. All these years later, hope is no longer “a thrill” of hope. No, my hope is narcoleptic — though she waits her eyes are closed.

If writing is, as Hemingway alluded, “sitting at a typewriter and bleeding on the page,” then this digital page is a warm, red pool. I beg your pardon but, when a child isn’t walking with God, a mother lives a slow bleed. And the world can sing “Silent Night” until the cows come home but her inner world will still howl in loud lament. She never stops feeling the travail of it.

“My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you.”
Galatians 4:19 (KJV)

In situations like mine, therapists say that a certain amount of detachment is important . . . and I agree. Every believer in Christ must learn to coexist with the unresolved, and to do it with patience and even (dare I say) joy. The alternative is to be happy only when all is nearly perfect.  The only way to truly live and thrive in spite of the Painfully Unresolved is to learn the art of emotionally isolating and containing it so that it doesn’t contaminate other precious parts of life.

But all this good advice begs the question: When does healthy detachment become unhealthy holiday hopelessness? For me, the answer is found as I consider this mother and this water:

“Early the next morning Abraham took some food and a skin of water and gave them to Hagar. He set them on her shoulders and then sent her off with the boy. She went on her way and wandered in the Desert of Beersheba. When the water in the skin was gone, she put the boy under one of the bushes. Then she went off and sat down about a bowshot away, for she thought, ‘I cannot watch the boy die.’ And as she sat there, she began to sob. God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, ‘What is the matter, Hagar? Do not be afraid; God has heard the boy crying as he lies there. Lift the boy up and take him by the hand, for I will make him into a great nation.’ Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. So she went and filled the skin with water and gave the boy a drink.”
Genesis 21:14-19 NIV

While other mothers are planning to jingle-bell-it and bake cookies for boys who are still innocent, I sob again alongside Hagar of old. Maybe this describes you this holiday, too? I believe God is asking me and all mothers of prodigal sons or daughters the same thing He asked Hagar: “What is the matter?”

Despite the inconvenience of the unresolved and the awkwardness of having sorrow in The Age of the Hallmark Channel, we must search our hearts and we must answer honestly. My honest answer? Sometimes I am afraid my sons are going to die without ever coming back home to their heavenly Father. When it comes to pain of this magnitude, emotions can often only choose between fight, flight, or freeze. My heart usually wants to freeze. Let me not see the child die, I think and pray.

But, hold on a minute. I hear the haunting strains of a beloved Christmas song . . .

O come, Thou Dayspring, from on high,
And cheer us by Thy drawing nigh;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to thee, O Israel.

The long tarry of Advent is incomplete without supernaturally good news and the thrill of hope reawakened! There is still a well — the well of salvation! It is still available to every weeping son and every mother who weeps for him. May God open our eyes to it. May we gather at this well and drink deeply, you and I. May our prayers “lift the boy up and take him by the hand” (Genesis 21:18).

Sure, we may yet travail in blood and water. Our tears may run rivulets, our wounds may slow-bleed, always fresh, until these prodigals come home. But home they’ll come. The gospel tells us so.

And so, we wait. In hope.

"So This Is Love" by Sheila Atchley
“So This Is Love” by Sheila Atchley. A mixed media original on wood canvas, rendered in Stabilo, acrylics, ink, and willow stick.

 

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It’s Time

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On this last Sunday of Advent, we invite you to take a journey with storyteller Sherri Gragg as she leads us in a meditation of what Christ’s birth might have been like. This story is likely not the version you are accustomed to, but based on historical and cultural evidence, this very well may have been closer to Mary’s experience. Regardless of the details, we pray that your heart will be led to celebration and worship of our humble, miraculous Savior!

~

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.
Luke 2:6-7 (NIV)

Mary couldn’t sit still.

With great effort she rose from the low stool in the courtyard where she and the other women were preparing the evening meal. She placed one hand on her lower back and began to pace back and forth. She felt restless, uneasy.

The older women watched her for a moment before casting knowing looks to each other. Mary’s baby was ready to make His entrance.

As the family sat in a circle on the floor, tearing off pieces of pita bread and scooping up couscous and yogurt from the large communal bowl, Mary sat looking at the piece of bread in her hand.

She knew she should be ravenous, but somehow she couldn’t eat. She reached up to wipe a trickle of sweat from her temple. The packed room was stifling despite the fact that the sun had set long ago.

A moment later Mary gasped as the dull ache in her lower abdomen suddenly intensified. One of Joseph’s aunts, seated next to her, frowned, reached out to place a hand on her stomach, and found the muscles clenched tight. “It’s time,” she said.

Joseph leapt to his feet, his face white with alarm. His uncle chuckled, patted him on the shoulder, and sent him off to get the town midwife. As two of the women helped Mary to her feet, the matriarch of the family began barking orders to the rest of the clan. Normally Mary would have been offered the privacy and comfort of the kataluma, the guest room, but since the house was full of guests and her labor could possibly stretch into the early hours of the morning, they would need to improvise.

Quickly, the animals were evicted from the stables beneath the main living area. The children were tasked with sweeping the area clean and placing fresh straw on the floor. By the time the midwife arrived, Mary was leaning against the cool stone wall of the stables as she waited for the next contraction to pass.

The jovial older woman shuffled into the stables, birthing stool hooked over her arm. Joseph peeked anxiously through the doorway at his wife for a moment before one of the women shooed him away to wait upstairs.

The moment his foot landed on the first step leading to the main living room, Mary cried out in pain. Joseph froze. Beside him, his uncle laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.“Come, Joseph,” he said. “She is in good hands.”

Hours later, in the dark early hours of the morning, Mary gasped for air and cried out in pain from the birthing stool, where she leaned back into the supportive arms of Joseph’s aunt. The midwife crouched low in front of her, murmuring encouragement.

“It is time to push, my daughter,” she said. “Be strong now.”

The next contraction tore through Mary’s body only seconds after the last one subsided. Then, with a cry of agony, she bore down with all of her remaining strength.

The pain faded as her baby’s first cry pierced the night.

“You have a son!” the midwife announced. Upstairs, Joseph’s ecstatic shout was joined by the joyful celebration of his uncles and cousins.

In the stables below, the midwife tenderly placed the crying baby on His young mother’s chest. Tears flowed down Mary’s face as she bent to kiss her son’s forehead for the first time.

Joseph peeked around the corner of the stables. His aunt turned to wave him into the room. “Come,” she said. “Come meet your son.”Joseph rushed to Mary’s side and knelt down to wrap an arm around her. Gently he placed a calloused hand on the baby’s head as he blinked back tears of joy.

“Have you chosen a name?” his aunt asked.

“Yeshua,” Mary said as she gazed tenderly into the eyes of her son, now quiet and alert. “Yeshua…”

“She will give birth to a son, and you are to give Him the name Jesus [Yeshua], because He will save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21).

—

As written by Sherri Gragg in Advent: The Story of Christmas. Connect with Sherri on Instagram and her website.

Advent: The Story of Christmas traces God’s ribbon of redemption – from Eden to Jerusalem – through thirty-one biblical stories. Sherri Gragg’s unique storytelling, infused with cultural accuracy and color, has been described as “Bible stories for adults.”

Her narrative style offers a fresh perspective on the lives of God’s people, both ancient and modern. Advent: The Story of Christmas will enrich personal devotional time during the seasons of Advent and Christmas.

Today marks the fourth Sunday in the season of Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas Day. We’re so pleased to have spent these weeks sharing excerpts from this beautiful book, learning more about Jesus, and counting down to Christmas, together.

We Can Love Extravagantly with the Smallest Acts of Kindness

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Meanwhile, Jesus was in Bethany at the home of Simon, a man who had previously had leprosy. While he was eating, a woman came in with a beautiful alabaster jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard. She broke open the jar and poured the perfume over his head.

Some of those at the table were indignant. “Why waste such expensive perfume?” they asked. “It could have been sold for a year’s wages and the money given to the poor!” So they scolded her harshly.

But Jesus replied, “Leave her alone. Why criticize her for doing such a good thing to me? You will always have the poor among you, and you can help them whenever you want to. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could and has anointed my body for burial ahead of time. I tell you the truth, wherever the Good News is preached throughout the world, this woman’s deed will be remembered and discussed.”
Mark 14:3–9 (NLT)

As a woman and as a mom, I constantly pour out love without expecting anything in return. Since my kids were babies, I’ve given up my body for their benefit. I nursed them, spending every waking hour (and many of the non-waking ones) feeding them, changing their diapers, doing their laundry, and bouncing or rocking them. I’ve made grilled cheese sandwiches, tied shoes, prayed over consequences, and stayed up into the wee hours listening and worrying and picking up the house. I’ve done most of this while wearing the previous day’s clothes that I picked up off the floor, and very likely without having eaten a hot or complete meal myself that day.

As a daughter, as a wife, and as a friend, I’ve also been on the receiving end of such love.

My mom, a single mother from the time my siblings and I were very young, burned the candle at both ends to provide for us. Now that we are adults, she continues to love and care for us in new ways. One time she drove ten hours to watch my baby daughter while I participated in a work retreat, and she told me she loved every minute.

My husband pours out his love in both big and small ways. The dishes are his domain, and for that I am so thankful. (I love to cook. The cleanup? Not so much.) He makes sure my water bottle is full at night and my mug of coffee is poured in the morning. He cheers me on through countless work projects, holds my hand during scary dental procedures, and folds all the laundry.

Over the years my friends have shown up at different times to love me well. They have scrubbed my toilets. Cooked and dropped off meals. Prayed over text messages. Laughed and cried through both fun and hard times.

Love often calls for sacrificing our own comfort. We see this kind of extravagant love poured out in our own lives, we see this in the life of Christ, and we see it in Mark 14.

Jesus was eating a meal, and a woman came ready to pour out her love. Can you imagine the hammering of her heart as she approached the table? Can you see the look of hope, adoration, and terror on her face as she offered her lavish gift? Can you imagine Jesus looking at her with love and acceptance?

And then the disciples had the nerve to ridicule her offering. I love the way Jesus rebukes them, saying her gift would be remembered. What a comeback!

That woman recognized the extravagant love Jesus offered, and expecting nothing in return, she lavishly poured out her own love on Him. We too can give extravagantly of ourselves.

We can love our families by returning home to continue our work after a long day on the job. We can clean bathrooms, cook meals, and go back to the office the next day. We can wipe baby bottoms in the middle of the night or stroke a middle schooler’s hair after they’ve had a hard day. We can switch loads of laundry and do the dishes for the fifth time that day. All are gifts we give — some to ourselves and some to others — but are likely never thanked for.

Some of the most fulfilling gifts we can give are anonymous, and therefore thanks-less. There’s something heart-swelling about giving to someone without the possibility of being thanked, recognized, or credited. Maybe it’s paying for a stranger’s coffee order in the drive-thru or leaving a small gift or card on a friend’s doorstep. These acts are quiet in their anonymity, and heartfelt for both giver and recipient.

Jesus loved us extravagantly to the end, literally pouring out His own life so that we may live fully, abundantly (John 10:10). Because of the extravagant way we have been loved by Christ, we can do the hard work of daily living. And just as the woman poured out her heart and soul for Jesus with a jar of perfume, we can do the same for our family, friends, selves, and God.

Lord, thank You for going first in showing me how to love extravagantly. May I learn from You and then turn to those around me and do likewise. I pray that like the woman who poured perfume on Jesus’s head, I would pour out to others generously. Amen.

This article was written by Anna E. Rendell, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

Empowered: More of Him for All of You, by Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell is designed to incorporate the five major components of our being — physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual. The sixty Scripture passages and devotions invite you to see from different angles how God empowers us, and each day ends with prayer and reflection questions to deepen the learning. Grab a copy now. We pray it blesses you.

When This Christmas Looks Different from Those Past

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I tiptoed out of bed just before midnight, too full of sadness to sleep. I’d kept the tears at bay all week as I hopscotched from work to errands to chores, their distraction accomplishing what distractions do as I focused on various to-do’s. But under the cloak of night, the distractions disintegrated, and I was left with my own troubles attaching themselves to my attention, at attention, front and center.

I moved downstairs, plopped down on the sofa, and cried my eyes out. I cried over a few things, not the least of which was a friendship that didn’t look like it used to. I mulled over its history, and in the dark of night I could now see plain as day that the more effort I put into crossing the gap between us to improve the relationship, the more it became apparent that the other person wasn’t interested in improving the relationship.

I couldn’t change the other person’s “want to,” and I couldn’t do the work for the both of us. I knew it was finally time to accept that fact and quit forcing the relationship to be what it wasn’t.

A few days later, at our favorite Christmas tree farm, my husband saw me take a deep breath of chilly December air and let out a sigh as big as the nine foot Canaan fir evergreen next to me.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“This! This is what’s wrong.” I raised and dropped my arms dramatically. “For the first time, we’re picking out a Christmas tree without all the kids. I know that’s not wrong, but it doesn’t feel right either. Oh, I guess it’s just different, and different right now makes me sad.”

Since our daughter, the baby of the family, sprang the nest this past August — three years after our twin sons did the same — my husband and I are doing a lot of Christmas traditions as a party of two. The usual Christmas activities look and feel much different than they did when at least one child lived at home, and I’m surprised at how this change hurts a little more during this time of year.

As I try to comfort myself in old family traditions, the reality of new losses means I’m a literal far cry from merry and bright.

Now, you may be as far from my own parenting stage as you are from the North Pole, but I bet you sit rather close to a change or two that is messing with your familiar Christmas feels. Maybe you’ve had a change in a relationship, and someone you’ve spent more Christmases with than without won’t be celebrating with you this year. Maybe someone you’d like to distance yourself from is going to be sitting at your Christmas table for the first time. Maybe you’ve had a change in finances, your job, your address, or your stage of life. Whatever it is, that change feels particularly acute this time of year, a Real Life roadblock between you and your holiday happiness.

Wouldn’t we all like the realities of Real Life to take a vacation during the Advent and Christmas season, at least for a little while?

I sure would. I want to reside in the land of the Sugar Plum Fairies where I can simply relish my traditions of sugar cookies and cinnamon rolls and Bing crooning about a White Christmas in the background alongside all my favorite people. I want delight without a lick of drama, holiday cheer without the harshness of change. I want only good tidings of great joy, not the hard-on-the-heart realities of broken relationships and missing my kids.

But then I’m reminded that the actual good tidings of great joy — Jesus — is why we can walk through Real Life every day of the year, no matter where we are and what season we’re in.

Before Mary gave birth to Jesus, she had to first receive the miracle formed in the shadows. She had to sit in the shadow of the Most High.

“The angel answered, ‘The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.'”
Luke 1:35 (NIV)

Miracles form in the shadows, and we never know when one will show up smack-dab in the middle of Real Life.

There’s no shame in being sad if things look different for you this Advent and Christmas season. Following that shadow of sadness, perhaps a miracle will come — a birthing of a new truth or tradition that will bless you for decades to come. Maybe something will change for the better, and maybe it won’t. Either way, you and I serve ourselves well when we let go of our expectations that the Christmas season will only be good if it looks a certain way.

Things may be different, yes, but different can still be good. Because while something new isn’t familiar, it can still be fantastic.

During this Christmas season, may we be acutely aware of how God births miracles in the dark. He did so for Mary, and He, in His sovereignty, can do so for us. May we remember He turns our impossible into possible, our difficult change into a grace. When we start to doubt or forget this, may we take our eyes off of what’s around us and instead look toward Jesus — the Way, the Truth, and the Real Life that is with us always.

 

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Advent — the Language of Heaven

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The world we live in doesn’t often give us a chance to slow down and catch our breath. It’s fast paced and doesn’t show signs of stopping. In many ways the slowness of the pandemic feels like a distant memory.

Life happens. And it happens again and again and again. There are trials and tests and struggles. There is loss and hurt and change.

Even as we speak, I am in the middle of a transitional season. There are decisions to be made as soon as possible. There are several questions looming over me with no apparent answer. I’m honestly at both a crossroads and a loss. I don’t know which way to go or what to do.

I don’t normally do well with change. And this situation is no different. I very much wish I could say that I’m excited about what’s to come, but I’m not. I’m a bit fearful and worried. I’m concerned about the outcome. There are a million ways this could play out . . . some of them great and some, not so much.

When unexpected seasons come my way, I often think about Peter and the disciples in Matthew 14:25-32. When Jesus was walking on the water, the disciples thought He was a ghost and even cried out in fear. I understand that all too well. Jesus told them to not be afraid and to take courage. Those were words He has spoken numerous times before. Peter locked eyes with his Savior, stepped out of the boat, and walked on the water toward his Lord. Then, He took his eyes off of Jesus and focused on the wind and the waves. Immediately, Peter began to sink. Jesus graciously rescued him in the midst of all of his doubt. This, I also understand well.

How many times am I Peter in the story? How many times are you? How often do we take our eyes off of Jesus and fix them on the natural and temporal things of the earth? How many times do we see the Lord moving and yet we still doubt?

During this Christmas season, I also think about Mary and her season of transition. She was just a girl with very little idea of the gravity of what God was asking of her. Luke 1:26-38 tells of the angel Gabriel appearing to Mary detailing how she would conceive Jesus by the Holy Spirit. She was greatly troubled at his words. Again, God’s reassurance was to not be afraid. Mary’s response was that she was the Lord’s servant and that His will should be fulfilled.

What faith did it take for both Peter and Mary to look upon Christ, to trust Him, and to obey, whether it was for a moment or a lifetime? They were both in unforeseen circumstances. They were both met with a test of their faith. They were both challenged by where they would set their attentions.

We are faced with the same decision every day. It is ridiculously easy for me to look to the right and to the left. I often pride myself on being extremely independent and self sufficient. I’m a problem solver. But, only one actually has the power to say that their word will never fail. Guess what? It’s not me.

The season of Advent is the perfect opportunity for us to slow down, remember the Lord’s faithfulness, and focus on Christ in the midst of the chaos surrounding us.

When Jesus was born, He came into the world bringing gifts to the broken, the weary, the lost, the hurting, and the confused. He came with the gift of hope. Titus 2:13 describes Jesus as our blessed hope. He is the gift of hope to the hopeless. He is the very reason why you and I can look forward knowing that His plans are for our good. He will never fail us. He is our faithful Father.

1 John 4:7-21 repeatedly tells us of all the ways in which God is love. It is because of His great love for us that He sent Jesus to save a dying world from their sin. It is through His love that we can love Him and love others. God’s love is how we can even know Him, how we are able to wait for Christ’s return. His love sustains us when the wind and the waves seem to engulf us. His love won’t let us drown.

Jesus’ birth was a great joy to Mary and Joseph and those who were foretold of His coming. There are numerous verses to speak of Jesus’ joy being made complete in us and His joy being our strength and finding joy in His presence. It is through His joy that I can consider it pure joy when I encounter trials. He is the lifter of our heads and our strong tower.

Jesus is called Prince of Peace in Isaiah 9:6. And 2 Thessalonians 3:16 calls Him the Lord of peace and then goes on to say He gives peace at all times, in every way. Repeatedly God is offering peace to His children freely. His peace is what anchors us to Himself, to His heart, and to His promises. We can rest in knowing His grace is sufficient for us no matter the thorn in our flesh.

Advent is the language of Heaven…hope, love, joy, and peace. And Jesus’ life spoke this language.

I am choosing to speak Heaven’s language throughout endless uncertainty.

I will gaze into His hope.

I will bask in His love.

I will dance in His joy.

I will rest in His peace.  

If you find yourself in need of the hope, love, joy, and peace that is only found in the Lord, I’d love to pray for you!

 

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God Handcrafts Unique Gifts for Each of Us

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My favorite Christmas memory as a child happened the year my dad lost his job. That was the year Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. In case you are not a child of the ‘80s, they were one-of-a-kind cloth dolls with plastic heads that came with birth certificates and adoption papers. All the girls wanted them for Christmas.

They were also expensive.

My family was scraping by on my mom’s teaching salary. Even though it was a gift I longed for, I knew in my heart it wouldn’t be possible. I didn’t want my parents to feel bad about it so I kept my wish to myself.

My mama, however, had different plans. She found a woman from our church named Delores, who was making handmade dolls similar to the name-brand ones and charging much less. Delores had cared for me when I was in the church nursery. She painted the dolls’ faces and crafted their hair, making each one with unique features. Mama commissioned her to create a doll for me with my same chai latte skin tone, freckles, dark brown pigtails, and even a diamond-shaped beauty mark on her right cheek just like mine.

On Christmas morning, my brother and I raced downstairs to the tree eager to dig into the treats in our stockings and unwrap the gifts beneath the tree. I was surprised to see a hand-sewn, quilted baby carrier nestled among the other wrapped gifts. With sparkling eyes, Mama and Daddy encouraged me to open it.

Inside was the most beautiful doll I’d ever seen with lush, dark chocolate hair and features similar to my own. I was stunned. How did they do it? How did they know what I’d wanted?

I named my doll Kailani, which was my middle name meaning “heavenly child of the sea” in Hawaiian. That doll was my treasure for years. I cared for her, cuddled her, styled her, read to her, and talked to her about all my dreams. Cradling her in my arms, I cared for her like my own baby — never imagining God would one day give me three baby girls.

Kailani was a sweet reminder that God delights in giving us good gifts. He gave Delores and my mama the gift of creativity to fashion this doll just for me. And the best part was that Kailani looked like me. She wasn’t like all the other Cabbage Patch dolls. In my second-grade mind, she was more beautiful and perfect than if we had had the money to buy the name-brand one. Decades later, I’m still savoring the memory of receiving that handmade gift.

In the book of James, Jesus’ half-brother, reminds us:

Every generous act and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights; with Him there is no variation or shadow cast by turning. By His own choice, He gave us a new birth by the message of truth so that we would be the firstfruits of His creatures.
James 1:17-18 (HCSB)

Friends, sometimes in life we may find ourselves longing for something that someone else has. She might be especially adept in the kitchen or inspiring when she speaks on the stage. Your friend might have a way with words or beautiful features or that cute pair of shoes you’ve always wanted. We can focus on that specific gift that our friend has, or we can unwrap the generous and perfect gifts God has handcrafted uniquely for each one of us.

Maybe He painted you with freckles or shaped you with naturally curly hair. Maybe He molded you with a gift for organization or singing or gathering people. Maybe your gift is being able to see the person in the room who is hurting or on the fringes. Whatever your unique gift, embrace it. Receive it. Rip off the paper and use it for His glory!

As we draw near to Christmas, let’s remember the most perfect gift God gave each one of us. When He sent his son Jesus as a newborn baby to earth, He made the greatest sacrifice of all time. He knew when He gingerly placed His precious child in that rough manger that Jesus would one day have to die a horrible death on the cross. He gave up His most treasured possession to gift us freedom from sin and eternal life. Friends, this is not a gift we can earn or strive for. It’s unmerited and undeserved but given with unabashed love and grace. In all our traditions and gatherings, let’s not forget the True Gift — Jesus.

From the (in)courage archives and as printed in the Everyday Faith Winter Magazine.

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