Emmanuel

It’s December 13^th.   Twelve days until Christmas. 

Plenty of time.

Plenty of time to get the shopping done.  Plenty of time to wrap the gifts.  Plenty of time to trim the tree and mail the cards and bake the cookies. 

Don’t panic, my friends.  There is plenty of time.

I know how it goes.  We hustle and bustle all month long.  We rush around in a flurry, here, there, and everywhere.  Our minds race with all that must be done.  The commitments pile up and the lists grow longer and we wake up in a cold sweat fretting about whether we’re on track to accomplish all that we need to accomplish to pull this thing off. 

Did we remember to move the elf?  Did we remember to read the Jesse tree devotional?  Did we remember to put a treat in the advent calendar?  Did we actually order that gift for our mother-in-law, or did we just dream that we did?

It’s okay.  Christmas is busy.  We try to get things done early, but it’s tough to put much of a dent in the responsibilities that go along with making this much magic in a single month.  There are expectations this time of year – BIG ones – and most of them fall on us moms.

In addition to the myriad of roles we play every other day of the year - you know the ones – nurse, cook, housekeeper, chauffer, psychologist, rule enforcer, wife (that usually does seem to come in last, doesn’t it?), in December, we add a slew of duties to this mama position that can make our heads spin.

We do the planning and the decorating and the shopping and the baking and the surprising.  We create the cards and order the cards and stuff the cards and address the cards and stamp the cards and mail the cards.  We rack our brains to come up with the perfect gifts for everyone in the family and fuss about how much money we’ve spent to make everyone we love feel equally special.  We plan school celebrations and ornament exchanges and tacky sweater parties.  We cut and tape and tie and hide packages in places we might never find them again, and y’all, at six o’clock this morning I was using the tip of my pinky finger to spread Nutella on the tiny mouth of our elf, because, ya know, that sneaky little fella got into the candy jar last night while we are all sleeping lying awake trying to think of new elf tricks.

It’s okay.

Christmas is hard and I’m tired too.  My body shifted into overdrive the second we put away the pumpkin pie and my brain is turning to eggnog as I try to fulfill all the requests and requirements that go along with the biggest holiday of the year. 

But it’s okay.  I won’t get it all done and I won’t get it all right.  I will forget to send someone a card.  I will burn a batch of gingerbread cookies.  I will get him the wrong color and her the wrong size and I will worry about presents when the whole thing . . . the whole month . . . our whole life . . . is all about His presence.

I will screw up this Christmas because I am a mess, and isn’t it funny how He came?  Not in a royal palace, surrounded by the splendid majesty he deserved.  No.  He came in a barn.  He came in the middle of the dirt and the muck and the animals and the mess.

He came to be human, and the barn was the perfect place for him to enter the world, because it wasn’t perfect.  A king born in a messy barn was exactly the right setting, because he wants to settle himself in our mess.  He wants to settle in our messy hearts and stay forever.

So don’t panic, my friends.  Enjoy this Advent season.  Enjoy the hustling and the bustling and the extra obligations.  Enjoy the rushing and the racing and the added commitments.  Amid your shopping and wrapping and celebrating, feel the comfort he provides.  Feel the peace he brings.  Feel the hope he offers.  Feel his light and love envelop your soul as he settles deep within, content to stay as long as you let him.


There is plenty of time to get ready for Christmas. 


There is plenty of time to get ready for His coming. 

Because He’s already here.

Ceeeeeeeeelebrate Good Times, Come On!

Have you ever read 1 Corinthians 12:21-26?  I never had, but I recently did.  My study of Romans took me there.  If you’ve never done a Bible study before, you should know this before you start one.  There is a boat load of page turning in a Bible study.  When you sign up to study Romans, don’t go thinking you’ll be all sacked out and staying put in Romans, Romans, Romans for the next nine months of your life.  You might have signed up to study Romans, but you will be instructed to read six-hundred verses on four –hundred different pages in three dozen other books of the Bible.  Your study of Romans will have you looking up things you didn’t even know could relate to Paul, and yet somehow, they will.  God is pretty cool like that.  He can make things that don’t make any sense, make perfect sense.


So I read 1 Corinthians 12:21-26 and I’m pretty . . . okay absolutely . . . certain God wrote it for me when he decided I was going to get myself a brand new semi-colon at the end of 2013.  Why he felt the need to speak truth to me through thoughts of internal body parts, let alone the ones that do what colons do, I might never fully understand, but he got my attention. 


These verses are about parts of the body, and the truth is, God is talking about the body of Christ, not my large intestine.  He is reminding us that everyone plays a role in sharing the love of Jesus.  We are all important and relevant and necessary to grow God’s kingdom. 


If I had read these verses a few months earlier, I would have stopped there.  I would have enjoyed and accepted their reminder to cherish all people, because everyone has indescribable value and infinite worth.  We all need each other because our Creator provided us all with different gifts, and by working together, we can glorify Him.  


The thing is, I didn’t read the verses a few months earlier.  I read them less than two months after major surgery, and they took on a completely different meaning.  If I truly believe God is in the details of my life, then I have to believe he planned that particular detail.


Verse 26 says, ‘If one part suffers, every part suffers with it.’


My friends, I now know that to be true. 


After surgery, my stomach hurt, my incisions throbbed, my back ached.  There was a lot of discomfort sitting down, even more when I managed to move. Everything was uncomfortable – standing, sleeping, showering, sneezing – holy cow was sneezing almost the death of me.  There was constant pain.  There was suffering.


Please know that I realize my suffering was small compared to what so many have been through or are going through.  My pain was temporary and minimal.  It was first world pain.  No children were starving, no little girls being sexually assaulted, no young men being gunned down.  I was suffering in a warm home, heated, furnished, and filled with every necessity (and a whole lot of other stuff).  I was suffering with my family safely by my side and any medicine I needed at my disposal, while friends delivered food and gifts.  In all honesty, ‘suffering’ is totally NOT the right word for what I was doing.    


Still, I learned an important lesson during my “sort of suffering.”  I learned that God was right when he said, ‘If one part suffers, the other parts suffer with it,’ because y’all, my colon might have been the source of my pain, but it was my head that needed the healing.


I wasn’t created to be sedentary.  I’m not cut out for giving up my independence.  I’m addicted to guilt, and relying on others to do so many of the things I usually do on my own threw my addiction into overdrive.  And so, while my incisions got better by the day, my mind became more muddled by the minute.


The world looked blue.  Everything seemed like work.  Life felt incredibly hard.


I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, though I feel certain I had a touch of it after Charlie was born.  It didn’t last long – his smiles somehow brought back my own – but I remember those incessant, dark nights in the weeks after his birth, awake and alone at all hours, the tears falling as I longed for a hope I couldn’t seem to find.


That hopelessness appeared again after my recent surgery, uninvited and unwelcome, and it changed me.  I will never again underestimate the strength of anyone who suffers from a chronic illness or is struggling though a lengthy recovery.  And I will never again doubt the power that is in the body of Christ, because in the end, it came back to that after all. 


Leave it to the author of life to write just the words to make me understand, and to lead me to those words in his ever perfect timing.


It took a diversion into my own circumstances to make 1 Corinthians 12:21-26 settle into my heart and stay there, but I’m glad for it.  My depression went away on its own, and I’m glad for that too.  But as I face new circumstances in my life that might send people I love into their own depths of pain, I know without a doubt, the body of Christ is alive and well and full of mercy. 


There are stories everywhere about people all over the world making a difference, and there are people right here in my own community who are willing to do the same.  There are so many amazing people making up the body of Christ.  People who have been given spiritual gifts and are obedient to use them to help others.  All our gifts are equally valuable.  They are gifts of grace used to ready God’s people for service.  They are not meant to compete, but to complement one another, so the body of Christ may be built up as a unified force - one capable of doing the greatest of things for the least of these.


It took a new semi-colon to help me fully understand this truth.  Hey, sometimes God has to knock you over the head to shove you into the light.  Or, in my case, he had to let me experience the super fun phenomenon of phantom poop.  (Call me for the exciting explanation if it doesn’t come up on Google!)


You see, when my body wasn't 100%, my head couldn't function at its best either.  The body works as a team - each part doing it's job to accomplish a goal - and so must the body of Christ.  Mind and body are always related, just as human beings must always be relational.


We are meant to suffer with one another.  We are meant to suffer for one another.  And as Verse 26 continues . . .


If one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.


Don't you love how God often saves the best for last? 


If one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.


Yep.


We are meant to celebrate together too.


I can't wait for that part!!!
 

Tis' The Season

Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come.  The month has arrived and the race is set to begin.  The contestants have taken their places on the starting line, and nervous energy bounces and crackles between them.  Anticipation hangs in the crisp December air and the stadium is packed with eager spectators.  The bell rings and they’re off like a shot!  The crowd erupts in cheers as they surge ahead, faces set in serious concentration, eyes focused solely on the rush towards the finish.  They push and shove and grab at the things in their path – lights, trees, wreaths, bows.  They agonize about stocking stuffers, toil over gingerbread houses, and search for the world’s cutest picture to put on the front of a card.  They rack their brains to come up with elf tricks, fretting and fussing to make every second count as they check off the items on their lengthy must-do lists.   Over and over they shop, purchase, wrap and label, as the minutes speed by until the twenty-fifth day.  

Y’all . . . I get it.  December is nuts.  We look forward to the holiday season all year long, and then we find ourselves panicked and frustrated because budgets are tight, parking spaces are allusive, and our children can’t seem to summon even an ounce of gratitude while scouring the dozens of toy catalogs that arrive in the mailbox each afternoon.  It’s the same thing every year - we become so focused on finding the perfect gift for everyone in our lives that we forget the greatest gift ever given is the reason we’re celebrating in the first place.

That stadium of spectators?  That crowd of people?  They ARE paying attention.  Christians, let’s never forget we always have an audience.  And right now, as we experience the advent season and prepare for the coming of our King, the whole world is watching.  

What will these people do to honor that glorious day God came to dwell among them?

Will they spend more time fighting over their place in line than fighting to provide peace?  Will they invest more in presents under the tree than in being present in the lives of their neighbors?  Will they sacrifice their patience instead of their plenty?

This is our chance, my friends.  This is an opportunity we simply can’t afford to miss.  We have a captive audience and we can show them what Christmas is all about.  We can put aside all our good intentions to provide the best gifts for our families, and instead, we can provide the best gift of all time . . . to the world.

I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes. Romans 1:16-17

Am I ashamed of the gospel?

A Christmas tree stands tall and proud in our family room, covered in lights, crosses of all shapes and sizes dangling from its branches.

But am I ashamed of the gospel?

There are nativities in our kitchen, foyer, dining room, and basement, their statues a reminder of that night in a Bethlehem manger.

But am I ashamed of the gospel?

We read aloud from our Jesse tree devotional each night, listening in awe to the Old Testament stories that paved the way for a Savior to come.

BUT AM I ASHAMED OF THE GOSPEL?

Have I told anyone about that Savior this week?  Have I shared the prophecies that for centuries whispered His name?  Have I mentioned that holy night when Mary held the Son of God in her very arms, tiny and precious and exactly what the Bible promised all along?

The gospel is good news for ALL to hear.  It is the gift of the season – HE is the gift of the season.  And gifts are always meant to be given away.

I pray we will not be ashamed of the gospel this Christmas season.  I pray we will announce the good news every chance we get, to every person who needs to hear it. 

The Old Man Is Snoring

I need sunshine.  I didn't actually know this about myself until I spent the majority of June through August staring wide-eyed at the gray sky that stalled over my home state, providing Atlanta with the summer that wasn't.  I tried not to let the rain get me down.  I tried to focus on all the wrinkles I would never have because the summer of 2013 was mainly spent indoors.  Still, the seemingly endless gray skies leaked into my soul, and I found my entire life began to look a bit cloudy.  Even the brightest blessings had a darkened hue, and life felt soaked with dullness as the water continued to fall. 

The thing is, when I’m feeling a little down about life, which apparently happens to me if the sun refuses to shine as often as it refused to shine this summer, I begin to wonder where my allegiance truly lies.  I claim that I love God.  I announce that I love him.  I even believe that I love him.  But do I really love Him, or do I simply love His gifts?

When the sky turns so blue it makes my heart leap inside my chest, I look up and say, “Thank you God for this perfect day.”  When Charlie runs off the baseball field with a wide grin on his face after striking out two batters in a row, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my healthy, happy son.”  When Libby snuggles up next to me in her bed and reads aloud, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my bright, capable daughter.”  When Adam folds me into his chest and makes me feel safe and secure and treasured, I look up and say, “Thank you God for my amazing, loyal husband.”

Every single day, I express my gratitude to God for the blessings he has bestowed upon me.  Thank you God for my home, for food, for friends and family and fun.  

But when do I just say . . .

Thank you, God. 

When do I watch the raindrops streak across the window for the third straight day and thank Him?

When do I feel the knot in my throat after being deeply hurt and thank Him?

When do I watch my children struggle and doubt and fail and thank Him?

The truth is . . . I don’t.

I love Him for the gifts, the blessings, the good things.  I love Him when life is going well, when I feel happy, when everything seems to be working out according to my plans.  And I’m supposed to love Him for all of it.  For the sorrow and the fear and the anxiety and the OCD and the pain and the loss and the misery. 

The rain requires thanks.  The sadness requires thanks.  The son who shrugs his shoulders because he’s past the point of believing his parents know best requires thanks.  The daughter who takes a tone you’ve never heard and never want to hear again requires thanks. The husband who doesn’t always want the same things his wife wants requires thanks. Because the gifts of God aren’t what makes God good. 

HE.  IS.  GOOD.

No matter what.  Despite everything.  All the time.

It’s hard to give thanks for circumstances we wouldn’t choose.  It’s hard to give thanks when exactly what we don’t want to happen, does.  Yet it’s in those moments that we truly live out our faith.  If we can be grateful for the tough times, the valleys, we show others what we truly believe.  We show that our trust and our hope are in God.  And if we can look up and say, “Thank you, God” when it’s the last thing in the world we want to do, we show Him what we really believe.  That He is in control.  That His timing is perfect.  That He is all we need.

It’s raining again today.

Thank you, God.  

Psalm 34 

I will always thank the Lord; I will never stop praising him.

I will praise him for what he has done; May all who are oppressed listen and be glad!

Proclaim with me the Lord’s greatness; Let us praise his name together!

Heeeeeeee’s coooommmmmmiiinnngggg!!!!!!!!!

I know he’s coming because my daughter helped me heave our jack-o-lanterns into the trashcan last week, soft and moldy from a month of sitting on our front porch greeting the neighbors with spooky smiles. I know because my favorite clothing stores have replaced the neutral shades of fall with sequins on every item. I know because there are people outside in thirty-eight degree temperatures stringing flashing lights along their bushes as the rain drips down their backs.

I know he’s coming because after eleven months of strolling to the mailbox without a hint of anticipation, I now rush towards it each afternoon awaiting glimpses of friends and family I haven’t seen in a while. I also know because when I open my mailbox to retrieve the festive greetings I’m so anxiously hoping to find, catalogs from every company ever established in the proximity of the world come tumbling out, their covers displaying all the latest in ornaments, stockings, and the $600 Lego set my son has requested this year.

I know he’s coming because although I don’t drink much coffee and I certainly can’t afford an eight-dollar cup of it, I suddenly find myself longing to sip on a gingerbread latte from Starbucks. I know because when I walk the ten steps from my bedroom to the kitchen each morning, I end up with at least a dozen pine needles stuck to the bottom of my fuzzy socks. I know he’s coming because my early morning quiet time is now being routinely interrupted by two children in matching plaid pajamas who rush around the house in search of a visitor from the North Pole they creatively named “Elfie.”

I know he’s coming because when I’m sitting alone in the carpool line at my kids’ school enjoying the calm before the storm, I realize I’m humming songs about a snowman who dances and, apparently, smokes? Plus, there’s a car behind me in said carpool line sporting antlers and a nose. I know he’s coming because despite the fact that I do not have a job, I have something that needs to be accomplished every day this week . . . and the next . . . and, oh please help me, the next.

I know he’s coming because I have begun to stash things inside bags, inside boxes, inside drawers my children never open. I know he’s coming because my house is awash in red and green, embroidered footwear hangs from my mantel, and I just spent close to a hundred bucks on “baking items.” Yes, parking lots are full, stores are swamped, and bank accounts are dwindling.

It’s official.

He’s coming. I know he’s coming.

The signs appeared early and the magic is everywhere, flowing through the air, bringing twinkles to eyes and tingles to hearts; making the whole world seem as if it’s glowing. On the twenty-fifth day of December, in all his Christmas glory, he will arrive, and children of all ages will scream and shout and jump for joy. And lives all over the world will be forever transformed.

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did you think I was talking about Santa? I mean . . . I totally love Santa. Actually . . . I am Santa. Most of the moms I know are. But I wasn’t talking about Santa. Don’t get me wrong. I know Santa Claus brings packages and toys and fun and, temporarily, happiness. He even has the power to make children scream and shout and jump for joy. But Santa isn’t in the business of changing lives forever. Santa can’t bring grace and mercy and peace and salvation and eternal life.

Only He can. And He’s coming.

He won’t come in a sleigh. He won’t come down a chimney. He won’t leave gifts.

He is the gift.

The greatest gift. The ultimate gift. The only gift we'll ever really need.

And He’s coming.