Tuesday, December 24, 2019
Christmas is About Being with the Ones You Love (Advent Day 24)
I haven't seen my sister and brother-in-law since August of 2018. Right now they are tucked into a hotel somewhere along the Trans Canada Highway. They have just survived their second-busiest week of the year, and as soon as they locked up shop, they got in the car to drive here. They could have stayed home. Mom would have cooked them a delicious Christmas dinner, complete with homemade cinnamon rolls for dessert. They could have slipped into their own bed and slept until they were rested. They could have been opening presents under their own beautiful tree tomorrow.
But they're not.
They're racing through the dark and snow, tired eyes forward, to come and be with us.
Because Christmas is about being with the ones you love.
It's about being with the ones you love.
(It's no surprise. I've sung this song all month long.)
Jesus did it first. He came all this way. Because the love of his life turns out to be ... us. And He came an unfathomable distance to spend Christmas with us.
Immanuel. God with us.
And I am telling you this in full confidence that even if you are utterly, entirely alone, you are not alone. Even if no arms hold you tight, you are held tight. Even if you see no gifts, and no tree, He is your gift, and He stretched out and died on a tree to bring you home.
We are so loved.
So very loved.
The waiting is over. He came.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Monday, December 23, 2019
Neurogenesis (Advent Day 23)
It is just shy of nineteen years since I graduated from high school. I've travelled, moved away, moved home, moved away again ... and today I ran into a friend from elementary school while I was shopping in Costco.
Nineteen years later, two thousand kilometres away, and a lifetime in between.
I stopped in my tracks.
I had taken the kids and my nieces up to the wave pool, and just ran into Costco for a few things before heading home. Kachi and Pascal had insisted on coming in with me, so I had them both in the cart, wrangling my way through a tangle of Christmas-Eve-Eve shoppers, and we finally made it to the line. And there, right in front of me, was a friend I had stood next to in class photos for years. She was one of those friends that I'd always wished I knew better. We had played together at recess, worked on occasional projects together, and I'd always been more than a bit intimidated by her intelligence. She was smart - gifted - and always carried herself with a gentle self-assurance.
After saying goodbye to my old friend, I felt a sense of loss, and a fair amount of awkwardness. Was it weird that I hugged her? Should I have just slipped by and pretended I didn't see her? And I definitely talked too much. Gak! Normally I would have just stuffed the feelings away, but I was listening to a podcast this morning that talks about healing in the brain - and how, when we're able to pause and think about how we're feeling, what we're feeling, our brain creates new neurons. This is called neurogenesis. It isn't a revival of dead cells; it's the creation of new cells in neural pathways that were dead. Yes: resurrection (not resuscitation). And yes, we can actually cause them to be born by pausing. Stopping. Paying attention: how am I feeling, what is causing this?
So I tucked my feelings into a shelf to think about later, and when I found a few moments, pulled them back out to look at more closely.
I think I was feeling weird because part of me wishes we had been better friends ... and my insecurities jumped up, telling me I wasn't a desirable friend, she wouldn't have wanted me for a friend. And that could be true. I don't really know who I was back then. Was I awkward? Bossy? Quiet? Loud? Kind? Cruel? I don't know. (I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I don't know - I'm still trying to figure out who I am, even now. I can be all of those things in the span of a few minutes.)
But I felt a lot better for having pulled my feelings out and looked at them. And someone else I've been reading a lot about lately also did that kind of thing: When the Shepherds came and worshiped Jesus, they told everyone what the angels had said. And Mary - Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart (Luke 2:19). Right there at his birth, there's a whisper of his resurrection - that treasuring, that pondering, it causes new life to spring up.
In the busyness and bustle, I wish you a Christmas that points your heart forward, dear friends - with new life, new hope, and friendships new and old around you.
xo.
Nineteen years later, two thousand kilometres away, and a lifetime in between.
I stopped in my tracks.
I had taken the kids and my nieces up to the wave pool, and just ran into Costco for a few things before heading home. Kachi and Pascal had insisted on coming in with me, so I had them both in the cart, wrangling my way through a tangle of Christmas-Eve-Eve shoppers, and we finally made it to the line. And there, right in front of me, was a friend I had stood next to in class photos for years. She was one of those friends that I'd always wished I knew better. We had played together at recess, worked on occasional projects together, and I'd always been more than a bit intimidated by her intelligence. She was smart - gifted - and always carried herself with a gentle self-assurance.
After saying goodbye to my old friend, I felt a sense of loss, and a fair amount of awkwardness. Was it weird that I hugged her? Should I have just slipped by and pretended I didn't see her? And I definitely talked too much. Gak! Normally I would have just stuffed the feelings away, but I was listening to a podcast this morning that talks about healing in the brain - and how, when we're able to pause and think about how we're feeling, what we're feeling, our brain creates new neurons. This is called neurogenesis. It isn't a revival of dead cells; it's the creation of new cells in neural pathways that were dead. Yes: resurrection (not resuscitation). And yes, we can actually cause them to be born by pausing. Stopping. Paying attention: how am I feeling, what is causing this?
So I tucked my feelings into a shelf to think about later, and when I found a few moments, pulled them back out to look at more closely.
I think I was feeling weird because part of me wishes we had been better friends ... and my insecurities jumped up, telling me I wasn't a desirable friend, she wouldn't have wanted me for a friend. And that could be true. I don't really know who I was back then. Was I awkward? Bossy? Quiet? Loud? Kind? Cruel? I don't know. (I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I don't know - I'm still trying to figure out who I am, even now. I can be all of those things in the span of a few minutes.)
But I felt a lot better for having pulled my feelings out and looked at them. And someone else I've been reading a lot about lately also did that kind of thing: When the Shepherds came and worshiped Jesus, they told everyone what the angels had said. And Mary - Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart (Luke 2:19). Right there at his birth, there's a whisper of his resurrection - that treasuring, that pondering, it causes new life to spring up.
In the busyness and bustle, I wish you a Christmas that points your heart forward, dear friends - with new life, new hope, and friendships new and old around you.
xo.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
All the People
I found a fantastic movie on Netflix last week: Holiday in the Wild.
Not the story - the plot is pretty predictable.
Not the acting - I can't take Rob Lowe seriously after he spoofed himself so magnificently in The Grinder.
But it's got two big things going for it ... it's a Christmas movie, and it's set in Zambia. Two of my heart's loves in one go!
One of my favourite parts is when the main character, Kate, is chatting with her friend in New York, and the New York friend asks "so what's Christmas in Africa?"
And Kate says, "well, I can't speak for the entire continent, but here at the elephant orphanage they celebrate all week and there's no shopping involved."
Because I loved the little perspective it offered - the reminder that Christmas is different all over the world. That it's not marked the same way - it looks different in Ontario and in Zambia and in Australia. But underneath the wrapping, the fact is ... we celebrate Christmas all over the world.
We pause and mark the fact that God sent us the hugest gift.
We rejoice that He came.
We do things differently, because He came to us. All of us. The angel declared, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people."
Merry Christmas, people.
xo.
Not the story - the plot is pretty predictable.
Not the acting - I can't take Rob Lowe seriously after he spoofed himself so magnificently in The Grinder.
But it's got two big things going for it ... it's a Christmas movie, and it's set in Zambia. Two of my heart's loves in one go!
One of my favourite parts is when the main character, Kate, is chatting with her friend in New York, and the New York friend asks "so what's Christmas in Africa?"
And Kate says, "well, I can't speak for the entire continent, but here at the elephant orphanage they celebrate all week and there's no shopping involved."
Because I loved the little perspective it offered - the reminder that Christmas is different all over the world. That it's not marked the same way - it looks different in Ontario and in Zambia and in Australia. But underneath the wrapping, the fact is ... we celebrate Christmas all over the world.
We pause and mark the fact that God sent us the hugest gift.
We rejoice that He came.
We do things differently, because He came to us. All of us. The angel declared, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people."
Merry Christmas, people.
xo.
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Barren (Advent Day 21)
Patrick and I zipped up to the city today to do a little shopping while our nieces stayed home with the kids. We listened to a podcast while we drove, and the host talked about how barrenness in the scriptures is a metaphor for hopelessness. No life, and no prospect of life.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
It took my breath away.
Barrenness.
I have known the ache and sting of being barren.
Of longing for life, longing to be a mother, watching others' arms fill up while mine were so empty. So very empty.
The shame of enduring the casual comments: just don't try so hard; or God will send children when you're ready for them.
The medical scrutiny; new types of tests and exams that I could never pass.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
Which means, of course, that eventually they weren't.
Eventually, another heart started beating where no heart had been.
Eventually, God showed up to meet the deepest longing of their hearts.
And those mothers, who had been sick with hope deferred, saw their hopes embodied and kissed those sweet faces and welcomed new life where no life had been.
And of course I couldn't help but think of the world, longing for a Messiah. Longing for redemption, restoration, longing to know God. And in the waiting, silence. The prophets didn't speak. No psalmists sang. And then, in the weariness, Mary bloomed with life without any natural cause - hope rushing and swelling, born to the whole world, born to heal and love and rescue - the hope of nations.
I don't have much to add.
I just wanted to share this, in case you might be feeling hopeless, daunted, overwhelmed.
In case some corner of your life is a stab of emptiness.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
I was barren.
The weary world was barren.
But we did not stay that way.
We did not stay that way.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
It took my breath away.
Barrenness.
I have known the ache and sting of being barren.
Of longing for life, longing to be a mother, watching others' arms fill up while mine were so empty. So very empty.
The shame of enduring the casual comments: just don't try so hard; or God will send children when you're ready for them.
The medical scrutiny; new types of tests and exams that I could never pass.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
Which means, of course, that eventually they weren't.
Eventually, another heart started beating where no heart had been.
Eventually, God showed up to meet the deepest longing of their hearts.
And those mothers, who had been sick with hope deferred, saw their hopes embodied and kissed those sweet faces and welcomed new life where no life had been.
And of course I couldn't help but think of the world, longing for a Messiah. Longing for redemption, restoration, longing to know God. And in the waiting, silence. The prophets didn't speak. No psalmists sang. And then, in the weariness, Mary bloomed with life without any natural cause - hope rushing and swelling, born to the whole world, born to heal and love and rescue - the hope of nations.
I don't have much to add.
I just wanted to share this, in case you might be feeling hopeless, daunted, overwhelmed.
In case some corner of your life is a stab of emptiness.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
I was barren.
The weary world was barren.
But we did not stay that way.
We did not stay that way.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Friday, December 20, 2019
All the Kings of the Earth (Advent Day 20)
Look what I found: the classic worship scene tucked all the way back in the book of psalms, which were written a thousand years before that holy night.
All the kings of the earth shall give you thanks, O Lord,
for they have heard the words of your mouth,
and they shall sing of the ways of the Lord,
for great is the glory of the Lord.
For though the Lord is high, he regards the lowly,
but the haughty he knows from afar.
Psalm 138:4-6
I love writing Advent posts. Once I start looking for Jesus, I find Him everywhere. Thanks for following the star along with me, friends.
xo.
 |
| sketched by Ash |
All the kings of the earth shall give you thanks, O Lord,
for they have heard the words of your mouth,
and they shall sing of the ways of the Lord,
for great is the glory of the Lord.
For though the Lord is high, he regards the lowly,
but the haughty he knows from afar.
Psalm 138:4-6
I love writing Advent posts. Once I start looking for Jesus, I find Him everywhere. Thanks for following the star along with me, friends.
xo.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Loreal was right (Advent Day 19)
Anna and Simeon spent their lives watching for Jesus until they were old.
The shepherds followed the angel's instructions from the back fields through midnight into to Bethlehem.
The wise men followed the star from a far country until it led them to the new King.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Staying up late, running hard, going far.
It's how we love.
You already know it.
You've been up late stretching budgets and wrapping presents and preparing surprises and finding new and beautiful ways to show your people they matter. You do it all the time, and you double down at Christmas.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
God waited until the fullness of time was come.
He sent messengers to announce the news.
And He sent Jesus ... from heaven to earth; from glory to humanity; from being served, to serving.
And Jesus looked right at us - yes, you, and me - and sang
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Merry Christmas, dear friends.
xo.
The shepherds followed the angel's instructions from the back fields through midnight into to Bethlehem.
The wise men followed the star from a far country until it led them to the new King.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Staying up late, running hard, going far.
It's how we love.
You already know it.
You've been up late stretching budgets and wrapping presents and preparing surprises and finding new and beautiful ways to show your people they matter. You do it all the time, and you double down at Christmas.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
God waited until the fullness of time was come.
He sent messengers to announce the news.
And He sent Jesus ... from heaven to earth; from glory to humanity; from being served, to serving.
And Jesus looked right at us - yes, you, and me - and sang
Worth it.
Worth it.
Worth it.
Merry Christmas, dear friends.
xo.
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
On Spelling, and Loving (Advent Day 18)
Pascal is really into reading out all the letters we come across lately. We meet a stop sign at every intersection, so he's suuuuuuper familiar with those ones ... but because his name starts with P, it's his favourite letter, and he's adamant that every stop sign is actually proclaiming POTS.
'P - O - T - S!' he reads, and then again at the next street, 'P - O - T - S!'
When he's happy that the kids are coming home, he spells out their names.
'S - A - M! V - A - V - A! K - A - C - H - I!'
And thanks to a brother who finds bathroom words hilarious, he can also spell butt.
When he's cranky or upset, he usually turns to that one. These days we go to more stores than usual ... if we're shopping and he wants to buy a toy and I've said no, out it comes: 'B - U - T - T!'
I tried to replace it by teaching him a new word. A few weeks ago I said "can you spell love? L - O - V - E." And I spelled it for him a few times. He wasn't interested.
Today we were walking home from the bus stop and he was sad the kids had all gone to school. 'B - U - T - T,' he sulked.
"What about L - O - V - E?" I spelled. I didn't expect him to remember, but I thought it might distract him from his bad habit.
'No,' he refused, shaking his head, 'I don't know how to spell love.'
Ha!
But I knew exactly how he felt.
Sometimes I'm cranky and I want the signs to spell my name and I spit the worst words out of my mouth. I straight up act like I don't know how to spell love.
But I do.
And if I am ever tempted to forget, I'm reminded every Christmas.
Stores are filled with shoppers looking for just the right way to bring joy to someone else's heart.
Groups and organizations host dinners, pack hampers, stuff closets full of clothes.
Thoughtfulness and generosity are foremost, and it is so deliciously beautiful.
Every part of it sings, shouts, and whispers about the heart of our Saviour.
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.
-Hamilton Wright Mabie
Amen and amen.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo
'P - O - T - S!' he reads, and then again at the next street, 'P - O - T - S!'
 |
When he's happy that the kids are coming home, he spells out their names.
'S - A - M! V - A - V - A! K - A - C - H - I!'
And thanks to a brother who finds bathroom words hilarious, he can also spell butt.
When he's cranky or upset, he usually turns to that one. These days we go to more stores than usual ... if we're shopping and he wants to buy a toy and I've said no, out it comes: 'B - U - T - T!'
I tried to replace it by teaching him a new word. A few weeks ago I said "can you spell love? L - O - V - E." And I spelled it for him a few times. He wasn't interested.
Today we were walking home from the bus stop and he was sad the kids had all gone to school. 'B - U - T - T,' he sulked.
"What about L - O - V - E?" I spelled. I didn't expect him to remember, but I thought it might distract him from his bad habit.
'No,' he refused, shaking his head, 'I don't know how to spell love.'
Ha!
But I knew exactly how he felt.
Sometimes I'm cranky and I want the signs to spell my name and I spit the worst words out of my mouth. I straight up act like I don't know how to spell love.
But I do.
And if I am ever tempted to forget, I'm reminded every Christmas.
Stores are filled with shoppers looking for just the right way to bring joy to someone else's heart.
Groups and organizations host dinners, pack hampers, stuff closets full of clothes.
Thoughtfulness and generosity are foremost, and it is so deliciously beautiful.
Every part of it sings, shouts, and whispers about the heart of our Saviour.
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.
-Hamilton Wright Mabie
Amen and amen.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Connecting (Advent Day 17)
When I was a kid, the most content I ever felt was when we were driving, all seven of us together in the car, and my Mom and Dad were singing. Sometimes when we drove they chatted with all of us, which was nice; sometimes they argued, which was not so nice; but when they sang - when they sang on the road I felt that sweet combination of freedom and security which is like nothing else in the world.
Now that I'm an adult, my best feeling is still inspired by the same things - being close to, and being at peace with my loves. Deep in a conversation with my sisters. Snuggled up with my kids when I know their hearts are filled and at rest. Cooking with Patrick, listening to a podcast and pausing it to talk it over and sparking ideas left and right and just filling right up -
When I know and feel and experience that I'm not alone.
We're made that way. We need connection,
I love that when God sent us a Saviour, He sent us ... Himself.
He didn't send us a treasure map to decode or a list of heroic tasks to complete (both of which would have been cool, let's be honest). He sent us a person. Our shelter, our joy, our exhilaration, our strength ... it's all found in His presence.
May your Christmas be filled with those best moments, those holy and true and joyful moments when you connect with those you love - and with the One who loves you best.
xo.
Monday, December 16, 2019
His Love Endu - Well That Took A Weird Turn (Advent Day 16)
When I lived in Zambia, one of the things I loved so much was the call-and-answer style of singing. Someone would sing out a line, and the whole congregation would sing the response in a thunder of harmonies. There's nothing quite like it.
It's so beautiful.
Psalm 136 sounds like a call and answer song to me. The whole psalm follows that pattern - a declaration of who God is / what He has done, and the refrain His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the God of gods.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord of lords:
His love endures forever.
And after reading that line twenty six times, my heart is ready to repeat His love endures forever.
I love that that's the refrain He wants us to carry. I think so many of us expect it to be something else. I find myself so often working with the merciless daily refrain of:
be perfect, be perfect, be perfect
or its regretful sister:
you weren't good enough, you weren't good enough.
But that is not the heartbeat He offers. It's this:
To him who alone does great wonders,
His love endures forever.
Who by his understanding made the heavens,
His love endures forever.
Who spread out the earth upon the waters,
His love endures forever.
Each time the refrain echoes, it's like a something wraps firmer, sturdier, stronger around my weaknesses. The affirmation of God's eternal, enduring love is pounded out here over and over and over again, like the snare in a Scottish pipe band, the techno beat on your running mix, a dragon boat drummer guiding the rowers.
That echo, that beat, gets in and drives.
He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever
and freed us from our enemies.
His love endures forever.
The other night we were driving home in the dark. Our kids are not used to being out at night, and Pascal was scared. So I reminded him of the comfort that my mother used to share with me:
"God is holding us, baby."
'God is holding us?'
"Yes."
'God is holding me?'
"Yes."
'God is holding you?'
"Yes."
The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Mary and Joseph held their baby that first Christmas night, but His everlasting arms were holding them.
And He holds us still; His love endures forever.
So as I was sitting here writing this in my quiet house, full of my soundly sleeping family, an alarm went off.
But it wasn't any of our alarms.
And my super panicked freaked out brain remembered that people down the street woke up with an intruder in their house last week
And all I could think was they're in our house and it's their alarm
And my senses got all fuzzy and started to hide
And I couldn't think straight, or even listen straight
Because I was so afraid.
It was, I eventually discovered, a toy with a dying battery.
And now I am sitting here with my heart pounding, laughing at myself,
But I still mean it. His love does endure forever. And I'm going to go back, and put God's refrain in that story and see what happens:
As I was sitting here writing this in my quiet house, full of my soundly sleeping family, an alarm went off.
His love endures forever.
But it wasn't any of our alarms.
His love endures forever.
And my super panicked freaked out brain remembered that people down the street woke up with an intruder in their house last week
His love endures forever.
And all I could think was they're in our house and it's their alarmHis love endures forever.
And my senses got all fuzzy and started to hide His love endures forever.
And I couldn't think straight, or even listen straight
His love endures forever.
Because I was so afraid.His love endures forever.
It was, I eventually discovered, a toy with a dying battery.His love endures forever.
And now I am sitting here with my heart pounding, laughing at myselfHis love endures forever.
For quiet nights or frightful nights, it's a good echo to in the heart. Sleep well, friends. His love endures forever.
xo.
It's so beautiful.
Psalm 136 sounds like a call and answer song to me. The whole psalm follows that pattern - a declaration of who God is / what He has done, and the refrain His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the God of gods.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord of lords:
His love endures forever.
And after reading that line twenty six times, my heart is ready to repeat His love endures forever.
I love that that's the refrain He wants us to carry. I think so many of us expect it to be something else. I find myself so often working with the merciless daily refrain of:
be perfect, be perfect, be perfect
or its regretful sister:
you weren't good enough, you weren't good enough.
But that is not the heartbeat He offers. It's this:
To him who alone does great wonders,
His love endures forever.
Who by his understanding made the heavens,
His love endures forever.
Who spread out the earth upon the waters,
His love endures forever.
Each time the refrain echoes, it's like a something wraps firmer, sturdier, stronger around my weaknesses. The affirmation of God's eternal, enduring love is pounded out here over and over and over again, like the snare in a Scottish pipe band, the techno beat on your running mix, a dragon boat drummer guiding the rowers.
That echo, that beat, gets in and drives.
He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever
and freed us from our enemies.
His love endures forever.
The other night we were driving home in the dark. Our kids are not used to being out at night, and Pascal was scared. So I reminded him of the comfort that my mother used to share with me:
"God is holding us, baby."
'God is holding us?'
"Yes."
'God is holding me?'
"Yes."
'God is holding you?'
"Yes."
The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Mary and Joseph held their baby that first Christmas night, but His everlasting arms were holding them.
And He holds us still; His love endures forever.
So as I was sitting here writing this in my quiet house, full of my soundly sleeping family, an alarm went off.
But it wasn't any of our alarms.
And my super panicked freaked out brain remembered that people down the street woke up with an intruder in their house last week
And all I could think was they're in our house and it's their alarm
And my senses got all fuzzy and started to hide
And I couldn't think straight, or even listen straight
Because I was so afraid.
It was, I eventually discovered, a toy with a dying battery.
And now I am sitting here with my heart pounding, laughing at myself,
But I still mean it. His love does endure forever. And I'm going to go back, and put God's refrain in that story and see what happens:
As I was sitting here writing this in my quiet house, full of my soundly sleeping family, an alarm went off.
His love endures forever.
But it wasn't any of our alarms.
His love endures forever.
And my super panicked freaked out brain remembered that people down the street woke up with an intruder in their house last week
His love endures forever.
And all I could think was they're in our house and it's their alarmHis love endures forever.
And my senses got all fuzzy and started to hide His love endures forever.
And I couldn't think straight, or even listen straight
His love endures forever.
Because I was so afraid.His love endures forever.
It was, I eventually discovered, a toy with a dying battery.His love endures forever.
And now I am sitting here with my heart pounding, laughing at myselfHis love endures forever.
For quiet nights or frightful nights, it's a good echo to in the heart. Sleep well, friends. His love endures forever.
xo.
Sunday, December 15, 2019
Stand by Night (advent day 15)
Come, bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, who stand by night in the house of the Lord!
Psalm 134:1
It's been a few years since I was up feeding a baby in the night, but every time I read this verse it takes me back to the sleepy, largely unwelcome moments when I was.
Nobody likes getting up in the night. Especially with a ravaged body and an energetic toddler or two eager to greet the dawn. But I also knew it was important and holy work: standing guard against hunger, neglect, loneliness. Building into my kids the ability to trust and love in the future. Showing them again and again that they are loved and cared for.
I love imagining the servants of the Lord, standing in the temple at velvet midnight, torches ablaze. There was no light pollution to compete with. The temple light would have gleamed for miles.
The shepherds, too, were serving at night, keeping watch over their own flocks. And when the angels announced the birth of the Saviour, they blazed and sang "Fear not! There is born to you a Saviour!"
The shepherds, too, were serving at night, keeping watch over their own flocks. And when the angels announced the birth of the Saviour, they blazed and sang "Fear not! There is born to you a Saviour!"
I think a lot of you stand by night in the service of the Lord. Watching over your own particular flock of heartache. Caring for your children. Weeping over a hidden sorrow. Praying for restoration, redemption. I know what that's like. The world sleeps, but your light is on. It might be unseen by those sleeping around you, but it is not wasted. Your wakeful work is kindled in the compassionate, tender heart of God Himself.
He sees. He knows.
And He has not forgotten.
"Fear not," He sings to your longing heart, "there is born to you a Saviour."
And the light of that torch gleams for miles.
And He has not forgotten.
"Fear not," He sings to your longing heart, "there is born to you a Saviour."
And the light of that torch gleams for miles.
(Come, bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, who stand by night in the house of the Lord!)
Fear not. There is born to you a Saviour.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Fear not. There is born to you a Saviour.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Saturday, December 14, 2019
Light in the Dark (Advent Day 14)
We went to a Christmas party tonight. When we walked to our friends' house, it was raining. We hustled and complained a bit, and Pascal was afraid because it was dark - so dark.
During the party the temperature dropped, and when it was time to leave, we stepped outside into a winter wonderland.
The snow had fallen thick and fast, and was perfect for snowballs. Trees were outlined in beauty, and the darkness had been replaced by the snow's reflective radiance.
Kachi trucked straight on, asking permission before crossing the street.
Pascal held my hand and stayed close and quiet, looking around at the beauty.
Vava chattered about gingerbread men and crafts.
Sam and Patrick had a glorious snowball fight.
It was perfect. The best sort of winter magic, with light bouncing off of each snowflake as we walked home full and happy.
And I was thinking about the utter difference the snow made, because snow reflects light. And when Moses spent time in God's physical presence, he came back to his people with a face that shone with reflected radiance. He glowed, like a night full of fresh-fallen snow.
Wishing you all sorts of light in the dark at Christmas, dear friends, and hearts that gleam bright in the night.
xo.
During the party the temperature dropped, and when it was time to leave, we stepped outside into a winter wonderland.
The snow had fallen thick and fast, and was perfect for snowballs. Trees were outlined in beauty, and the darkness had been replaced by the snow's reflective radiance.
 |
Kachi trucked straight on, asking permission before crossing the street.
Pascal held my hand and stayed close and quiet, looking around at the beauty.
Vava chattered about gingerbread men and crafts.
Sam and Patrick had a glorious snowball fight.
It was perfect. The best sort of winter magic, with light bouncing off of each snowflake as we walked home full and happy.
And I was thinking about the utter difference the snow made, because snow reflects light. And when Moses spent time in God's physical presence, he came back to his people with a face that shone with reflected radiance. He glowed, like a night full of fresh-fallen snow.
Wishing you all sorts of light in the dark at Christmas, dear friends, and hearts that gleam bright in the night.
xo.
Friday, December 13, 2019
Vava's Question (Advent Day 13)
I feel like it wasn't that long ago that all of my kids were babies, learning how to crawl and babble and make mischief. I'm aware on one level that they're growing up, but often my background pre-set expects them to still be so young. So it really took my breath away the other day when Vava asked me "how do we know God's real, and not just our minds messing with us?" which is a pretty important question (and probably too advanced for me to tackle, but I did my best). I told her that a lot of people have asked the same question, but for me, I hold on to the times God has told me things in my heart that I don't have any way of knowing, and they turn out to be true. She asked for a few examples, and I shared some with her and encouraged her to keep asking questions.
When we watched The Star, one of the surprising elements for me was the tension, the fear, caused by Herod wanting to kill the new King.
After it ended, Vava was like "did that Pharaoh want to kill baby Jesus like he tried to kill baby Moses?" And I explained to her that it was Herod, not Pharaoh, but that she's right - Jesus' story echoes the story of Moses, and both Pharaoh and Herod wanted to guard their throne against the threat of God's plans. And when I was looking up similarities to show Vava, I discovered that Moses himself prophesied that God would bring another prophet like him, a prophet to stand in between God and his people.
And Moses told the people how they could know if prophets were speaking words from God, or if they were just making them up: the words they speak would come true. God's word is true.
It was a realllllly long time between Moses' foretelling of Jesus and Jesus' arrival. I am certain a lot of people started to doubt. So I love that God made Jesus' story such an obvious echo of Moses'. God sent a baby to save His people? Check. Was placed in a non-cribby crib? Check. Rescued from a murderous king? Check. Lived in Egypt? Check. Chose to serve the people of God rather than rule a second-hand kingdom? Check.
Anyway, I'm not an apologist but I just thought this cool aspect of the Christmas story gets forgotten sometimes. Moses was a forerunner, a picture, a preview and foreteller of Jesus; we can trust Moses' words because they came true.
And we can also trust a very good God who brought that question to Vava's heart.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
When we watched The Star, one of the surprising elements for me was the tension, the fear, caused by Herod wanting to kill the new King.
After it ended, Vava was like "did that Pharaoh want to kill baby Jesus like he tried to kill baby Moses?" And I explained to her that it was Herod, not Pharaoh, but that she's right - Jesus' story echoes the story of Moses, and both Pharaoh and Herod wanted to guard their throne against the threat of God's plans. And when I was looking up similarities to show Vava, I discovered that Moses himself prophesied that God would bring another prophet like him, a prophet to stand in between God and his people.
And Moses told the people how they could know if prophets were speaking words from God, or if they were just making them up: the words they speak would come true. God's word is true.
It was a realllllly long time between Moses' foretelling of Jesus and Jesus' arrival. I am certain a lot of people started to doubt. So I love that God made Jesus' story such an obvious echo of Moses'. God sent a baby to save His people? Check. Was placed in a non-cribby crib? Check. Rescued from a murderous king? Check. Lived in Egypt? Check. Chose to serve the people of God rather than rule a second-hand kingdom? Check.
Anyway, I'm not an apologist but I just thought this cool aspect of the Christmas story gets forgotten sometimes. Moses was a forerunner, a picture, a preview and foreteller of Jesus; we can trust Moses' words because they came true.
And we can also trust a very good God who brought that question to Vava's heart.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Thursday, December 12, 2019
This is Where the King Sits (Advent Day 12)
This morning I took Kachi and Pascal to the garage to get the car fixed. The waiting area had three chairs, and I sat on the chair by the door. Kachi wanted to sit in the middle, and yet Pascal wanted to sit in the middle. There were a few tense moments until Kachi very cleverly said "Pascal, do you want to be the king?"
Pascal replied with an enthusiastic "yes!"
Kachi, pointing to the chair on the end, declared "This is where the king sits."
Pascal scrambled up, very pleased.
Took him a solid five minutes to notice he'd been bamboozled.
It made me smile to myself though, because Kachi didn't even know he was speaking the truth.
It is where the King sits: with us.
With us. He isn't too good, too grand, too perfect. He sits where we are.
A grubby blue waiting-room chair.
A wooden chair at the kitchen table.
A comfy armchair, right there beside you in your living room.
A manger.
This is where the King sits.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
It made me smile to myself though, because Kachi didn't even know he was speaking the truth.
It is where the King sits: with us.
With us. He isn't too good, too grand, too perfect. He sits where we are.
A grubby blue waiting-room chair.
A wooden chair at the kitchen table.
A comfy armchair, right there beside you in your living room.
A manger.
This is where the King sits.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Lunch notes (Advent Day 11)
Sam and Kachi waffle back and forth on whether or not they want a note in their lunch. Sam looked forward to his notes all through kindergarten, but somewhere along the way, someone told Sam that only babies like notes in their lunch, so from then on, he has steadily refused any offers. Kachi, hearing that, decided he didn't want notes for about a month this year ... but changed his mind and now expects one with a doodle as well (in colour, if you please). Vava, on the other hand, has always wanted a note, at least one, and two are even better.
This morning I ran out of time to put a note in Vava's lunchbox.
"Miss V," I shook my head as I wrestled an unwilling Kachi into snowpants (why don't they ever believe me when I say it's cold outside?), "You'll have to zip up your lunchbox and put it in your backpack without a note. I'm sorry." I steeled myself for a storm. Instead, she just smiled.
"It's okay. I'm wearing my necklace." Yes! Her friend made her a necklace with a note inside - how perfect! She continued, "It says I love you Vava, and I will read it and remember I am loved and that I am Vava."
My precious girl. I hadn't realized what that meant.
At school, Vivian is a relentlessly high achiever. She holds her breath, dives in, does everything as perfectly as she can and comes home half-strangled and emptied, where Vava can breathe.
Vava is loved just as she is, no performance or achievement required, and falls apart whenever she needs to. (Vivian, you may be sure, has never fallen apart.)
It isn't a fresh, colourful note that she needs to take with her each day - it's the reminder that she's her truest version of herself, and she's loved.
And that's what the Christmas bells ring out - you are loved! just as you are!
That's why God sent Jesus.
He didn't gussy us up first.
He didn't give us a list of planetary or personal improvements to make before that star-soaked night in Bethlehem.
He sent Him to us, just as we are, because He loves us so.
And it's not a note in the lunchbox, but at Christmas time it's a love note to the whole world.
You are you, and you are loved.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
This morning I ran out of time to put a note in Vava's lunchbox.
"Miss V," I shook my head as I wrestled an unwilling Kachi into snowpants (why don't they ever believe me when I say it's cold outside?), "You'll have to zip up your lunchbox and put it in your backpack without a note. I'm sorry." I steeled myself for a storm. Instead, she just smiled.
"It's okay. I'm wearing my necklace." Yes! Her friend made her a necklace with a note inside - how perfect! She continued, "It says I love you Vava, and I will read it and remember I am loved and that I am Vava."
My precious girl. I hadn't realized what that meant.
At school, Vivian is a relentlessly high achiever. She holds her breath, dives in, does everything as perfectly as she can and comes home half-strangled and emptied, where Vava can breathe.
Vava is loved just as she is, no performance or achievement required, and falls apart whenever she needs to. (Vivian, you may be sure, has never fallen apart.)
It isn't a fresh, colourful note that she needs to take with her each day - it's the reminder that she's her truest version of herself, and she's loved.
And that's what the Christmas bells ring out - you are loved! just as you are!
That's why God sent Jesus.
He didn't gussy us up first.
He didn't give us a list of planetary or personal improvements to make before that star-soaked night in Bethlehem.
He sent Him to us, just as we are, because He loves us so.
And it's not a note in the lunchbox, but at Christmas time it's a love note to the whole world.
You are you, and you are loved.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Live Your Life (Advent Day 10)
We watched The Star this weekend.
It was adorable. Way funnier than I expected, and way better quality than I've come to expect from "Christian" entertainment. (Sorry. I know that's my team. It's just not great at making movies.) Vava and I watched it first, and then turned it on for everyone else ... and joined them to see it a second time, because it's just so good
Mary is played by Gina Rodriguez, the actress from Jane the Virgin (yes, perfectly cast!), and her voice is awesome. I feel like sometimes Mary can be haloed up a lot, and we miss the humanity in her story. But Mary is warm, loving, funny. And while she is so clearly full of faith, she's also sometimes baffled by the life - her life - this little Son of God is coming into.
The moment that got me crying both times was when Joseph and Mary realize they're going to have the baby in a stable - and Joseph cries out, "No, no, it's not supposed to be this way!" Because of course you don't want to bring your baby into the world in a stable. So how much more do you not want to bring the Son of God into the world in a stable?
A while back, I had this conversation with God. He was asking me to do something, and I was conflicted. I didn't feel like I was a very good choice for Him; I mean - I'm not the face of anything, and I usually even struggle with the life-basic task of being the face of Janelle, so how could I take on a role from Him?
So I'm like - uhh, I don't think I can do that, God.
And He's like - why not?
Um - because I'm fat.
Winston Churchill.
But he was powerful! I'm also ... not.
Harriet Tubman.
But she - uh yeah. No, You're right.
Live your life.
But -
Live your life.
But -
Live. Your. Life.
And that is one of the strangest, loveliest things about the Christmas story. God didn't come into Mary and Joseph's life and uproot it and give them fancier stuff or easier passage. They didn't glide on a gilded road to Bethlehem, they didn't sink into a giant soaker tub after the rigours of the journey. They didn't move into the temple and become priests and spend their days debating the scriptures.
No.
He comes to us just as we are. Wants us just as we are. Uses us just as we are.
Living our life.
And gives us Jesus.
Merry Christmas, dear friends - right there in your life, from me right here in mine.
xo.
It was adorable. Way funnier than I expected, and way better quality than I've come to expect from "Christian" entertainment. (Sorry. I know that's my team. It's just not great at making movies.) Vava and I watched it first, and then turned it on for everyone else ... and joined them to see it a second time, because it's just so good
Mary is played by Gina Rodriguez, the actress from Jane the Virgin (yes, perfectly cast!), and her voice is awesome. I feel like sometimes Mary can be haloed up a lot, and we miss the humanity in her story. But Mary is warm, loving, funny. And while she is so clearly full of faith, she's also sometimes baffled by the life - her life - this little Son of God is coming into.
The moment that got me crying both times was when Joseph and Mary realize they're going to have the baby in a stable - and Joseph cries out, "No, no, it's not supposed to be this way!" Because of course you don't want to bring your baby into the world in a stable. So how much more do you not want to bring the Son of God into the world in a stable?
A while back, I had this conversation with God. He was asking me to do something, and I was conflicted. I didn't feel like I was a very good choice for Him; I mean - I'm not the face of anything, and I usually even struggle with the life-basic task of being the face of Janelle, so how could I take on a role from Him?
So I'm like - uhh, I don't think I can do that, God.
And He's like - why not?
Um - because I'm fat.
Winston Churchill.
But he was powerful! I'm also ... not.
Harriet Tubman.
But she - uh yeah. No, You're right.
Live your life.
But -
Live your life.
But -
Live. Your. Life.
And that is one of the strangest, loveliest things about the Christmas story. God didn't come into Mary and Joseph's life and uproot it and give them fancier stuff or easier passage. They didn't glide on a gilded road to Bethlehem, they didn't sink into a giant soaker tub after the rigours of the journey. They didn't move into the temple and become priests and spend their days debating the scriptures.
No.
He comes to us just as we are. Wants us just as we are. Uses us just as we are.
Living our life.
And gives us Jesus.
Merry Christmas, dear friends - right there in your life, from me right here in mine.
xo.
Monday, December 9, 2019
Advent Day 9
When you picture time, the passage of time, what do you imagine?
I have always seen it as a river, with me bobbing along through different scenes from my life, which are being enacted on the bank.
I can see the things, but I'm inexorably carried past and on to the next thing. There's no staying, no stopping.
(This is probably weird, but so am I so that's alright ;). )
I was reading in a book today about how it scares some of us, the awareness of time passing. Grey hairs and laugh lines, instead of testifying to the facts of our lives, just serve remind us that our time left is growing smaller, running out. We don't like to picture the end of that river.
My favourite river is the Sakeji.
It's a tributary of the Zambesi, the river that plunges in world-wonder glory from a mouth 2 km wide: Mosi Oa Tunya (aka the Smoke that Thunders aka Victoria Falls) in Zambia.
I almost died there. (Not at Vic Falls - a logical place to have a near-death experience - but in the Sakeji. I was swept through a dam, whooshed out onto a breakwater, and lived, with just a few scars to tell the tale.)
The Sakeji curls around the school where I lived for a year. It was ingeniously made use of to fill the huge outdoor swimming pool - a channel was dug from the river to the pool at one end, and at the other end of the pool, the water drains back into the river. On swimming days, the channel is opened and water gushes from the river, tumbling and tearing (in the rainy season) or creeping steadily (in the dry season) into the pool until it is filled.
I attended a Beth Moore video study a few years ago where she spoke about the fullness of time. She explained that our cultural concept of time is one of time passing - passing us by, always moving, slipping through our fingers. But the scriptures propose a different concept of time - as if time is filling up, filling in, meeting its purpose in a place. And as she described it, I couldn't help but picture that huge Sakeji swimming pool, being steadily filled up for its purpose by the river that was already flowing past it.
The fullness of time. Time comes. Time fills.
I love the restfulness of that image. You can lie back and relax in that kind of time. No panic. No rushing. No searing nostalgia. Time isn't passing you by. It's filling you up. Completing you. Meeting its purpose in you.
I love that that's how God describes Jesus' arrival:
When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth His Son.
Waiting for the future can be hard. Looking back can be hard. When we see time as fleeting, we do both. Oh, waiting and wishing I had done things differently is just agony.
But this spacious, gracious idea of time filling me? Nothing is gone. Nothing is wasted. It's all there. It's filling me up like that great big pool.
I hope, this Christmas, you find yourself filling up with all the fullness of time.
xo.
I have always seen it as a river, with me bobbing along through different scenes from my life, which are being enacted on the bank.
I can see the things, but I'm inexorably carried past and on to the next thing. There's no staying, no stopping.
(This is probably weird, but so am I so that's alright ;). )
I was reading in a book today about how it scares some of us, the awareness of time passing. Grey hairs and laugh lines, instead of testifying to the facts of our lives, just serve remind us that our time left is growing smaller, running out. We don't like to picture the end of that river.
My favourite river is the Sakeji.
It's a tributary of the Zambesi, the river that plunges in world-wonder glory from a mouth 2 km wide: Mosi Oa Tunya (aka the Smoke that Thunders aka Victoria Falls) in Zambia.
I almost died there. (Not at Vic Falls - a logical place to have a near-death experience - but in the Sakeji. I was swept through a dam, whooshed out onto a breakwater, and lived, with just a few scars to tell the tale.)
The Sakeji curls around the school where I lived for a year. It was ingeniously made use of to fill the huge outdoor swimming pool - a channel was dug from the river to the pool at one end, and at the other end of the pool, the water drains back into the river. On swimming days, the channel is opened and water gushes from the river, tumbling and tearing (in the rainy season) or creeping steadily (in the dry season) into the pool until it is filled.
I attended a Beth Moore video study a few years ago where she spoke about the fullness of time. She explained that our cultural concept of time is one of time passing - passing us by, always moving, slipping through our fingers. But the scriptures propose a different concept of time - as if time is filling up, filling in, meeting its purpose in a place. And as she described it, I couldn't help but picture that huge Sakeji swimming pool, being steadily filled up for its purpose by the river that was already flowing past it.
The fullness of time. Time comes. Time fills.
I love the restfulness of that image. You can lie back and relax in that kind of time. No panic. No rushing. No searing nostalgia. Time isn't passing you by. It's filling you up. Completing you. Meeting its purpose in you.
I love that that's how God describes Jesus' arrival:
When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth His Son.
Waiting for the future can be hard. Looking back can be hard. When we see time as fleeting, we do both. Oh, waiting and wishing I had done things differently is just agony.
But this spacious, gracious idea of time filling me? Nothing is gone. Nothing is wasted. It's all there. It's filling me up like that great big pool.
I hope, this Christmas, you find yourself filling up with all the fullness of time.
xo.
Sunday, December 8, 2019
No Story (Advent Day 8)
While we were waiting for supper to come out of the oven, Pascal was just about done. He was slumped over on the floor, whining. I dropped down onto the kitchen couch and asked him to bring me a book, so I could read him a story.
"No story," he said, climbing onto me with his blankie in hand, "just you."
And he pressed his heart against mine and laid his cheek on my shoulder and we just sat there, quiet.
It was enough.
I think Jesus said the same thing.
He knew us. Made us. But He didn't leave it at that. He didn't just know us from the story. He came to us.
And He invites us to do the same to Him.
I mean - I make a big deal of the Christmas story. It's my favourite story. But it's my favourite because it's not simply something I read about. And if He had come to us any other way, that would have been perfect too. Because the story I love isn't a story ...
It's someone I know. Someone I love. Someone who loves me back.
Just Jesus.
And it's so much more than enough.
"No story," he said, climbing onto me with his blankie in hand, "just you."
And he pressed his heart against mine and laid his cheek on my shoulder and we just sat there, quiet.
It was enough.
I think Jesus said the same thing.
He knew us. Made us. But He didn't leave it at that. He didn't just know us from the story. He came to us.
And He invites us to do the same to Him.
I mean - I make a big deal of the Christmas story. It's my favourite story. But it's my favourite because it's not simply something I read about. And if He had come to us any other way, that would have been perfect too. Because the story I love isn't a story ...
It's someone I know. Someone I love. Someone who loves me back.
Just Jesus.
And it's so much more than enough.
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Advent Day 7
My friend shared this hilarious meme today and it killed me because it's so painfully true.
I feel awkward and like I laugh at the wrong things and react in weird ways and don't care enough about some stuff and most of all just feel enormous next to my friends - like a human among elves (er - usually more insulting metaphors spring to mind). I've always been taller, bigger, with an in-the-way cloud of much frizzier hair. While my friends would pick out a princess to dress up as, I always felt like I had more in common with, say, Gaston than Belle.
So I shared it too, and the weirdest thing started happening. All these beautiful, delightful, lovely friends (the ones among whom I feel like such a braying donkey) chimed in that they felt that way too.
But, wait, what? How? We can't all be the odd one out. If we're all feeling like the one that doesn't fit in, well, then none of us are actual outsiders ... if we all feel like we're on the outside, then that's the thing we have in common, that's precisely how we understand one another.
I think that's one of the reasons Jesus was born an outsider too - painfully literally. No room for Him in the inn. Sorry, little fella, you haven't even been born yet and already you don't belong here.
Because we've all got this ache in our hearts, this fear and feeling of not being good enough, same enough, small enough, bright enough, whatever enough. And Jesus came to us to bring us all in. The good news is not about being enough. It's that He's enough.
And He came as an outsider because He knows - He knows - and He invites us all in.
From the very beginning He was told He didn't belong. But He makes us welcome - He's the way, the door, and He has set our feet in a large room. He spreads His arms wide and invites us all gladly.
I feel awkward and like I laugh at the wrong things and react in weird ways and don't care enough about some stuff and most of all just feel enormous next to my friends - like a human among elves (er - usually more insulting metaphors spring to mind). I've always been taller, bigger, with an in-the-way cloud of much frizzier hair. While my friends would pick out a princess to dress up as, I always felt like I had more in common with, say, Gaston than Belle.
So I shared it too, and the weirdest thing started happening. All these beautiful, delightful, lovely friends (the ones among whom I feel like such a braying donkey) chimed in that they felt that way too.
But, wait, what? How? We can't all be the odd one out. If we're all feeling like the one that doesn't fit in, well, then none of us are actual outsiders ... if we all feel like we're on the outside, then that's the thing we have in common, that's precisely how we understand one another.
I think that's one of the reasons Jesus was born an outsider too - painfully literally. No room for Him in the inn. Sorry, little fella, you haven't even been born yet and already you don't belong here.
Because we've all got this ache in our hearts, this fear and feeling of not being good enough, same enough, small enough, bright enough, whatever enough. And Jesus came to us to bring us all in. The good news is not about being enough. It's that He's enough.
And He came as an outsider because He knows - He knows - and He invites us all in.
From the very beginning He was told He didn't belong. But He makes us welcome - He's the way, the door, and He has set our feet in a large room. He spreads His arms wide and invites us all gladly.
Yeah.
There's room.
No matter what kind of an outsider you think you are, or how much space you think you take up.
The last page of Scripture rings with the invitation:
Whoever is thirsty, let him come and drink of the water of life freely.
Whosoever will.
There's room.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Advent Day 6 - A Guest Post by Patrick
Anticipation.
"Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace,according to your word;for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel." (Luke 2:25-32).
I always wondered what it must have been like to be Simeon. To know that in my time, the Messiah will come! He spent his entire life waiting for the coming Messiah. He probably lived his whole life with a kind of holy expectancy; every day waking and thinking, Will it be today?
I wonder if he knew what he was waiting for. Did he know that the Messiah would come as a baby? I bet he didn't. I bet that all he knew was that one day he would see the Messiah, and he would know Who it was when he saw Him.
Simeon is a kind of microcosm of the Nation of Israel. For all of their history, ever since God spoke hope into Eve's shattered heart--hope of a coming Saviour who will make all evil become untrue--Israel has been waiting for the Messiah. And here he is at last and Simeon takes the Child into his arms and relief and joy flood over him as he recognizes this at last is who I've been waiting for.
I think this is symbolized in our tradition of Christmas gifts. We buy gifts for our loved ones and set them out under the Christmas tree and they sit there and we don't open them, we wait, expecting that one day soon we will open our gifts. We can see them, but we don't know what they are, so we wait. This tradition re-creates for us the kind of waiting that characterized Simeon, that characterized the Old Testament saints who lived with holy expectancy, waiting forward, looking for the coming of the Promised Messiah, not knowing what exactly they were waiting for, but knowing that they would know it when they saw it. "These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar," (Hebrews 11:13).
We don't practice our Christmas traditions for their own sake, rather, they serve as reminders to our hearts of what kind of people we are. We are people who wait forwardly with holy expectancy. 1 John 3:2-3 describes our situation like this, and I just love this so much:
"Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure."
We wait with holy expectancy for His return, our Messiah. Will it be today? Tonight?
-- Merry Christmas friends!
xo.
"Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace,according to your word;for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel." (Luke 2:25-32).
I always wondered what it must have been like to be Simeon. To know that in my time, the Messiah will come! He spent his entire life waiting for the coming Messiah. He probably lived his whole life with a kind of holy expectancy; every day waking and thinking, Will it be today?
I wonder if he knew what he was waiting for. Did he know that the Messiah would come as a baby? I bet he didn't. I bet that all he knew was that one day he would see the Messiah, and he would know Who it was when he saw Him.
Simeon is a kind of microcosm of the Nation of Israel. For all of their history, ever since God spoke hope into Eve's shattered heart--hope of a coming Saviour who will make all evil become untrue--Israel has been waiting for the Messiah. And here he is at last and Simeon takes the Child into his arms and relief and joy flood over him as he recognizes this at last is who I've been waiting for.
I think this is symbolized in our tradition of Christmas gifts. We buy gifts for our loved ones and set them out under the Christmas tree and they sit there and we don't open them, we wait, expecting that one day soon we will open our gifts. We can see them, but we don't know what they are, so we wait. This tradition re-creates for us the kind of waiting that characterized Simeon, that characterized the Old Testament saints who lived with holy expectancy, waiting forward, looking for the coming of the Promised Messiah, not knowing what exactly they were waiting for, but knowing that they would know it when they saw it. "These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar," (Hebrews 11:13).
We don't practice our Christmas traditions for their own sake, rather, they serve as reminders to our hearts of what kind of people we are. We are people who wait forwardly with holy expectancy. 1 John 3:2-3 describes our situation like this, and I just love this so much:
"Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure."
We wait with holy expectancy for His return, our Messiah. Will it be today? Tonight?
-- Merry Christmas friends!
xo.
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Advent Day 5
My kids have been sick all week.
This means my days have been pretty packed with not going anywhere and not doing anything but replenishing stale cups and washing a whole lotta laundry.
I needed a few minutes of fresh air and space, so I stepped outside before suppertime and stripped off our (old, dusty and disgustingly dead-buggy) everyday string lights from around the door, and hung a gleaming string of fat Christmas bulbs in their place. And since I wasn't yet ready to stop, I pulled the lanterns off the patio umbrella and brought them inside to string in the living room.
I can't quite get enough of gentle light.
The other day Patrick and I were lying in bed. We sleep in the attic, and the switch for our overhead light is at the bottom of the attic stairs. On his way up to see us, Kachi flicked the switch and we both squawked and squeezed our eyes shut and yelled at him to turn it off. The overhead light glaring right into our eyes was horrible.
I don't want hundred watt bulbs. I don't want bright blue LEDs stabbing me in the eyeballs. But soft, warm light? It brings the cozy like nothing else.
I love cozy. I love thick, soft socks in sturdy snow boots. I love warm mittens against cold, fluffy snow. I love getting into bed and nestling my cold feet against Patrick's warm legs (sorry babe!).
But I think that's why God introduces Himself to us as a baby.
His glory is so bright. So overwhelming. Because when you're not used to it, too much light hurts. To eyes that are unprepared, it's glaring. Blinding.
But he came to us soft. A gentle light in the darkness, to help us see God.
May your Christmas be so truly cozy, friends.
xo.
This means my days have been pretty packed with not going anywhere and not doing anything but replenishing stale cups and washing a whole lotta laundry.
I needed a few minutes of fresh air and space, so I stepped outside before suppertime and stripped off our (old, dusty and disgustingly dead-buggy) everyday string lights from around the door, and hung a gleaming string of fat Christmas bulbs in their place. And since I wasn't yet ready to stop, I pulled the lanterns off the patio umbrella and brought them inside to string in the living room.
 |
| no dead bugs on these babies! |
I can't quite get enough of gentle light.
The other day Patrick and I were lying in bed. We sleep in the attic, and the switch for our overhead light is at the bottom of the attic stairs. On his way up to see us, Kachi flicked the switch and we both squawked and squeezed our eyes shut and yelled at him to turn it off. The overhead light glaring right into our eyes was horrible.
I don't want hundred watt bulbs. I don't want bright blue LEDs stabbing me in the eyeballs. But soft, warm light? It brings the cozy like nothing else.
But I think that's why God introduces Himself to us as a baby.
His glory is so bright. So overwhelming. Because when you're not used to it, too much light hurts. To eyes that are unprepared, it's glaring. Blinding.
But he came to us soft. A gentle light in the darkness, to help us see God.
May your Christmas be so truly cozy, friends.
xo.
Wednesday, December 4, 2019
Advent Day 4
A few months ago I had a super busy day at work. I popped into the office with Pascal for half an hour and ended up staying for closer to three (while he played on my phone and ate allllllll the backup snacks in my purse.) I'd planned on heading to Costco before the kids came home from school, and I didn't haaaave to, but I knew I could squeeze the trip in if I hustled; so as soon as we were done, I buckled Pascal into his seat and headed toward the highway.
I stopped on the outskirts of town for a quick pee break and my phone buzzed. It was Patrick.
Babe, can you go home? There's a parcel on our front step.
Ugh! Quick reply: I'm just heading out of town; can it wait?
Then back to me: Not really. I'd really appreciate it if you could go put it inside.
Oh my goodness.
This day.
Whatever.
You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day! I texted, like a jerk.
He just texted back a string of hearts.
So with bad grace I put Pascal back into his seat and headed back across town back through the snarl of lunchtime traffic to pop Patrick's books in the house.
Because I had places to go, people! Food to buy to feed my hungry family! And a sugar-rushy longsuffering three year old whose napping window was rapidly closing! Gah!
I get that feeling a lot. It's like - THIS THING I'M DOING IS SO HUGE AND I'M BUSY AND YOU GUYS KEEP GETTING IN MY WAY AND I'M TRYING REALLY HARD HERE AND EVERYTHING WILL FALL APART AGHHH! (Ridiculous? Childish? Selfish? entirely.)
And I got home and there, on our step, was not the package of books I was expecting. (Because it's always books.)
No.
There was a huge rectangular box, marked Endy: a beautiful brand new mattress secretly purchased to help with the back pain I'd been enduring lately.
It was for me.
Generously, enormously, lavishly, lovingly for me!
And after I drag/lugged that hulking box over the doorstep, I hugged it and cried. The ungracious text I'd sent washed over me. You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day!
And I do the same thing at Christmas, I do.
I toss a few bucks in the Salvation Army kettle, or drop off some boxes at the food bank, and I think to God You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy season.
And he just thinks back a string of hearts.
And then a line from a carol will catch my heart in just the right way and I'm flooded with tears, because Christmas -
It was for me.
He sent that baby, that gift, that bridge of salvation all for me. And I hustle around thinking I'm making time for him, making room for him, squeezing a kindness to Him into my Very Important Life.
And He's just like -
💝💝💝💝💝.
It's all for us.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
I stopped on the outskirts of town for a quick pee break and my phone buzzed. It was Patrick.
Babe, can you go home? There's a parcel on our front step.
Ugh! Quick reply: I'm just heading out of town; can it wait?
Then back to me: Not really. I'd really appreciate it if you could go put it inside.
Oh my goodness.
This day.
Whatever.
You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day! I texted, like a jerk.
He just texted back a string of hearts.
So with bad grace I put Pascal back into his seat and headed back across town back through the snarl of lunchtime traffic to pop Patrick's books in the house.
Because I had places to go, people! Food to buy to feed my hungry family! And a sugar-rushy longsuffering three year old whose napping window was rapidly closing! Gah!
I get that feeling a lot. It's like - THIS THING I'M DOING IS SO HUGE AND I'M BUSY AND YOU GUYS KEEP GETTING IN MY WAY AND I'M TRYING REALLY HARD HERE AND EVERYTHING WILL FALL APART AGHHH! (Ridiculous? Childish? Selfish? entirely.)
And I got home and there, on our step, was not the package of books I was expecting. (Because it's always books.)
No.
There was a huge rectangular box, marked Endy: a beautiful brand new mattress secretly purchased to help with the back pain I'd been enduring lately.
It was for me.
Generously, enormously, lavishly, lovingly for me!
And after I drag/lugged that hulking box over the doorstep, I hugged it and cried. The ungracious text I'd sent washed over me. You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy day!
And I do the same thing at Christmas, I do.
I toss a few bucks in the Salvation Army kettle, or drop off some boxes at the food bank, and I think to God You know I love you if I'm saying yes in this busy season.
And he just thinks back a string of hearts.
And then a line from a carol will catch my heart in just the right way and I'm flooded with tears, because Christmas -
It was for me.
He sent that baby, that gift, that bridge of salvation all for me. And I hustle around thinking I'm making time for him, making room for him, squeezing a kindness to Him into my Very Important Life.
And He's just like -
💝💝💝💝💝.
It's all for us.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Tuesday, December 3, 2019
Pouring Out
I had a panic attack this morning. I feel weird telling you that - I don't have them often, and I'm not sure how I feel about defining myself that way, but I told you about one a few Christmases ago, and got so many comforting "you're not alone" messages that I'm pretty sure you understand.
(I was listening to a podcast about attachment and the different effects kids bear through their lives because of the ways their parents respond / don't respond to their needs in early childhood. And while I had learned all this before, I had learned it vaguely and out of context - I mean, it was before I had kids, so I didn't really understand. Hearing it while the effects of my parenting are walking around the house is a whole new kettle of fish.) The weight of all the things I might have messed up / inevitably will continue to mess up felt heavy, emotionally, and suddenly I was fighting the worst heartburn. Nothing made it go away. And then I realized - this isn't heartburn, not THAT kind of heartburn. My body was feeling the pressure of my feelings and freaking out.
And God sent me relief, in the form of a knock at the door. It was my neighbour, popping over for coffee.
As I measured out the grounds, poured water into the reservoir, scooped sugar, added cream, my body calmed. I asked about her weekend, and talked through a dilemma she was facing. The heartburn-tightness ebbed away, and after the door closed behind her I was able to consider and pray through my fears more rationally and without physical pain.
I think He sent her to remind me of the backward beauty of Christmas -
To love my neighbour.
To give.
To pour out.
Because loving others brings strength to me; blessing another blesses myself -
Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.(Proverbs 11:25)
Love poured out strengthens the pourer.
Happy pouring, dear friends.
xo.
(I was listening to a podcast about attachment and the different effects kids bear through their lives because of the ways their parents respond / don't respond to their needs in early childhood. And while I had learned all this before, I had learned it vaguely and out of context - I mean, it was before I had kids, so I didn't really understand. Hearing it while the effects of my parenting are walking around the house is a whole new kettle of fish.) The weight of all the things I might have messed up / inevitably will continue to mess up felt heavy, emotionally, and suddenly I was fighting the worst heartburn. Nothing made it go away. And then I realized - this isn't heartburn, not THAT kind of heartburn. My body was feeling the pressure of my feelings and freaking out.
And God sent me relief, in the form of a knock at the door. It was my neighbour, popping over for coffee.
As I measured out the grounds, poured water into the reservoir, scooped sugar, added cream, my body calmed. I asked about her weekend, and talked through a dilemma she was facing. The heartburn-tightness ebbed away, and after the door closed behind her I was able to consider and pray through my fears more rationally and without physical pain.
I think He sent her to remind me of the backward beauty of Christmas -
To love my neighbour.
To give.
To pour out.
Because loving others brings strength to me; blessing another blesses myself -
Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.(Proverbs 11:25)
Love poured out strengthens the pourer.
Happy pouring, dear friends.
xo.
Monday, December 2, 2019
O Come, O Come Immanuel
I could hear him crying "Mommyyyyyyyyyyy."
Pascal usually calls me Mama, so when that last aaa warps into a yyy, I know there are tears in there.
I was sorting through all the toys today, puttering around the house, upstairs, downstairs, and Pascal was more or less playing alongside me while I worked. He's usually really content to do that, and doesn't get upset if I head downstairs while he's upstairs, or vice versa. He joins me when he wants to, and plays happily if he doesn't.
We had been upstairs together, and now I was down. When I heard him call for me, I called back a few times. "I'm down here, bud. Come to Mama." But he didn't. He called a few more times until it turned into crying.
So I ran upstairs and found him sitting on the top step, tears rolling down his cheeks, clutching two stuffies and a blankie.
"Babe!" I exclaimed, "why didn't you come to me?"
"I couldn't!" he sniffled, leaning his hot forehead against me. I kissed it, and knew he was sick.
My poor little lamb. He was too weak to bring himself to me. He could only cry out.
That teary little cry just broke my heart.
He needed me, and he was crying out for me.
You know what we sang last Sunday?
It was the first Sunday of Advent, so maybe you sang it too - O Come, O Come Immanuel.
It's a song of longing; a minor-key cry.
It dwells in that needy space between pain and resolution.
It's a song to sing in the waiting.
It's the song we sing, sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching our stuffies with tears on our cheeks, "Come!"
But why is there any need for waiting? Any need for discomfort, for longing, for rescue? Didn't I just write about it yesterday - He is with us already. That's the whole point of Christmas - the arrival of Immanuel, God with us. So why the longing? Why the ache? How come we struggle along in the minor key?
Jesus friends asked the same thing of him (John chapter 11).
Their brother had died, and they had sent for Jesus to come heal him of his illness. But Jesus didn't come. He didn't come, and their brother died.
And Mary and Martha knew he could have, knew he could have saved their brother. And their hearts broke, and Jesus cried with them, and went to the tomb with them.
And then (I love this part), Jesus prays. But it's such a funny prayer.
He says, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me," and then he adds - and forgive me, but I can hear a little bit of teacherly exasperation in this aside - "I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me."
For Him, the gap between spiritual and physical doesn't exist. He was born of the Spirit and the flesh, God is as evident and present to Him as the screen you're reading this on. But like the people standing around him, we only see the physical. We're born of flesh. We miss the glory, the surety of hope, the dazzling presence of God that He could see.
And then He keeps it simple and just speaks to the dead man, who was buried four days ago: "Lazarus, come out."
And Lazarus does.
And I don't know about you, but I bet Mary and Martha were Christmas-morning excited. I picture them unwrapping that undead brother faster than anything. The hope they hadn't dared to hope for was here - life, where death had been. Jesus had all the power to heal, even from death.
So, why had Jesus not come when they called? Why had he let them sit in their ache, in their longing and grief?
The answer is in verse 5 and 6. Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
Wait, what? He loved them, so he stayed away and let Lazarus die?
Yeah, he did.
He had more in mind than their temporary comfort.
He was going to give them the deepest surest proof that He was God.
He was going to undo death for them.
We're waiting too.
Waiting for Christmas, and waiting for Jesus.
And people are like - umm, if He loved you and has the power to, wouldn't He have come for you by now? Wouldn't He have saved you from all the suffering you're enduring?
The truth of Christmas holds fast. Jesus isn't a distracted mother, ignoring us in busyness while we cry out for Him.
He has a purpose.
He's coming.
And he's coming to undo death for us.
And he waits ... because He loves us.
So.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Pascal usually calls me Mama, so when that last aaa warps into a yyy, I know there are tears in there.
I was sorting through all the toys today, puttering around the house, upstairs, downstairs, and Pascal was more or less playing alongside me while I worked. He's usually really content to do that, and doesn't get upset if I head downstairs while he's upstairs, or vice versa. He joins me when he wants to, and plays happily if he doesn't.
We had been upstairs together, and now I was down. When I heard him call for me, I called back a few times. "I'm down here, bud. Come to Mama." But he didn't. He called a few more times until it turned into crying.
So I ran upstairs and found him sitting on the top step, tears rolling down his cheeks, clutching two stuffies and a blankie.
"Babe!" I exclaimed, "why didn't you come to me?"
"I couldn't!" he sniffled, leaning his hot forehead against me. I kissed it, and knew he was sick.
My poor little lamb. He was too weak to bring himself to me. He could only cry out.
That teary little cry just broke my heart.
He needed me, and he was crying out for me.
You know what we sang last Sunday?
It was the first Sunday of Advent, so maybe you sang it too - O Come, O Come Immanuel.
It's a song of longing; a minor-key cry.
It dwells in that needy space between pain and resolution.
It's a song to sing in the waiting.
It's the song we sing, sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching our stuffies with tears on our cheeks, "Come!"
But why is there any need for waiting? Any need for discomfort, for longing, for rescue? Didn't I just write about it yesterday - He is with us already. That's the whole point of Christmas - the arrival of Immanuel, God with us. So why the longing? Why the ache? How come we struggle along in the minor key?
Jesus friends asked the same thing of him (John chapter 11).
Their brother had died, and they had sent for Jesus to come heal him of his illness. But Jesus didn't come. He didn't come, and their brother died.
And Mary and Martha knew he could have, knew he could have saved their brother. And their hearts broke, and Jesus cried with them, and went to the tomb with them.
And then (I love this part), Jesus prays. But it's such a funny prayer.
He says, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me," and then he adds - and forgive me, but I can hear a little bit of teacherly exasperation in this aside - "I knew that you always hear me, but I said this on account of the people standing around, that they may believe that you sent me."
For Him, the gap between spiritual and physical doesn't exist. He was born of the Spirit and the flesh, God is as evident and present to Him as the screen you're reading this on. But like the people standing around him, we only see the physical. We're born of flesh. We miss the glory, the surety of hope, the dazzling presence of God that He could see.
And then He keeps it simple and just speaks to the dead man, who was buried four days ago: "Lazarus, come out."
And Lazarus does.
And I don't know about you, but I bet Mary and Martha were Christmas-morning excited. I picture them unwrapping that undead brother faster than anything. The hope they hadn't dared to hope for was here - life, where death had been. Jesus had all the power to heal, even from death.
So, why had Jesus not come when they called? Why had he let them sit in their ache, in their longing and grief?
The answer is in verse 5 and 6. Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
Wait, what? He loved them, so he stayed away and let Lazarus die?
Yeah, he did.
He had more in mind than their temporary comfort.
He was going to give them the deepest surest proof that He was God.
He was going to undo death for them.
We're waiting too.
Waiting for Christmas, and waiting for Jesus.
And people are like - umm, if He loved you and has the power to, wouldn't He have come for you by now? Wouldn't He have saved you from all the suffering you're enduring?
The truth of Christmas holds fast. Jesus isn't a distracted mother, ignoring us in busyness while we cry out for Him.
He has a purpose.
He's coming.
And he's coming to undo death for us.
And he waits ... because He loves us.
So.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Another Advent Post
December first! Advent!
Ahhhhhh.
I've waited all year for this.
Gotta tell you though: nothing has changed.
This year, like last, you will find me clinging to the hope and promise of Christmas because I believe that if the gospel matters in anything it matters in everything. I need this so much. Regularly, I forget about truth and define myself by the fact that I'm still overweight, struggling with my mental health, and trying hard to try hard. So I need to take this time every year to focus my heart, my mind, my soul, my strength on what matters.
What matters is the glorious gospel of Christ; distilled into the heartbeat gift of the Baby in the Manger: Immanuel, God with us.
He didn't come for me because of my looks or lack thereof. He didn't come for me because I'm eager or hopeful or despondent or depressed. He didn't come for me because I try hard or because I give up, usually both. He didn't even come for me because I need Him need Him need Him (oh God, how I need you!).
No.
He came into the world because that's who He is.
That's who He is.
Immanuel.
God with us.
Oh sing, my soul, and breathe free, breathe deeply of this truth.
Eyes up and off of me, He came to us.
And that's all that really matters.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
Ahhhhhh.
I've waited all year for this.
Gotta tell you though: nothing has changed.
This year, like last, you will find me clinging to the hope and promise of Christmas because I believe that if the gospel matters in anything it matters in everything. I need this so much. Regularly, I forget about truth and define myself by the fact that I'm still overweight, struggling with my mental health, and trying hard to try hard. So I need to take this time every year to focus my heart, my mind, my soul, my strength on what matters.
What matters is the glorious gospel of Christ; distilled into the heartbeat gift of the Baby in the Manger: Immanuel, God with us.
He didn't come for me because of my looks or lack thereof. He didn't come for me because I'm eager or hopeful or despondent or depressed. He didn't come for me because I try hard or because I give up, usually both. He didn't even come for me because I need Him need Him need Him (oh God, how I need you!).
No.
He came into the world because that's who He is.
That's who He is.
Immanuel.
God with us.
Oh sing, my soul, and breathe free, breathe deeply of this truth.
Eyes up and off of me, He came to us.
And that's all that really matters.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
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