Shepherd's Meal

This Christmas I find myself pulled between two different desires. On the one hand, I want to simplify Christmas in our home, paring it down until all that is left is the bare trunk of the proverbial Christmas tree (the “root of Jesse,” if you will). On the other hand, after 18 Christmases as our own family, I want to create some new, fresh traditions to bulk up our celebrations – meaningful, purposeful, beautiful moments that help take my family’s eyes off of the absurdity that December has become and anchor them back on the incredible and intensely profound moment when the godhead veiled himself in flesh. 

It's not an impossible dichotomy, but it’s not a natural one either, and it does stretch one’s mind to find ways that these two desires – simplicity and solemnity – can come together. With four boys ages 9-16 at three different schools, a professor husband whose semester has to gear up before it winds down, and my job as the Children’s Director for our little church (where I am guilty of adding activities to already frazzled family calendars), how could I pare things down and at the same time bulk things up? And when on earth could I do it? 

 Well, we have to eat. 

 I remembered something I had read several years ago. It sounded like a nice idea at the time, but I was too breathless in that season to give it much attention – toddlers and school programs and baby asthma and such. I recently flipped back to it and this December feels like just the right time to give it a go. It’s simple. It’s solemn. It has food. This year we’re going to have a Shepherd’s Meal on Christmas Eve. 

I first read about the idea of a Shepherd’s Meal in Sally Clarkson’s book The Life Giving Home, though she originally wrote about it in her book The Life Giving Table and has written about it and recorded a few podcasts about it since (you can read one of her lovely accounts of it HERE). The basic gist of a Shepherd’s Meal is to eat a rather simple meal similar to one the shepherds would have eaten (loosely interpreted) on that very first Christmas then read the nativity story together. Over the last few weeks, I have read several articles and blog posts about how other families have instituted this tradition over the years – and it looks beautifully different for each family. That’s a huge selling point for me. I need the freedom to match my expectations to my family, not the “fine China” family nor the “toddler season with sectional character plates” family. We are a “rough-around-the-edges-teen-and-pre-teen-boys-only-with-tired-parents-who-all-love-each-other-and-Jesus” family, and I need to be able to work with that. Ragtag and rustic is much more our vibe. 

Guys, I am so excited. 

 I’m excited about the menu I’m planning – basically a giant charcuterie board but heavy on the meats and light on the fancy cheeses. I’ll cook and cut up a giant sausage, crusty bread and some hummus and butter, fruit, goat cheese (for me!), and a potato soup recipe Sally shares in her book. 

I’m excited about the environment I’m going to lay out – our dining room table set with candlelight only, our star projector on the ceiling and a “Campfire Ambiance” soundtrack I found on YouTube playing in the background. Maybe even an open window depending on what Texas weather decides that night. 

I’m even excited about the dishes we’re using – a variety of stoneware bowls and platters that I bought from the thrift store for just this occasion, sold as a mismatched set for $3.50! 

And I’m excited – so excited – for the simplicity and solemnity of it all. Soup in a crock pot simmering all day, bowls upon bowls of various foods that my family loves and can DIY their own happy plates, my little family together, focused on each other and the incredible story when the night skies were filled with the praises of God for what He had just accomplished.

After the meal, we’ll read together the familiar nativity account in the gospel of Luke. Angels sent by God to humble shepherds in the fields, doing the same thing they did every night. Shepherds sent by angels with God’s peace to witness the fulfilment of the promises He had made over and over since the fall of mankind. Young, poor, newlywed travelers and their tiny shivering baby called Immanuel – “God with God from the beginning, suddenly now God with us.” 

Simple. Solemn. 

I cannot wait for December 24! Our first Shepherd’s Meal. 

Whether you try your own Shepherd’s Meal or roast a goose yourself… Whether your Christmas is all hustley and bustley or soft and slow… Whether you’re photo-ready in matching jammies or ragtag and bedheaded (like we will be over here!), I hope your Christmas is simple enough to soak in the profound peace proclaimed to the shepherds that night, and solemn enough to recognize the thrill of hope that message brought to this weary world. 

Merry Christmas!

Hope: Anchored and Alive

My portion of the day was coming to a close. I had been sitting with Pike (talking more than I’m sure he liked) for nearly 9 hours and his parents were driving back from the airport at that moment. The doctors and nurses and church staff had been bouncing in and out of the room all day long to check on the precious teen from every angle, and we had a few moments of unexpectedly uninterrupted quiet.

I had just finished reading through the book of Hebrews out loud to him. I had decided pretty early in the day that both Pike and I could use some good anchoring to Hope, and that book offers it more than any other I could think of. I started reading mid-morning, and it literally took all day to work our way through it. I took several breaks, of course, for the check-ups and check-ins, and every now and again I would pause to try to explain something that’s a little fuzzy as best I could. We also broke it up with a lot of music throughout the day. I knew he'd need a break from listening to his friend’s mom’s voice drone on and on.

Once we got to Hebrews 10, I had to slow my reading down for the rest of the book - partly to make sure that he and I could both soak in the words, and partly because of my emotion. Every word just seemed so perfect, so fitting, so needed. Hope. Faith. Suffering. Eyes unwaveringly fixed on Christ, who endured his own suffering and now stands beyond it and has anchored our Hope ahead with Him! *sigh* Yes, I cried. I apologized to him for making it weird, but I couldn’t help it…he and I both needed to cling to that Hope and keep our eyes fixed on Christ.

When I finished reading, I thanked God for the hope that Pike and I both have in Christ. I thanked Him for anchoring our hope beyond the veil - a hope that is secure and sure. I prayed that Pike and I would both have the faith to hold on to that hope. I thanked God for using Pike for His glory, and for equipping him for the good works God had for him to do. I thanked God for Pike’s incredible perseverance and how much he has taught, encouraged, and spurred me on.

And now, with just a few minutes left before I knew his family would be home, I decided to give him a break from my voice and put music back on. We had been going back and forth between my music (hymns) and his music all day. It was his turn. I pulled up the Phil Wickham station and sat quietly next to his bed, petting his fuzzy strawberry hair. “God, thank you for loving this precious boy more than any of us ever could. Thank you for being with him, even in the darkest places none of us can go.”

Before that day I had not listened to much Phil Wickham, and I was grateful Pike had introduced me to him. As I sat there resting my hand on his knobby knee, a song came on that I recognized from church. I looked at his sweet, sleepy face and just thanked God for the song. It was perfect. It was everything I had just read and prayed, and it was a voice that was sweet and familiar to him. I stood out of my chair and, keeping one hand on his knee and the other raised up, I closed my eyes and silently mouthed the words that I knew:

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

And as I stood there, still one hand on his knee and teary eyes now looking down at his restful face, the next words both broke me and revived me all at once. “Yes! This is it, Pike! This is what Christ has done for you!”

Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Jesus, Yours is the victory!

The song ended. I wiped my tears and got my weepy face under control. Another nurse came in to check his numbers. Then a knock on the door and a boisterous “Hey Pike!” from Paul. Mama rushed to her boy, big brother and new sis walked to his bed to tell him all the news. His family was home and my time with him was done.

But here I am, one year later. I remember my time with dear Pike so vividly, truly as if it was yesterday. It has forever impacted many areas of my life and heart, and it enriched and deepened my understanding of Hebrews and several songs (hymns and Phil Wickham alike). I don’t understand why I was given such a privilege to spend that day with Pike, but I’m so thankful for the work that God has been able to do in me through our day together.

I know Pike has nothing left to hope for - by God's plan and mercy Pike reached out and touched his Hope that very night. But I am still clinging to the Hope that is anchored ahead of me. I know that Hope is secure, risen from the grave, living and victorious. Hallelujah!

Until I hold that Hope for myself, I will be forever moved by my precious day with Pike. He reminds me to run the race marked out for me and fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of my faith and my anchored, living Hope.

Living Hope by Phil Wickham
How great the chasm that lay between us
How high the mountain I could not climb
In desperation, I turned to heaven
And spoke Your name into the night
Then through the darkness, Your loving kindness
Tore through the shadows of my soul
The work is finished, the end is written
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Who could imagine so great a mercy?
What heart could fathom such boundless grace?
The God of ages stepped down from glory
To wear my sin and bear my shame
The cross has spoken, I am forgiven
The King of kings calls me His own
Beautiful Savior, I'm Yours forever
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Then came the morning that sealed the promise
Your buried body began to breathe
Out of the silence, the Roaring Lion
Declared the grave has no claim on me
Jesus, Yours is the victory!

Hallelujah, praise the One who set me free
Hallelujah, death has lost its grip on me
You have broken every chain
There's salvation in Your name
Jesus Christ, my living hope

Christmas Guest Post #3: Erin and Anna Teske

"PRESENT"

Present with Your presence
Remembering the silence, the promise, the waiting, the hope
Emmanuel is finally
here.
among us.
Sleeping but not asleep.
Earth expectant...ready.
in murmured, pleading worship.
Now. And here. Hear and bow.
Tiniest of packages contains the fascinating weight of eternity

________________________________________________

I have known Erin my entire life, and Anna I've known for all of hers. Erin is my oldest sister and is hands down the most creative person I have ever known. Anna, her youngest daughter, is one of the most driven. A mom of three girls, Erin is currently a preschool teacher at a private Christian school in Frederick, MD. Anna is completing her senior year at the same school and is currently candidating for both the Naval Academy and Air Force Academy. They wrote this acrostic poem on their drive from Maryland to Chicago last week. Talk about beautiful mother-daughter bonding over things that matter!

Darker than the Darkest Darkness

...but brighter than the brightest star.

When I was in high school, my youth group would go to a summer camp in the mountains of West Virginia. For one week we rock climbed and repelled, white water rafted, mountain biked, high ropes coursed, and did a number of various other adventures. It is insane to me now that parents would trust a group of 50 teenagers to stand at the edge of a cliff in the remote Appalachain mountains with no one but peers and dreamy camp counselors (I promise, he looked just like Brad Pitt) to help curb life-threatening indiscretions, but I'm pretty sure we all made it out ok. Alive, at least.

There was one adventure at this camp where the oh-so-wise-and-mature college kids would take a group of only-slightly-less-wise-and-mature youth kids into the mountain caverns with nothing but some snacks and head lamps (and, I have to believe, a first aid kit). During this underground journey there was a point where all of the people would gather in one of the larger caves and situate themselves in a circle. Then at the count of three, the leaders instructed everyone to turn off their head lamps together.

Darkness.

Like, real darkness. Before, it was possible to feel the cold and damp of the cave and smell the cold and damp of the cave, but now it was as if you could see the cold and damp of the cave because you could see nothing else. You could hold your hand an inch in front of your eye and not even discern a basic outline. You could hear the unsteady breaths of your companions, but could not discern at all how close they were to you. There is darkness, and then there is empty, cold, oppressive darkness that somehow seems to extend forever and at the same time feels like it is closing in around you.

I, of course, did not sign up for this particular adventure because I value my life and sanity. Spend 4 hours squeezing myself through narrow crevices as we venture deeper and deeper into the mountain, with nothing but an oh-so-wise-and-mature college kid to guide me back to sunlight? No thank you. Have you even heard of Moria? I know what happens in the deep places of the world.

Balrogs and claustrophobia aside, there is actually a part of me that wishes I could have been there for that single moment. I can picture it vividly in my mind, but I wish I had felt it. My eyes have never seen such darkness.

There is a sense, though, in which we have all felt that cold, damp, unending yet constricting darkness. Our souls, in fact, know it well. The emptiness, the oppression, this is who we are in our deepest core. Starting in chapter 3 of humanity's story, the darkness has been our spiritual home. Like that single minute that felt like twenty inside that West Virginia cavern, the souls of man cannot see even an inch beyond ourselves.

This is why the story of Christmas does not start in the New Testament. It is not Matthew's genealogy or the angel's appearance to Zechariah that introduces us to the Messiah. The story of Christmas starts all the way back in the Garden of Eden where the lights were first turned out. When Adam and Eve decided that God should not be the only god (a decision, by the way, I would have also made given the chance), the same thing happened in the Garden that my friends experienced in the cave.

Darkness.

Communion with God was broken. Delight in worship was shattered. Innocence was voluntarily surrendered, and the light in the souls of men was immediately blackened to a cold, damp, unending yet constricting darkness. There was no gradual fade. From light to dark as quickly as the flip of a headlamp switch.

I think it is so important to start the Christmas story here in the darkness, because the darkness sets the stage for the light. In the same way that emerging from the cold depths of a mountain cavern brought a new appreciation, understanding and welcome of the midday sun, my soul needs to know just how dark and hopeless it was without the bright advent of Christ. My dark soul that is darker than the darkest darkness of a West Virginia cave is in brilliant contrast to the bright light of the condescension of the very Son of God.

When Jesus left the glory of heaven to enter into this empty, cold, oppressively dark place, God pierced the night with the light of a brilliant star. From the fields of Judah to the ends of the earth, its bright rays sliced through the dark sky to direct people toward the temporary home of a humble couple. As the weary parents wrapped their baby in strips of cloth, for the first time ever the eyes of mankind that had been darkened by sin met the eyes of God, bright with the Light of life. Though their souls were as dark as a West Virginia cave, as dark as my own heart, they cradled the Light of the world, God with us. The light of that star could be seen from the corners of the world, but its brilliance could not compare to the radiant light that lay in the manger.

Zechariah, whom God had chosen to be the father of the Messiah's forerunner understood the depth of the darkness the world has known since our chapter 3, and the brilliance of the dawn that was about to come. He described the coming of the Messiah in this way. "The rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace." (Luke 1:78b-79)

Ever since death entered the picture in Genesis 3, mankind has dwelled in the darkness of its shadow, but throughout the Old Testament God promised a future light that would once again shine in the souls of men.

Our souls, by themselves, are dark. They are darker than dark. They are darker than the darkest darkness. Do not be buried by this concept, but do not dismiss it either. After dwelling in the empty, cold, oppressive shadow of death for a moment, direct your eyes to the brilliant light of the rising sun and be awed anew at the magnificence of that light. That Light that shines brighter than the brightest star has stepped into the darkness, as promised, to shine in the souls of men.

What a stunning sunrise!

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees!

Christmas Guest Post #2: Julia Sifers

"Christmastime is here."

Christmas is my favorite. Absolute favorite. If I sit down and think about why, my thoughts get all tangled up, like last year’s twinkle lights, because of all the giddiness. There’s just so many reasons and they’re all pretty fantastic! So, as we do with tangled lights, it’s easier to go one knot & twist at a time.

First Tangle: The trees & twinkle lights. I know some people are all about Santas or Snowmen but I’m an Evergreen girl. There’s something about the deep lush green, covered with the brightening of white snow lights or those bows covered in colored twinkles like glowing sprinkles. There’s a warmth to the contrast.

Next Knot: The food & togetherness. Christmas feasts can look like the spread from a Christmas Carol with the Ghost of Christmas Present, but to me its a conglomeration of comfort foods (A tray of Chick-Fil-A nuggets can beat a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth). A feast can be a solo event, but it implies a gathering, and that’s another element of Christmas that I utterly adore: togetherness. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. But there’s good food, cuddling, laughing and so so much remembering of old times, good times and what we are really thankful for. That whole reason for this season: Jesus’ birth. It’s one thing to get excited about something, but for this extrovert, getting excited with people enhances the thrill, and the togetherness element is no exception at Christmastime.

Another twist in the wrinkles of twinkles: the polar opposites. The Polar Express isn’t the only “Polar” part of Christmas. Neither are the dark green branches and the bright white lights… there’s also Rest & Busyness and elements of Depth & Shallowness. Rest is a favorite. We have this tradition in my house, when we get home from any errands or out-of-the-house activities everyone runs upstairs to put on comfy pants. Comfy pants are a great start to rest. And over the holidays there are days off, and sleeping in (sometimes) or an occasional nap. And it’s a good thing we can too, because Christmas is a busy time! Parties, and shopping and the hustle and bustle… but without those the rest would feel pointless and without the rest we’d have no energy for a Christmas Eve service, and last minute shopping dashes. We need the polar opposites! Same is true with the depth and shallowness. I’m ALL for the real meaning of Christmas. Advent Season is literally something I look forward to all year, as we remember what Jesus has done for us. All the layers of build up and intentionality that He exemplified as the Messiah. It’s the best, and nothing can beat it. But I also love the classic claymation movies, and giggling as we blow tinsel on the tree, driving around neighborhoods looking at the light decorations on people’s homes… none of that really ‘matters’ but I think it's another essential opposite. It really is good to hold depth and a little meaningless fun at the same time.

In the end, the Final Tangle in the Lights: The Traditions. This is the biggest one, kind of the heart of what makes Christmas my favorite. The combination of how old traditions can be and how customizable they are to each family is incredible. I truly delight in hearing the stories of what families do each year and why. Some families get Christmas Pjs, or volunteer at Soup Kitchens, or travel… the silly and important ways we chose to spend our Christmastime are all so different, but they are saturated in meaning.

I love Christmastime, as it reminds me of what matters. Whether you do Christmas with flare, or keep it simple, to quote Dr. Seuss: “And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

I hope as you untangle your lights, deck the halls, seek all comfort & joy, merry & bright, that your heart is drawn to the start, the simple, the beauty that was in that first Christmas. That “little bit more” is what it’s all about.

Merry Christmas!

_______________________________________

Julia is a dear friend from college who has amazingly become a better friend as time and distance between us has grown (thank you, Marco Polo!). Julia loves to use her writing to encourage and challenge others, always with an element of fun. And I say honestly that she probably loves Christmas more than anyone else I know.

Along with writing, Julia has a love for photography, and is also currently captaining a book launch for the book She Speaks Stories. To hear and see more from Julia, find her on Instagram and Facebook at @thehappychaos, at the podcast She Speaks Stories where she serves as a story curator, and check out the book launch she is captaining on Instagram at @KatieMHawkins.

Christmas Guest Post #1: Christina McDonald

"Not Dead, Nor Asleep"

My name is Christina McDonald, and I am a fellow sufferer. I share this not in an effort to gain sympathy or attention, but in hopes that maybe it will be an encouragement or a blessing to you in your own suffering. I also share this because God has been doing a mighty work in me and I want Him to receive all the glory for it. We all have suffered and will continue to do so throughout our lives. That’s part of living in a broken world. For me, the suffering I have endured for the majority of my life has been mental illness.

My mental health journey began right after my eleventh birthday. After experiencing a series of stressful situations all at once and not knowing how to handle them as a child, I began to develop very severe OCD. At the time, neither I nor my family knew what it was. I became a slave to strange “thoughts” in my head, thoughts that threatened harm would come to me or my family if I didn’t do whatever it said to do. At that same time, I also developed a detachment disorder called depersonalization/derealization disorder. Not many people have heard of it, but it’s basically where one feels completely removed from reality. You feel like you are looking at the world in front of you through a glass wall, being a spectator in life but certainly not a participant. It’s a disorder that makes you wonder if you are actually real. If anything is real. And it is terrifying…especially for a kid to experience. Between these two disorders, I dropped out of schooling, my mom wouldn’t trust me to be home alone, and if we left the house, she would hold my hand everywhere we went due to my OCD thoughts being so crippling and keeping me from moving my feet myself. We went to a psychiatrist once, but he surprisingly had no answers. We were overwhelmed with it all, so beyond that we didn’t seek any more help.

Everyone around me was very compliant and encouraging at first, but as my condition dragged on, they grew more annoyed and frustrated with me. They had all seemed to move on in life, but I was left in the thick of my struggle. I remember feeling so alone. Not knowing what was wrong with me. Thinking I was crazy. I eventually made the decision on my own to stop obeying these thoughts, and it began to very slowly, but surely, dissipate.

Since that time, the following years of my life have consisted of both seasons of freedom from these disorders as well as seasons where I have experienced such deep, mental oppression. In the difficult times I’ve just had to “white knuckle it” through my days and wait for it to go away on its own. This process could take anywhere from a day or two to a year or two.

In more recent years, however, these difficult seasons have been getting more frequent and longer lasting. It’s been extremely difficult to find a therapist who understands my condition, not to mention the process of getting on the right medicine is also very frustrating. I will be honest and say, though, that the years of 2020-2021 have perhaps been the darkest years of my life. Never have I felt so mentally oppressed. Never have I felt so alone. Never have I felt so abandoned by God. I have felt somewhat like Job - though our sufferings are not the same, I have been to the depression that he talks about. And I have pleaded with God to heal me, to take this away from me just like Paul did with his “thorn in the flesh”.

But God has chosen not to heal me.

I have accused Him of not caring. Of leaving me to fend for myself. Of being cruel. After all, if He really loved me, He would heal me, right?? But what I sometimes forget is that if I labeled God with what I feel like is true about Him purely based on my present circumstances, I would come up with a God who changes who He is based on how I’m feeling that day. I would come up with a false God, and that’s dangerous business. I am learning that I HAVE to cling to the truth - who is God, really? Who does He say that He is in His Word? THIS is what is true. NOT what I feel at times. So, by God’s grace I ask along with Job in Job 2:10, “Shall I only receive good from God, and not evil?”. Who am I to question God?

Can God heal or take away? Absolutely, for nothing is too hard for Him! But when He doesn’t, it is time to stop accusing Him of injustice just because He’s not doing what we expect Him to do. It’s time to worship and trust our sovereign Shepherd, who sees the big picture and has a plan for it all.

I am also learning that in times like these, it is so important to step outside my feelings and to look around. What I saw when I did this was so incredibly humbling for me. - I saw a husband who fought for me. Who never got tired of my struggles. Ever patient, ever gentle. There are days when I have been too low to pray. He would pray for me. And he is the one who finally found me the right therapist after I had long given up. A therapist that has finally given me the answers and help that I have needed. -I saw my dear friend Erica. My prayer warrior. -I saw my family coming to help me with my kids and the house when simple, daily tasks were difficult for me to accomplish. -I saw my sweet neighbors who have turned into irreplaceable friends. -I saw my church, who I know are there for me the second I ask.

These people. These people have been Christ to me. They have literally carried my burden FOR me. And it is through God’s people that I tangibly see - I AM loved and seen by Him! He has all this time been using His people to extend His love and care for me! To show me that He sees me.

My favorite Christmas song is an old hymn entitled, “I heard the bells on Christmas Day” written by Henry Longfellow. The last verse has often spoken to the deepest parts of my soul - “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep God is not dead, nor does he sleep The wrong will fail, the right prevail With peace on earth, good will to men.”

Amidst the chaos of our suffering, whatever it may be, we know what is true: God is not dead, nor does He sleep. And He will one day make all things right. He has not left us in our suffering, for He has seen and heard it all.

If God had healed me when I asked, I would have missed out on the sweetness that comes from knowing Him in suffering. The suffering that has changed my prayers from “heal me!” To “use me!”. The suffering that has transformed my heart from bitterness to overflowing thankfulness for what He has done for me.

O praise the God who hears us! Praise the God who is near! Our Emmanuel God who has come!

________________________________________________

Christina is a friend from church whose story I only knew in part until now. I am so thankful for her courage and honesty in sharing her own suffering and the hope that she has found in the unchanging character of God. To see more of Christina's heart as expressed through her artwork you can find her on instagram at @audra.and.adelaide and her Etsy shop www.etsy.com/shop/audraandadelaide/

Slice or Salve

The words of the reckless pierce like swords, but the tongue of the wise brings healing. ~Proverbs 12:18

I have spent a lot of time in the book of Job over the last few months, and one thing that became convictingly clear is that everyone in the book had much to say, and not one of them was interested in filtering his words before he spoke. Harsh words, accusations, judgments, and insults were swirling around with the speed and intensity of an EF5 tornado. Ironically, Job’s friends’ stated intent in coming to him in the first place was to comfort him in his suffering, but for 36 chapters thoughtless, reckless, critical and harsh words poured out of their mouths adding insult to the injuries of an already broken man.

Job could have really used some healing words from these friends. He would have welcomed a tongue or two of wisdom to act as a balm to his weary and wounded soul. True, the comforts that they originally promised could never have healed his sores and blisters, but it is clear throughout the book that his soul is just as sore and blistered as his skin. Instead of offering wisdom and healing to their friend in his misery, they whipped their words around and pierced his already tattered heart.

I tell my kids all the time, “your words matter”. You can’t just say whatever you want whenever you want however you want. You have to filter your words before they come out of your mouth. I tell this to myself, too, because I’m a naturally wordy person, and filtering before speaking is very unnatural to me. Reading through Job, I recognized and rightly judged the friends for choosing to use their words to pierce their brother, but I also felt uncomfortable conviction because I know I would have likely said many of the same things in that situation. I know that I have sent words swirling around with the speed and intensity of an EF5 as well, and had to sweep up the destruction my whirlwind of words left behind.

Words can’t be all bad, though, and filtering words cannot mean to give up speaking altogether. After the tornadic discourse between Job and his “comforters”, God Himself “spoke into the whirlwind. Jesus is the very Word who was with God and was God. God created by speaking, and throughout human history has spoken through prophets and through Scripture which is God’s Word. God Himself values words and uses words, but His are never reckless. He is intentional with every word that is uttered, and His words give life.

In the same way that the phrase “your words matter” serves as a caution to weigh words carefully, it also serves as an encouragement. “Your words matter” and, once filtered, ought to be spoken. Words have the power to lift up, spur on, temper, and even revive.

Words, wisely spoken, can bring healing. (Oh, what a kindness that would have been to Job!)

I have seen my unfiltered words pierce and destroy, but I have also seen my wise words aid in the healing of hurting people. I would never intentionally choose the first result, but so often I choose the first approach.

As you spend extra time in the car with your kids, around the table with your in-laws, discussing your Christmas budget with your spouse, and "relaxing" on social media, keep in mind that "your words matter," and they can either be a weapon recklessly wielded, or a soothing salve that heals and comforts.

Why add insult to an already injured world when our words could instead bring a balm of healing?

__________________________________________

The next few posts on this blog will not be from me, and I'm so excited! I am going to use my space to share some wise, balmy words from some dear sisters over the next few weeks. During this Christmas season I will share guest posts from a few ladies whose words are like honeycombs, “sweet to the soul and healing to the bones (Proverbs 16:24)”. Stay tuned to hear some unfamiliar voices share their thoughts and hearts about the Christmas season.

Mary, did you know (a few more things)?

My personal Christmas prep this year has consisted of hand-copying various scriptures, both from the Old and New Testament, that build toward the advent of the Messiah, the Christ, little baby Jesus.  This week I have been simply copying Luke 2, which is fantastic because it is such a familiar passage for me, but slowing down for "i's" and "t's" and punctuation and hand cramps has absolutely helped me to pick up on some details or key points that I forget to notice during a Charlie Brown Christmas.

Among these details is the one that struck me this morning in Luke 2:35.  It came during Joseph and Mary's visit to the temple where they encountered Simeon.  After praising God for what their little baby was about to accomplish, Simeon turned to Mary, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "and a sword will pierce your own soul too."

Gah.

Any mother would hate to hear those words about her eight day old baby, but to hear those words come from the mouth of a prophet and know, deep in your soul, that they were absolutely true...ugh.

I was reflecting on this and thinking about the song "Mary, Did You Know?" which I know, I know, is the source of great controversy.  "Of course she knew! God told her! It says it right there!" But at the same time, I think we can all agree that there's a big difference between knowing something is going to happen, and witnessing it with your own eyes when it finally does.

Either way, I was thinking about a few more things I wonder if Mary realized would happen, or the weight of, or the cost of. Do you think she planned to be a disciple of her son - like a "travel from place to place, tending his needs" disciple? As a mom, I wonder if she was prepared for the pain of watching people reject and threaten the life of her son. And also as a mom, was she ready for the heartbreak of watching her other children reject their savior, scoffing him instead of submitting to him? What Christ-following mother wouldn't grieve over that?

And ultimately, to know every moment of her life as his mother was leading to that prophecy of when her own soul would be cloven in two because of him.

So whether you're on Team Eye-Roll or Team Tears-Streaming-Down-Your-Face with this song, I think it is worth taking a few minutes to consider what Mary knew - not whether or not she saw it coming, but whether she was prepared to experience it all. 

And in so doing, we cannot let our eyes rest on Mary, because she was not our Savior, but her life and her commitment in these 33-years-worth of moments can direct us toward the one she gave all of herself to - Jesus Christ, our (and her) Lord.

Mary, Did You Know (a Few More Things)

Mary did you know

            For you, your full-grown son would turn water into wine?

Did you even know

            if he would live long enough to become a man?

Did you know that you’d follow him

            Until you wept and your feet bled?

That the life of his disciple

            Meant nowhere to lay your head?

 

Mary did you know

            That your other sons would hate him and reject him?

Mary did you know

            That for your own sin he’d stand silent though condemned?

Did you know that you’d stand and watch

            The ground hold a crimson pool?

And as he cried out to his Father

            That a sword would pierce your soul?

 

Mary, did you know?

His Name is John

It had been 9 months since he had uttered a word.  For 9 months he pondered the moment he was confronted by a messenger of God. Nine months had he considered the angel's words and promises without being able to describe to anyone the glory of that moment.  For 9 months he had been kicking himself for his faithless response.

I wonder how he felt when Mary came to visit their home and recounted her story to him and Elizabeth. "Why didn't I just say that?" I imagine he shook his head as he marveled at the humble, wise, faithful response of his little cousin. "Why did I have to challenge it? 'May it be to me as you have said.'" (shaking his head in mournful silence) "'May it be to me...'"

But he learned to communicate without his voice.  He was able to share with his elderly wife what the angel had revealed to him. Together they anticipated the fulfillment of those words, and together they watched as her belly grew. They knew that everything that had been told to him in that fateful moment in the temple was coming to pass. And together they chose to believe what God was doing.

The moment came. The boy was born. And the pain of childbirth was washed away by the joy of parenthood and the thrill of God's plan in action.

But still, Zechariah was silent.

I wonder if he thought that would be the moment. "Until the day this happens," the angel had said. 

Eight days passed. Sleepless nights, overwhelming joys, fearful moments. Eight days since the word of God that had been handed to Zechariah was fulfilled.

And still, he was silent.

They all gathered around for the ceremony - friends and neighbors rejoicing with the aged couple. "How can this be?" "God has shown favor!" "This child is a gift from the Lord." They asked for a name, but didn't trust or respect the woman's response. Turning to Zechariah, they hoped he could find a way to tell them she was wrong.

With eager hands, and resolute assurance, he wrote his answer: His name is John.

Not "We're thinking John." Not "He will be John." Not even, "Look, I know it doesn't make sense, but God's up to something, and we were told to call him John."

His name is John.

This is who he is. It is already done.  The plan is already in action.

And as soon as he gave this response, this unabashedly faithful response, his tongue was freed. 

Then, with a mouth that had been imprisoned to his faithlessness for 9 months, he praised the name of His God.

He could have first said, "I can speak!" He could have gathered up the son of his old age and exclaimed "my boy!" But his first words were words of faithful, humble, adoring praise of the God who was sending salvation to the world and including him and his simple family in his plan.

And all of these things made people wonder, and awe, and ask what God was doing.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh sweet Zechariah. I've always had a soft spot for him.  It never felt completely fair that he was struck dumb because of a simple question - a perfectly reasonable question, if you ask me. 

But without his long stretch of silence - without that introductory moment of naive faithlessness - the steel-eyed, faithfilled, convicted moment of "his name is John" would have been utterly lost on me.

Zechariah understood what God was about.  He knew he had been given a role to play. He was done questioning and wondering and excusing. With those simple words, "His name is John," Zechariah was all in.

Though it took a 9-month minute, Zechariah did what anyone ought to do when they realize that God is ahead of them and always working, and that He has chosen to include them in His plan: he obeyed. 

And he spoke! And he praised. And people took notice, because people notice things like faith and conviction. "What is God doing here?" they wondered. 

What do I learn from Zechariah's "his name is John" moment? When God has a plan and gives you a part in it, play your part.  Don't ask why, don't ask how, don't say "this can't be" or "what about". Be a person of faith like Zechariah. Let your steel-eyed conviction leave an impact on those around you.  

Let your faith cause people to wonder, and awe, and ask what God is doing.

Snowflake

Today is my friend's due date with a child she will never hold - a child she never even saw - but a child she loved desperately. But even the children that we never get to know are intimately known by the One who formed their inmost being.

Every person conceived is completely unique, distinct from everyone else who has ever lived in the history of the world, and those who are yet to come.  And yet, our Creator God never runs dry on designs, and could tell you the exact details of each and every beloved creature.  

Countless families have felt the grief my friends feel today - my family included.  The boys and I had a good talk last night about our baby Micah that we never got to know.  We talked about how sad my friend must feel today that she doesn't get to hold the baby that she loved so much. "But mom," he exclaimed, "the good news is she's going to see that baby in heaven!" Oh, my son, that is the hope that we have. That is the hope that is unique to Christians. We have the hope of a resurrection! 

But while we wait for that day when we get to meet our Micah, we recognize that his or her completely unique little life was lost - lost, but known.  Known by the One who made the child. Known by the One who loved the child more than I ever could have.  Known by the One who designs each human life with intent and purpose and love and His own glory embedded in the design.  

Like a snowflake, each one is completely unique, distinct, stunningly beautiful, and fragile. God has never duplicated a design, and He does not simply replace one with a better one. Each is significant, each is known, and each is loved by the hands that made it.

As we look at the snow-covered hillside of lives lost before their first breath - each unique and each glorious - we awe at the beauty of His magnificent, intricate design, and wonder at His mysterious ways.

 

Snowflake    

    A blanket of snow

Widespread and untouched

Lays across the landscape

Each crystal different

Each one unique

Each beautiful and delicate

 

Each one known.

 

Every one connected to a heart

That longs

to hold it

to smell it

to feel it on fingertips

 

Each snowflake has a name

Fearfully and wonderfully

Designed, formed, shaped

Unhidden

Even in the secret place

 

You never repeat

And You never replace

Each one is a matchless marvel

 

Each one loved.

 

Your works are wonderful

And beyond tracing out

And I look at the crystal sea

Of unheld masterpieces

 

And wonder which one was my own.

 

But you know

You see

You love that exact one

 

I admire

Your wonderful works

And confess

From, through, and to You

Are even the snowflakes

 

Even my own precious one.