Well, here I am, Jesus.
Again.
Here I am.
I've had a tough go of it, and I'm weary--even though You encouraged me not to be--and I'm tired, real tired, but here I am again.
I'm here.
And You are too, aren't You?--no, that's silly.
You're here too.
Thank You.
-
Jesus, sometimes it really just doesn't make any sense down here.
Sometimes it feels unpleasant.
Sometimes it feels purposeless.
But it's not purposeless--I know it's not--because if there were no purpose for me to be here--no point--I wouldn't be, would I?
No... You have a purpose for me, don't You?
Even still.
Even here.
Even now.
I've always had a purpose here, haven't I? Always have, still do, and always will--right?
I've done some purposeful things, haven't I?
And I'm still furthering that purpose, right?
And there are more purposeful things that I will do in the future, aren't there?
I'm trusting so, Jesus.
I believe.
-
You didn't put me here for no reason. I know that, Lord, ignorant as I am.
You've got something for me to do, to carry out, to fulfill... and by Your grace I have done it, am doing it, and will continue to do it.
This is not the end.
This is not it.
There is more here... and You'll help me complete it.
And now granted, I'd like Heaven.
I'm looking forward to it.
I'm looking ahead.
But now is not the time... right?
There is still more here.
More people to help.
More purpose to fulfill.
More to learn.
More to be.
More to do.
-
Well, Father, alright then.
May I resign myself--no, attach myself--to Your will.
May my will be Yours.
May I realize, Abba, that even in this darkness,
This storminess,
This pain--
Even here there is a purpose.
Even here You have a plan.
Father, please help me to trust You through it all.
Help to realize that I don't need to know the path
Or the plan
Or Your will.
I just need to put one foot in front of the other
And keep walking
And trust You to guide the next step.
-
So Abba, I'm here.
You're here.
There's a purpose here, too.
-
Help me
Lord
To walk on
And trust You. 🍃
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Saturday, February 1, 2020
a cracker, a dance, some thoughts and a chance . . .
And so here I am a quarter after 10 on a Saturday night, staring at a cracker, debating whether or not I should eat it. My friends are at the Midwinter Formal, dancing the night away in their glamorous, expensive dresses; my sister is coughing endlessly because of an unusual asthma flare-up, possible pneumonia and who knows what else; my dog hasn't eaten a thing all day and the radio in the kitchen is set on a non-stop stream of Christian talk shows... Everything is so beautiful I can't stand it, and yet everything is rather muffled. Rather blurred.
-
Rather incomprehensibly complex.
Though it feels like it shouldn't be.
-
And then here is this cracker. Just a little one, a little rectangle of wheat with an Italian-herb flavor dusting, this little tiny unimportant cracker.
-
Except it is everything but unimportant.
-
For right now this little cracker simulates and symbolizes so many things--my lack of self-control, my wistfulness, the day's lost potential... it is my late-night friend. A tiny quadrilateral of comfort, a polygon of hope--?
-
-
-
Now it is a quarter to midnight. My friends have all stopped dancing; they have reluctantly shed their elegant gowns and are tiredly but happily finding their way to bed. My sister is asleep or almost; the dog is snoring; the radio is quiet.
-
I have long since eaten the cracker.
-
I have long since eaten the rest of the bag of crackers, actually... but what was most important was simply the first one. That first insignificant cracker was what mattered. It was what resonated. Maybe only because it was the single cracker I randomly selected... but still.
-
-
-
Now, finally, it is half-past 12. I should have been in dreamland some three hours ago, but instead I am still here, here with traces of cracker dust on my fingertips and an empty plastic cracker bag beside me on the tablecloth. All that is left is a small collection of crumbs.
-
The group pictures from the dance have already been posted to social media--I have seen some of them. They are all smiling, all of them, all of the bright and beautiful teenagers in their bright and beautiful clothing. They have danced the night away, danced it in oblivion, in excitement, in glee. And they have every right to have done so.
-
It's just that I have been here, here in my head, here in my pajamas at the dining room table, here spilling my mind and my heart and my soul right onto the screen. I have folded laundry, I have stoked the fire, I have done the dishes, I have listened to the radio, I have lost myself on the endless flow of the treacherous Internet, I have seen a million different facets of a million different lives. I am changed and not necessarily better for it--for all this everything nothing has only fed my brain, has only instigated my mind to grow in all the ways that enhance and yet entrap it.
-
Entrap me.
-
Now my mind is bigger. But that leads only to the ceaseless development of useless ideas, of nonsensical nothings that I must spin into some sort of vital gold.
-
-
-
It is now, now, finally a quarter to 2.
-
Where did the time go?
I know.
And yet I grieve.
-
I grieve for everything. For the infinity of social media that keeps me from seizing my days. For the sadness of happy memories dredged up from the depths of my heart. For the times lost, the time passing, and the time that I have never spent. For all those pixelated people out there that I have never met and never known and never will--for those people who still exist even in our never meeting each other--for all those people who will never ever know I even saw their face--all those people I must care about and cannot simply not--for all those people that mean everything everything but nothing 300% personal--all those people, those computer-screen people, whom I have met but never will.
-
Also I grieve for the cracker.
It is back within those faded hours... it is me now.
The cracker is gone.
-
-
It is ten minutes to 2.
I am tired.
I am blue-?
I didn't desire to go to a Midwinter dance
and I didn't go anyway.
I didn't desire to spend
this precious time online
but I did anyway.
And now the hard part, the part of facing me in the mirror and the part of ascending the stairs. And then a devotion and a lukewarm prayer. A tired one. A limp one. And then a flop to the pillow and a sigh for all lost.
-
And then a blink and a dream and tomorrow again.
-
-
-
It is 6 minutes past 2 on a Sunday morning.
I am going to bed.
-
And "tomorrow"
will be waiting. 💚🌙
-
Rather incomprehensibly complex.
Though it feels like it shouldn't be.
-
And then here is this cracker. Just a little one, a little rectangle of wheat with an Italian-herb flavor dusting, this little tiny unimportant cracker.
-
Except it is everything but unimportant.
-
For right now this little cracker simulates and symbolizes so many things--my lack of self-control, my wistfulness, the day's lost potential... it is my late-night friend. A tiny quadrilateral of comfort, a polygon of hope--?
-
-
-
Now it is a quarter to midnight. My friends have all stopped dancing; they have reluctantly shed their elegant gowns and are tiredly but happily finding their way to bed. My sister is asleep or almost; the dog is snoring; the radio is quiet.
-
I have long since eaten the cracker.
-
I have long since eaten the rest of the bag of crackers, actually... but what was most important was simply the first one. That first insignificant cracker was what mattered. It was what resonated. Maybe only because it was the single cracker I randomly selected... but still.
-
-
-
Now, finally, it is half-past 12. I should have been in dreamland some three hours ago, but instead I am still here, here with traces of cracker dust on my fingertips and an empty plastic cracker bag beside me on the tablecloth. All that is left is a small collection of crumbs.
-
The group pictures from the dance have already been posted to social media--I have seen some of them. They are all smiling, all of them, all of the bright and beautiful teenagers in their bright and beautiful clothing. They have danced the night away, danced it in oblivion, in excitement, in glee. And they have every right to have done so.
-
It's just that I have been here, here in my head, here in my pajamas at the dining room table, here spilling my mind and my heart and my soul right onto the screen. I have folded laundry, I have stoked the fire, I have done the dishes, I have listened to the radio, I have lost myself on the endless flow of the treacherous Internet, I have seen a million different facets of a million different lives. I am changed and not necessarily better for it--for all this everything nothing has only fed my brain, has only instigated my mind to grow in all the ways that enhance and yet entrap it.
-
Entrap me.
-
Now my mind is bigger. But that leads only to the ceaseless development of useless ideas, of nonsensical nothings that I must spin into some sort of vital gold.
-
-
-
It is now, now, finally a quarter to 2.
-
Where did the time go?
I know.
And yet I grieve.
-
I grieve for everything. For the infinity of social media that keeps me from seizing my days. For the sadness of happy memories dredged up from the depths of my heart. For the times lost, the time passing, and the time that I have never spent. For all those pixelated people out there that I have never met and never known and never will--for those people who still exist even in our never meeting each other--for all those people who will never ever know I even saw their face--all those people I must care about and cannot simply not--for all those people that mean everything everything but nothing 300% personal--all those people, those computer-screen people, whom I have met but never will.
-
Also I grieve for the cracker.
It is back within those faded hours... it is me now.
The cracker is gone.
-
-
It is ten minutes to 2.
I am tired.
I am blue-?
I didn't desire to go to a Midwinter dance
and I didn't go anyway.
I didn't desire to spend
this precious time online
but I did anyway.
And now the hard part, the part of facing me in the mirror and the part of ascending the stairs. And then a devotion and a lukewarm prayer. A tired one. A limp one. And then a flop to the pillow and a sigh for all lost.
-
And then a blink and a dream and tomorrow again.
-
-
-
It is 6 minutes past 2 on a Sunday morning.
I am going to bed.
-
And "tomorrow"
will be waiting. 💚🌙
Saturday, January 18, 2020
Out of This World
Money cannot buy happiness.
It can buy all sorts of material goods or experiences, and such things can certainly bring some pleasure--maybe even some happiness--but the things wear out or get boring, the experiences end, and soon we're left with less money, old/uninteresting clutter, and only wistful memories.
Money can buy things that make one rather happy, sure, but neither the things nor the happiness last. Happiness itself doesn't last (though this is a bit of a different subject). We get happy when we win an award, accomplish something, receive a gift, do/go to something/someplace we've always wanted to, eat a good meal (or sugar), get engaged... but the food gets all eaten, the award gets dusty, the applause dies off, the accomplishments become part of the past and don't merit quite as much, the gifts get lost or boring or returned, people die...
Happiness is a dangerous thing to believe in, and money is a dangerous thing to count on for it. We will only be happy when we receive joy, and we will receive joy when we put our hope in something that lasts--like Jesus, like Heaven.
We must stock up and anchor our joy, our hope, in something that will never rot or rust or get broken or disappear.
We must root our happiness in something that is not in this world.
We must make Heaven our hope. 🌠
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
New Year Musing: Part 2
The first few seconds of a new year break quietly, though accompanied by the hullabaloo and cacophony of people cheering, glasses clinking, TVs blaring, music playing.
They slip silently by, even while celebrators are caught up in commemorating them with party hats and confetti, sparkling lights and shouts of joy.
But for all their acclaim, these first precious seconds go unnoticed. Amid streamers and champagne, they are trampled underfoot, blissfully ignored and blatantly dismissed. These first few new chances, these first new opportunities of another year--they are, often, entirely wasted.
It is only a select few who truly experience the gentle magic of the new year's beginning, only a handful of people who experience the restorative dawning of a second chance, a new chance, a blank book with 365 pages to fill, a 12-month capsule of concentrated potential.
It is those who slip outside the hustle and bustle a few seconds before midnight, those who remove their party hat, tuck away their confetti, and stand under the moon as the year transfers over. It is those who lower their heads, close their eyes, and whisper a prayer, a simple one, a silent one, a heartfelt prayer to the One Who makes the years.
The true magic, the true meaning of the new year--it is not found in alcohol or parties. It is not found in the descent of a glittery silver ball. It is found in prayer, in peace, in sweet time spent with God and soft songs sung to the gentle moon.
The New Year has no need for despair. It has no place among the dark and the garbage of the year before it. It belongs in a category all its own, always its own, on a pedestal of hope and of new beginnings.
So make a toast.
Rouse a cheer.
Watch the ball drop.
Welcome the New Year with good, open arms; celebrate it, cherish it, in any way you wish.
But take the time to step outside--to hold the moon--to whisper "thanks".
Then let the Newness wash upon you.
Begin again.
Don't look back.
Here's to another potential-drenched (second) chance. ✨
They slip silently by, even while celebrators are caught up in commemorating them with party hats and confetti, sparkling lights and shouts of joy.
But for all their acclaim, these first precious seconds go unnoticed. Amid streamers and champagne, they are trampled underfoot, blissfully ignored and blatantly dismissed. These first few new chances, these first new opportunities of another year--they are, often, entirely wasted.
It is only a select few who truly experience the gentle magic of the new year's beginning, only a handful of people who experience the restorative dawning of a second chance, a new chance, a blank book with 365 pages to fill, a 12-month capsule of concentrated potential.
It is those who slip outside the hustle and bustle a few seconds before midnight, those who remove their party hat, tuck away their confetti, and stand under the moon as the year transfers over. It is those who lower their heads, close their eyes, and whisper a prayer, a simple one, a silent one, a heartfelt prayer to the One Who makes the years.
The true magic, the true meaning of the new year--it is not found in alcohol or parties. It is not found in the descent of a glittery silver ball. It is found in prayer, in peace, in sweet time spent with God and soft songs sung to the gentle moon.
The New Year has no need for despair. It has no place among the dark and the garbage of the year before it. It belongs in a category all its own, always its own, on a pedestal of hope and of new beginnings.
So make a toast.
Rouse a cheer.
Watch the ball drop.
Welcome the New Year with good, open arms; celebrate it, cherish it, in any way you wish.
But take the time to step outside--to hold the moon--to whisper "thanks".
Then let the Newness wash upon you.
Begin again.
Don't look back.
Here's to another potential-drenched (second) chance. ✨
Monday, December 30, 2019
New Year Musing: Part 1
Time is slipping by--slipping by, slipping by--and this is my safe haven, my capsule, my treasure box of memories, so I will list a few before they slip by--slip by, slip by--again.
Sparkly purple plastic hairbrushes--I can never quite figure out how to arrange the adjectives--"Understand" by Jeremy Camp ( I always thought it was "so why don't I get back up agin-again")--crawling under the black plastic on the living room floor during Christmas tree setup--Christian music listening on an early Sunday morning--a pile of dress-up clothes and a plastic wand--mud puddle playing--summer night pajamas and the red picnic table outside--shiny black snow boots--playing in the nursery--Christmas light magic--teeter-tottering in the yard--VHS tape marathons while on the red-and-black basement carpet--naps with the red blanket covering the window--bath-time on Sesame Street and of course the snuffleupagus' meatballs--sorting beads and Wild Kratts watching--homemade play-dough and springtime movies--hide-n-seek and catch with Dad--bedtime--moving the mattresses--stuffed animal kingdoms--baby doll pretend--apple trees and wooded wanderings and radio familiarities and history and friendship and interaction and love and magic and reading and creativity and memories and dusty, dusty snippets of past and everything, everything, church and Sunday school and sermon smilings and niggly rememberings and dreams and movies and projects and food experiments and childhood everything and all of it a time capsule, a present, all tied up and packed away, away in an old white apple box, tied with a bow, with a thousand bows, shoved back on a tall shelf, dusted and forgotten, misplaced, unused, going, going, gone.
Gone. Is it gone? Can not the shelf be reached and the bows untied? Can not the clock be rewound? Can not the batteries be replaced? Can not at least a shred of the past, at least a replica, at least a facade be produced? Can not at least a bit, a sparkle, a glimmer of it all be rediscovered? Or is it all gone?
Maybe the box belongs to the years it was built in. Maybe it must stay with them, never to be opened and never to return. Maybe it is lost and gone, maybe all the present time spent searching for it is in vain, only plundering more time for the future. Maybe all is a waste, all is fruitless, all is with no point.
Time creeps up anyway, besides, creeps up and steals and destroys and trashes the path for the future. All old is unsalvageable, all present is in vain, all future is uncertain.
No amount of champagne, no quantity of sparkling drink can drown this hopelessness. Time wasted, time dead. Another 365 uncertainties to worry about. To try to make better than all the ones before. But history repeats itself, and most is unsavory. Thus the next steps become shaky. blurry. doomed.
Another try-again haunted by all the other failed attempts.
But maybe this new time will be better and different.
As of yet it is unmarred. The hope of its potential is that it can remain that way... ♱✟✝
Sparkly purple plastic hairbrushes--I can never quite figure out how to arrange the adjectives--"Understand" by Jeremy Camp ( I always thought it was "so why don't I get back up agin-again")--crawling under the black plastic on the living room floor during Christmas tree setup--Christian music listening on an early Sunday morning--a pile of dress-up clothes and a plastic wand--mud puddle playing--summer night pajamas and the red picnic table outside--shiny black snow boots--playing in the nursery--Christmas light magic--teeter-tottering in the yard--VHS tape marathons while on the red-and-black basement carpet--naps with the red blanket covering the window--bath-time on Sesame Street and of course the snuffleupagus' meatballs--sorting beads and Wild Kratts watching--homemade play-dough and springtime movies--hide-n-seek and catch with Dad--bedtime--moving the mattresses--stuffed animal kingdoms--baby doll pretend--apple trees and wooded wanderings and radio familiarities and history and friendship and interaction and love and magic and reading and creativity and memories and dusty, dusty snippets of past and everything, everything, church and Sunday school and sermon smilings and niggly rememberings and dreams and movies and projects and food experiments and childhood everything and all of it a time capsule, a present, all tied up and packed away, away in an old white apple box, tied with a bow, with a thousand bows, shoved back on a tall shelf, dusted and forgotten, misplaced, unused, going, going, gone.
Gone. Is it gone? Can not the shelf be reached and the bows untied? Can not the clock be rewound? Can not the batteries be replaced? Can not at least a shred of the past, at least a replica, at least a facade be produced? Can not at least a bit, a sparkle, a glimmer of it all be rediscovered? Or is it all gone?
Maybe the box belongs to the years it was built in. Maybe it must stay with them, never to be opened and never to return. Maybe it is lost and gone, maybe all the present time spent searching for it is in vain, only plundering more time for the future. Maybe all is a waste, all is fruitless, all is with no point.
Time creeps up anyway, besides, creeps up and steals and destroys and trashes the path for the future. All old is unsalvageable, all present is in vain, all future is uncertain.
No amount of champagne, no quantity of sparkling drink can drown this hopelessness. Time wasted, time dead. Another 365 uncertainties to worry about. To try to make better than all the ones before. But history repeats itself, and most is unsavory. Thus the next steps become shaky. blurry. doomed.
Another try-again haunted by all the other failed attempts.
But maybe this new time will be better and different.
As of yet it is unmarred. The hope of its potential is that it can remain that way... ♱✟✝
Friday, December 27, 2019
One Starlit Night
It was a silent night.
It was a holy night, too, sacred and pure and quietly holy.
Humbly holy, you might say.
But it didn’t seem that way at first.
The woman was tired. They had walked for so long, they had covered so many miles in their worn sandals, and all with her being majorly pregnant.
“One last inn,” said Joseph, wearily, sensing her fatigue. “One last try and then--”
The door in front of them opened mid-sentence, a warm light illuminating a tired-looking innkeeper. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, knowing their request even before they spoke it. “I’m afraid we’re full. There aren’t any rooms left.”
Mary rubbed her swollen belly, sighing. “That’s what all the other innkeepers said.”
“Please, sir,” begged Joseph. “It’s dark, and we’ve come so far, and our baby…”
The innkeeper thought for a moment, pensive and silent, leaning tiredly against the door frame. “The only space I have is in the stable--but it’s hardly suitable for a baby.”
“But it is warm and sheltered and unoccupied, yes?”
“Well… unoccupied all except for the donkey, yes.”
Joseph exhaled. “We will take it. Thank you so much.”
So they stumbled to the stable with a borrowed blanket from the innkeeper, settling as best they could on the stubbly hay.
“There. How is that?”
“Fine, fine.” She winced. “It’ll do.”
And thus began the wait. Mary laid on the blanket on a pile of hay while Joseph paced the floor, nervous in anticipation for the baby to come.
The donkey shuffled around behind them, braying now and again as if he were impatient for something. But the two weary travelers paid him no mind.
“Anything?” asked Joseph.
“Wait,” said Mary.
The night grew darker outside the stable, but neither of them noticed. Only the donkey appreciated the stars as they began to appear, pricks of hope in a shattered world, and one of them outshining all the others in a brilliant beam of glory.
“Well?” asked Joseph.
“Be patient,” said Mary.
A light December wind blew in on them, and finally the donkey settled down to sleep. The stars grew brighter and the night grew colder.
Joseph stopped pacing.
“Now,” said Mary.
It was a difficult birth, as most are, laborious for mother and baby alike, while Joseph helped as best he could as the donkey snored obliviously in the back of the stable.
But finally newborn wails pierced the calm of the night, newborn cries from the small, perfect mouth of a small, perfect baby.
Mary’s blanket was damp and occupied, so Joseph tore pieces of cloth from his robe while she secured them snugly around her new son.
“There,” she said softly, holding him close. “There, my child. My precious. My King.”
“You are tired,” said Joseph, smiling in relief. “I will hold the baby while you get some rest.”
But Mary had already spotted the manger, discreetly tucked in a darkened corner, filled with a handful of fresh hay.
“See that feeding trough?” She pointed to it. “Bring it close. He will be safe and warm in there. Then we may both sleep.”
So Joseph pulled the manger to her side, watching in wonder as she nestled the baby deep into the hay. His little eyes caught the starlight, reflecting it back out at them, and he yawned, and before their eyes he fell asleep. He, a tiny prince, a newborn king, a holy stranger in a manger.
“Jesus,” whispered Mary, stroking his downy head. “That is his name. The name from the angels. Jesus.”
She beamed at her husband, and he back to her, and together they lay back on the blanket and tried to sleep.
“I will only doze,” murmured Joseph, studying the ceiling. “That way I can keep watch over the baby and you can get rest.”
She was too tired to answer. So she slept.
It was only Joseph now, only him and the stars and the chirping swallow outside. The donkey dozed silently, Jesus the same, and now Mary as well.
In all technicalities, Joseph was alone.
So he thought. He thought of the angel, of the message of divinity becoming mortal through Mary, of the long journey to Bethlehem, the innkeepers’ rejections, and now this.
A baby in a barn.
A Savior in a stable.
A Messiah in a manger.
Mary must be overwhelmed with emotion, he thought.
Amazed.
Astounded.
But he was too.
What wonder is this? He thought. Heaven on earth. God with us.
Mary stirred. “What is that?”
He turned. “What is what?”
“That noise.” She sat up and looked outside the stable. The bright star from earlier had settled right above them, leaking its silvery radiance over them. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
“Shepherds,” she whispered, squinting to see. “Look.”
Joseph rose as the first one stepped into the stable. He was pale and thin, but his face was alight as if he had just received the most wonderful news.
“We’ve just received the most wonderful news,” said the shepherd, beaming with uncontainable joy as the other shepherds filed in behind him. “A baby, a King--the angels told us he was born here, born this very night.”
“The baby,” said Mary, brushing Joseph’s hem.
He handed Jesus to her, and she arranged him in her arms, smiling at the shepherds. “Here he is,” she said warmly. “Here is the Messiah the angels told you about.”
One by one, the lowly shepherds fell to their knees, bowing before the King of Kings, praising the Savior whom God had sent as a child.
“Praise to the Lord God Most High! Praise to the Lord for His indescribable gift!”
Even the donkey aroused himself to study the commotion, and a few of the shepherds’ lambs trickled in to join the warmth.
Was the star shining brighter? Mary hardly noticed it. A King in her arms, loyal subjects here praising Him, the beautiful peace of this first Christmas night.
“Hallelujah to the King of Kings! Praises to His holy name!”
She looked down at her baby, at the Ruler of the Nations that had come from her womb.
The shepherds kept singing.
The star kept shining.
The Savior kept smiling.
And Mary treasured all these things in her heart, all these glorious things on that one silent night, that most holy night.
That starlit night when Jesus was born. ✩
It was a holy night, too, sacred and pure and quietly holy.
Humbly holy, you might say.
But it didn’t seem that way at first.
The woman was tired. They had walked for so long, they had covered so many miles in their worn sandals, and all with her being majorly pregnant.
“One last inn,” said Joseph, wearily, sensing her fatigue. “One last try and then--”
The door in front of them opened mid-sentence, a warm light illuminating a tired-looking innkeeper. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, knowing their request even before they spoke it. “I’m afraid we’re full. There aren’t any rooms left.”
Mary rubbed her swollen belly, sighing. “That’s what all the other innkeepers said.”
“Please, sir,” begged Joseph. “It’s dark, and we’ve come so far, and our baby…”
The innkeeper thought for a moment, pensive and silent, leaning tiredly against the door frame. “The only space I have is in the stable--but it’s hardly suitable for a baby.”
“But it is warm and sheltered and unoccupied, yes?”
“Well… unoccupied all except for the donkey, yes.”
Joseph exhaled. “We will take it. Thank you so much.”
So they stumbled to the stable with a borrowed blanket from the innkeeper, settling as best they could on the stubbly hay.
“There. How is that?”
“Fine, fine.” She winced. “It’ll do.”
And thus began the wait. Mary laid on the blanket on a pile of hay while Joseph paced the floor, nervous in anticipation for the baby to come.
The donkey shuffled around behind them, braying now and again as if he were impatient for something. But the two weary travelers paid him no mind.
“Anything?” asked Joseph.
“Wait,” said Mary.
The night grew darker outside the stable, but neither of them noticed. Only the donkey appreciated the stars as they began to appear, pricks of hope in a shattered world, and one of them outshining all the others in a brilliant beam of glory.
“Well?” asked Joseph.
“Be patient,” said Mary.
A light December wind blew in on them, and finally the donkey settled down to sleep. The stars grew brighter and the night grew colder.
Joseph stopped pacing.
“Now,” said Mary.
It was a difficult birth, as most are, laborious for mother and baby alike, while Joseph helped as best he could as the donkey snored obliviously in the back of the stable.
But finally newborn wails pierced the calm of the night, newborn cries from the small, perfect mouth of a small, perfect baby.
Mary’s blanket was damp and occupied, so Joseph tore pieces of cloth from his robe while she secured them snugly around her new son.
“There,” she said softly, holding him close. “There, my child. My precious. My King.”
“You are tired,” said Joseph, smiling in relief. “I will hold the baby while you get some rest.”
But Mary had already spotted the manger, discreetly tucked in a darkened corner, filled with a handful of fresh hay.
“See that feeding trough?” She pointed to it. “Bring it close. He will be safe and warm in there. Then we may both sleep.”
So Joseph pulled the manger to her side, watching in wonder as she nestled the baby deep into the hay. His little eyes caught the starlight, reflecting it back out at them, and he yawned, and before their eyes he fell asleep. He, a tiny prince, a newborn king, a holy stranger in a manger.
“Jesus,” whispered Mary, stroking his downy head. “That is his name. The name from the angels. Jesus.”
She beamed at her husband, and he back to her, and together they lay back on the blanket and tried to sleep.
“I will only doze,” murmured Joseph, studying the ceiling. “That way I can keep watch over the baby and you can get rest.”
She was too tired to answer. So she slept.
It was only Joseph now, only him and the stars and the chirping swallow outside. The donkey dozed silently, Jesus the same, and now Mary as well.
In all technicalities, Joseph was alone.
So he thought. He thought of the angel, of the message of divinity becoming mortal through Mary, of the long journey to Bethlehem, the innkeepers’ rejections, and now this.
A baby in a barn.
A Savior in a stable.
A Messiah in a manger.
Mary must be overwhelmed with emotion, he thought.
Amazed.
Astounded.
But he was too.
What wonder is this? He thought. Heaven on earth. God with us.
Mary stirred. “What is that?”
He turned. “What is what?”
“That noise.” She sat up and looked outside the stable. The bright star from earlier had settled right above them, leaking its silvery radiance over them. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
“Shepherds,” she whispered, squinting to see. “Look.”
Joseph rose as the first one stepped into the stable. He was pale and thin, but his face was alight as if he had just received the most wonderful news.
“We’ve just received the most wonderful news,” said the shepherd, beaming with uncontainable joy as the other shepherds filed in behind him. “A baby, a King--the angels told us he was born here, born this very night.”
“The baby,” said Mary, brushing Joseph’s hem.
He handed Jesus to her, and she arranged him in her arms, smiling at the shepherds. “Here he is,” she said warmly. “Here is the Messiah the angels told you about.”
One by one, the lowly shepherds fell to their knees, bowing before the King of Kings, praising the Savior whom God had sent as a child.
“Praise to the Lord God Most High! Praise to the Lord for His indescribable gift!”
Even the donkey aroused himself to study the commotion, and a few of the shepherds’ lambs trickled in to join the warmth.
Was the star shining brighter? Mary hardly noticed it. A King in her arms, loyal subjects here praising Him, the beautiful peace of this first Christmas night.
“Hallelujah to the King of Kings! Praises to His holy name!”
She looked down at her baby, at the Ruler of the Nations that had come from her womb.
The shepherds kept singing.
The star kept shining.
The Savior kept smiling.
And Mary treasured all these things in her heart, all these glorious things on that one silent night, that most holy night.
That starlit night when Jesus was born. ✩
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
He Came.
...and You came for me, Lord, the unlikeliest of unlikelies, the sorriest of sinners, the runt of the litter, the last of the crop. For me, the undeserving.
You came for the sole and glorious purpose of saving me. Me, a dirty sinner. Me, a no-good nobody.
You humbled and, at times, humiliated Yourself so that I might be given a second chance. A better chance than any I ever would have gotten otherwise. A better chance than I could ever obtain, attain, or deserve.
You gave up all You had so that I could have it. You gave me all I have so I could give it all back.
You came--You slept on the hay, You suffered the ridicule, You turned the tables and You rolled away the stone--all for me. All for a sin-stained villain like me.
I bet that took a lot of love. A lot of courage? A lot of selflessness and a lot of humility.
Why'd You do it, Lord? I don't know if I would have. Suffer the pain and heartbreaks of this world--die a slow and painful death on a tree--to save an ignorant, hypocritical human like me? It sounds unthinkable. It seems crazy.
But You must have really cared. You must have really wanted to do all that--all those horrors, all for me.
You came as a fragile newborn.
You suffered.
You bled.
You died.
You came from Heaven to Earth, from glory to filth, from splendor to sorrow.
For me.
Cradle to coffin, manger to tree--
Thank You for coming, Lord.
Coming for me. ✧
You came for the sole and glorious purpose of saving me. Me, a dirty sinner. Me, a no-good nobody.
You humbled and, at times, humiliated Yourself so that I might be given a second chance. A better chance than any I ever would have gotten otherwise. A better chance than I could ever obtain, attain, or deserve.
You gave up all You had so that I could have it. You gave me all I have so I could give it all back.
You came--You slept on the hay, You suffered the ridicule, You turned the tables and You rolled away the stone--all for me. All for a sin-stained villain like me.
I bet that took a lot of love. A lot of courage? A lot of selflessness and a lot of humility.
Why'd You do it, Lord? I don't know if I would have. Suffer the pain and heartbreaks of this world--die a slow and painful death on a tree--to save an ignorant, hypocritical human like me? It sounds unthinkable. It seems crazy.
But You must have really cared. You must have really wanted to do all that--all those horrors, all for me.
You came as a fragile newborn.
You suffered.
You bled.
You died.
You came from Heaven to Earth, from glory to filth, from splendor to sorrow.
For me.
Cradle to coffin, manger to tree--
Thank You for coming, Lord.
Coming for me. ✧
Remembrance
Another winter. Another year.
What happened to time?
No matter. It's now now, so now's all that really matters.
Yesterday is a thing of the past--it cannot and will not be changed, so the best we can do is learn something from it, love it, and let it go.
It is time to look ahead.
It is time to press forward.
Lift your chin. Say a prayer. Smile. Practice what you preach. And for Heaven's sake, remember.
Remember the things worth remembering.
Remember the honorable, pure, lovely, holy and true things.
Remember the guidelines.
Remember the grace.
Remember who you are, Whose you are, and where you're going.
Remember what you've conquered.
Remember to remember.
Remember Him.
Remember His promises.
This is not over--every day, every now, it is only beginning.
Remember the good. The important. The promised.
And if you remember one thing, remember this:
Egerthe! He is risen! Do not despair. Be of good courage! He is coming again, coming soon, so remember to speak up and to reach out. Better days are on the way and death is not the victor. The devil will not win! he will not triumph! Technically speaking, he is already defeated.
Lay claim to the promises, lay claim to hope.
Breathe.
Be.
Let your heart beat in peace.
Egerthe, remember.
He is risen.
Time for you to rise up as well.
--Emily 🍂
What happened to time?
No matter. It's now now, so now's all that really matters.
Yesterday is a thing of the past--it cannot and will not be changed, so the best we can do is learn something from it, love it, and let it go.
It is time to look ahead.
It is time to press forward.
Lift your chin. Say a prayer. Smile. Practice what you preach. And for Heaven's sake, remember.
Remember the things worth remembering.
Remember the honorable, pure, lovely, holy and true things.
Remember the guidelines.
Remember the grace.
Remember who you are, Whose you are, and where you're going.
Remember what you've conquered.
Remember to remember.
Remember Him.
Remember His promises.
This is not over--every day, every now, it is only beginning.
Remember the good. The important. The promised.
And if you remember one thing, remember this:
Egerthe! He is risen! Do not despair. Be of good courage! He is coming again, coming soon, so remember to speak up and to reach out. Better days are on the way and death is not the victor. The devil will not win! he will not triumph! Technically speaking, he is already defeated.
Lay claim to the promises, lay claim to hope.
Breathe.
Be.
Let your heart beat in peace.
Egerthe, remember.
He is risen.
Time for you to rise up as well.
--Emily 🍂
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Only One
How many kings would step down from their thrones--how many lords would abandon their homes--how many "greats" would become the "least of these"--how many gods would pour out their hearts (to romance a world that is torn all apart)--how many fathers would give up their sons.. for me?
-
Only One did that for me!
-
--Our God is not a stand-back, in-the-shadows, sedentary God. He is not a standoffish God or an unsmiling God or a snooty God. Our God is a down-and-personal, down-and-dirty kind of God.
--He is the kind of God Who gives up His comfort, His stature, His high standing, and His dignity--for us.
--He is the kind of God Who willingly becomes a fragile mortal and then extends His newly-human hand to our own dirty, hammer-and-nail-wielding ones.
--He is the kind of God Who steps out of His perfect light to enter into our frothing darkness, soothe our weary souls, and gently lead us back into the light with Him.
--He is the kind of God Who humbles Himself, Who closes the door on His trophy room, sweeps His gold-plated name placard off His gilt-edged desk, and takes off His Rolex watch and designer suits to dress in simple rags just like the ones we're wearing.
--He is the kind of God Who sits down in the tear-soaked ashes with us and simply holds us, simply listens, simply loves.
--He is the kind of God Who becomes voluntarily vulnerable so that He feels all the same pains we do and knows all the hardships we bemoan.
--He is the kind of God Who looks far past our stains and our splotches and our sins and takes our hearts, our filthy, filthy hearts, and loves us anyway.
--He is the kind of God--the ONLY kind of God--Who simply welcomes us in with wide open arms and nail-scarred hands and reminds us that we--yes, we--with the unforgivable sins and the unbelievable transgressions--that we are His own dearly beloved children, His own precious creations.
-
Our God is the God Who loved us--Who LOVES us--so much that He would sacrifice His Son, that He would give up his dignity, His comfort, and His life, all for us. All because He loves us.
-
"Only One did that... for me." ~Marc Martel
-
Our God is a great, great, great God.
Merry almost-almost-Christmas season. 💚
-
Only One did that for me!
-
--Our God is not a stand-back, in-the-shadows, sedentary God. He is not a standoffish God or an unsmiling God or a snooty God. Our God is a down-and-personal, down-and-dirty kind of God.
--He is the kind of God Who gives up His comfort, His stature, His high standing, and His dignity--for us.
--He is the kind of God Who willingly becomes a fragile mortal and then extends His newly-human hand to our own dirty, hammer-and-nail-wielding ones.
--He is the kind of God Who steps out of His perfect light to enter into our frothing darkness, soothe our weary souls, and gently lead us back into the light with Him.
--He is the kind of God Who humbles Himself, Who closes the door on His trophy room, sweeps His gold-plated name placard off His gilt-edged desk, and takes off His Rolex watch and designer suits to dress in simple rags just like the ones we're wearing.
--He is the kind of God Who sits down in the tear-soaked ashes with us and simply holds us, simply listens, simply loves.
--He is the kind of God Who becomes voluntarily vulnerable so that He feels all the same pains we do and knows all the hardships we bemoan.
--He is the kind of God Who looks far past our stains and our splotches and our sins and takes our hearts, our filthy, filthy hearts, and loves us anyway.
--He is the kind of God--the ONLY kind of God--Who simply welcomes us in with wide open arms and nail-scarred hands and reminds us that we--yes, we--with the unforgivable sins and the unbelievable transgressions--that we are His own dearly beloved children, His own precious creations.
-
Our God is the God Who loved us--Who LOVES us--so much that He would sacrifice His Son, that He would give up his dignity, His comfort, and His life, all for us. All because He loves us.
-
"Only One did that... for me." ~Marc Martel
-
Our God is a great, great, great God.
Merry almost-almost-Christmas season. 💚
Monday, December 2, 2019
Time to Shine
How long will I be silent?
How long will I turn a blind eye to injustice?
If I do nothing at all, that's exactly what will happen.
Nothing.
I have been closed up and turned off for far too long. I have succumbed to the roaring of the wind and the icy grip of the dark. The voice I am letting control me, the voice telling me which step to take...
Actually, it is mine.
My own misshapen voice.
Were I to be inhabiting a perfect world, a bright world, one full of truth--my voice would not be so misled.
But there is dark surrounding these stiff shoulders of mine, and I have allowed such darkness to infiltrate my decisions and to stifle my ambition.
Were I to be inhabiting a perfect world, I would be perfect.
But I do not.
So I am not.
This is no excuse, however, no matter its undeniable weight. The trick of this life is to learn how to shine boldly and brightly despite the darkness, not cower because of it.
And so I pose these two hefty questions:
How long will I stay silent?
How long will I turn a blind eye to injustice?
This is no time to shrink away from the night--in fact, this is the very time to rise up against it. To bring out all that is in me, all that is true and pure and good, and let it shine so brilliantly that the dark is forced to recede.
This is the time to stand up and stand strong, to band together with all who still shine, and to march boldly into that unending night--to fight it and denounce it and to rescue its captives--until the thickest fog has completely disappeared and all that is left is the glorious Son: shining, shining in the blue sky of true freedom.
This is the time to scrutinize the past for its highs and its lows; to scrub the present from top to bottom; and to make for the future a path of pure hope. This is the time to realize where we've gone wrong and then to put into action a battle plan to correct and make clean. This is the time to open our eyes and plant our feet.
This is the time to start shining again--no matter the pressure, no matter the price.
Time to shine. 🍂
How long will I turn a blind eye to injustice?
If I do nothing at all, that's exactly what will happen.
Nothing.
I have been closed up and turned off for far too long. I have succumbed to the roaring of the wind and the icy grip of the dark. The voice I am letting control me, the voice telling me which step to take...
Actually, it is mine.
My own misshapen voice.
Were I to be inhabiting a perfect world, a bright world, one full of truth--my voice would not be so misled.
But there is dark surrounding these stiff shoulders of mine, and I have allowed such darkness to infiltrate my decisions and to stifle my ambition.
Were I to be inhabiting a perfect world, I would be perfect.
But I do not.
So I am not.
This is no excuse, however, no matter its undeniable weight. The trick of this life is to learn how to shine boldly and brightly despite the darkness, not cower because of it.
And so I pose these two hefty questions:
How long will I stay silent?
How long will I turn a blind eye to injustice?
This is no time to shrink away from the night--in fact, this is the very time to rise up against it. To bring out all that is in me, all that is true and pure and good, and let it shine so brilliantly that the dark is forced to recede.
This is the time to stand up and stand strong, to band together with all who still shine, and to march boldly into that unending night--to fight it and denounce it and to rescue its captives--until the thickest fog has completely disappeared and all that is left is the glorious Son: shining, shining in the blue sky of true freedom.
This is the time to scrutinize the past for its highs and its lows; to scrub the present from top to bottom; and to make for the future a path of pure hope. This is the time to realize where we've gone wrong and then to put into action a battle plan to correct and make clean. This is the time to open our eyes and plant our feet.
This is the time to start shining again--no matter the pressure, no matter the price.
Time to shine. 🍂
Thursday, October 24, 2019
He Still Reigns
Did you know
That someone died today?
It happened in a breath.
The leaf fell,
The door closed,
The alarm clock rang.
Somewhere
Someone
Is mourning.
All those gold and sunny melodies
Have been dusted with a sheen of gray.
The sun has blinked,
The clock has flickered.
Yesterday they were laughing.
Yesterday you were laughing.
Or sulking.
Or sad.
Today there is sorrow dripping from the sky;
Today there is sorrow in tiny raindrop capsules.
God was in the sun of yesterday.
Of course He was.
Obviously.
But is He yet here
Right here
In the rain?
In these gloomy days and darkened skies,
He is still there.
He is very much there.
Perhaps His touch is tinged with something other than what you were awaiting,
Perhaps He is fulfilling a purpose you could never comprehend.
But for all you do not know,
Know this:
God is still here.
He is still the same.
Your circumstances may have changed--
But not God.
Not Him.
Even in your pouring rain,
He
Still
Reigns. 🍂
That someone died today?
It happened in a breath.
The leaf fell,
The door closed,
The alarm clock rang.
Somewhere
Someone
Is mourning.
All those gold and sunny melodies
Have been dusted with a sheen of gray.
The sun has blinked,
The clock has flickered.
Yesterday they were laughing.
Yesterday you were laughing.
Or sulking.
Or sad.
Today there is sorrow dripping from the sky;
Today there is sorrow in tiny raindrop capsules.
God was in the sun of yesterday.
Of course He was.
Obviously.
But is He yet here
Right here
In the rain?
In these gloomy days and darkened skies,
He is still there.
He is very much there.
Perhaps His touch is tinged with something other than what you were awaiting,
Perhaps He is fulfilling a purpose you could never comprehend.
But for all you do not know,
Know this:
God is still here.
He is still the same.
Your circumstances may have changed--
But not God.
Not Him.
Even in your pouring rain,
He
Still
Reigns. 🍂
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