Want To Be On ESPN?

Dear Son,

I’ve heard people say that life is a game and sometimes it seems like they’re right.  Sometimes it seems like they’re winning and you’re losing and nothing can turn the momentum for anything.  You practice and work and train and you just can’t seem to change the outcome.  The score still says you’re beat.

I don’t think life is a game.  Seems to me that word puts too trivial a meaning on a journey that could never be summed up in a highlight reel.

Still, you’re a ten-year-old boy.  You’ve had some sort of ball in your hand just about every day for a decade now.  You’ve watched endless hours of sports on television with your dad.  You’ve played baseball, lacrosse, and basketball on local park teams.  You’ve played soccer, tennis, football, and golf in the backyard.  You know what it’s like to win a game, and to lose one.  And so, I’m hoping this will mean something to you, my son, because that’s what I’m trying to do, after all.  I’m trying to make sure something . . . the right thing . . . means something to you.

Indulge me for just a moment, and let’s imagine that life is a game, and you’re playing it.  How will you make sure the outcome of the game is the one you want it to be?

Let’s start with the uniform.  Is it important?  Ask any boy who remembers the first time he put on a little league shirt with the name of his team sprawled boldly across the front – the pants with the coordinating pin stripe down the side, the matching socks, belt and hat.  Ask him what it feels like to stand in front of a mirror and know you belong. 

Yes.  The uniform is important.  It lets the crowd know what team you’ve pledged your membership to – for whom you have chosen to play.  It announces to anyone watching that you have aligned your goals with the will of a greater group.  Put on a uniform and you become united with others – your hearts and minds joined for a common purpose. 

What about the coach?  Does the coach have much of an impact on the outcome of a game when he’s not an active participant in the game?  He is responsible for choosing the players on his team, after all, or at least accepting those who willingly join it.  He evaluates their strengths and weaknesses, placing them as often as possible in positions that capitalize on their greatest gifts.  He teaches new skills and improves old ones, ridding players of bad habits detrimental to the collective cause.  He encourages patience, hard work, determination, good sportsmanship, loyalty.  He develops strategies, plans, and plays he believes will ensure victory, despite the fact that winning is never a guarantee.  

Yes.  The coach matters.  The coach is the leader of his team, and a leader always has influence.

How about the playbook - where does it fit in?  It certainly holds important information.  Much thought goes into its creation, and it is highly regarded as a tool for success.  The playbook is the culmination of hours, days, and weeks of principle, practice, preparation, and the plotting of ideas.  It is a design, a tactical map intended to lead a team to ultimate triumph.  Lose your playbook and you’ve lost a critical component for making decisions. 

Yes.  The playbook is a key piece of the puzzle.  It is a guide that encourages the best paths to take.

So maybe life is a lot like a game.  We are often on the quest for a goal, aren’t we?  We are always angling for position, striving for status, trying to reach the finish line.  We are always shooting for something. 

Son, one day you will have the opportunity to play this game of life on your own, without parents standing guard to steer your every decision.  You can play it any way you want – it is your game, YOUR life – and I can assure you there will be choices too numerous to name.  There are uniforms of every color and style.  There are thousands of teams with thousands of goals.  There are coaches galore and playbooks with proposals of all kinds.   You can pick any of them at any time, and every choice you make will have its own set of consequences.

My prayer, sweet Charlie, is that when it comes time for you to pick your uniform, you choose the only one that offers complete protection, because you will need it.  There is simply no way around the fact that you will be sacked in this game of life.  You will be pushed back and pushed down and pushed around.  You will fall and fail and flail, and You. Will. Be. Defeated.  Life is never a steady stream of successes.  Life is a journey filled with smiles and strikeouts, homeruns and hopelessness, goals and grief, touchdowns and tragedy.  Yes, there will be accomplishments.  Sometimes, you will win.  But there will also be setbacks and suffering and soul-splitting experiences that will make you feel as though you haven’t just lost the game . . . you’ve lost everything.

There is only one uniform that will protect you from the realities of life and its games, and that is the full armor of God.  Oh what a beautiful uniform it is – the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit.  You would look magnificent in that uniform, my son.  And when you wear it, IF you choose to wear it, everyone will know whose team you’re on.  Everyone will know you have chosen Jesus as your coach and the Bible as your playbook and the joy of victory FOREVER. 

You see, you will never lose the game when you choose the right uniform and the right team and the right coach and the right playbook.  You will always win . . . because God always wins.  

If you choose to spend your life playing for God, my son, your life will always be worthy of a highlight reel.  And your prize . . . your prize will be so much better than a medal or a trophy or a title. 

Your prize will be eternity. 

You're Invited!

How many times have I heard my children call for me in the last ten years? 

“Moooommmmmm . . .”

“Mom?”

“MOM!”

Too many times to count, that’s how many.

Sometimes, they don’t really need me.  They call my name just to check, to make sure I’m close enough, within earshot, ready to lend a hand if necessary.   

Sometimes, they call for help.  Fix something, Mom.  Make something, tie something, clean something, find something.  They require assistance, and they require it from me. 

Sometimes, they call because they want me to watch them do something, or show me something already done.  They need me to see, to notice, to break from my life and focus on theirs.

The truth?  I can tune out my children quite easily when they call my name and I know their request can probably wait.  Almost eleven years into this incredible journey of parenthood, perhaps it was inevitable that I would develop the ability to ignore my own offspring in my often preoccupied state.  I get busy doing whatever it is I think I should be doing, and I put off responding to the one name I have heard more than any others in the last decade, certain the ones calling it will move on without me so I can continue in my busyness.

But sometimes . . . sometimes one of my children will call my name with a tone in their voice that begs nothing but immediate attention.  You’ve heard that tone before, haven’t you?  It has an intensity . . . an urgency to it that you simply cannot ignore.  You hear it and instantly understand there is no time for delay - you must rush to answer the call.  Nothing else matters when you hear your child calling you like that.  The world around you fades to black and you drop everything, intent only to reach the one calling, your sole purpose to be with him as quickly as possible.

Jesus is calling your name like that, my friends.

He’s calling mine too, and sometimes . . . most times . . . I choose to disregard his call.  I go on with my life as if whatever I’m doing is more important than the most important thing in my life.  And the craziest thing about my decision to ignore the One who loves me most is the fact that Jesus doesn’t need me.  There is no emergency he can’t solve on his own.  He isn’t asking for my comfort or my help or for validation.  He just wants me to sit at his feet . . . and stay awhile.     

Run. To. Me.

That’s his only request.  So simple and sweet and sacred.

An invitation from my Savior.  And the only response it requires is that I show up.

Lord, let me heed your call.  Let me show up when you whisper my name.

IT'S ALIVE!!!

And by it, I mean me! 

I’m home, appendix free and with my brand new semi colon.  There is still a lot of pain and swelling, but I have never been more grateful to be home in my entire thirty-eight years of life.

Home is nothing short of pure bliss right now, and I promise to never complain about my kitchen again. 

Okay.  I promise to never complain about my kitchen again at least until the end of the month.

Here’s what I need to tell you about hospitals; (I used a semi colon there just for irony – thanks A!)

There are many wonderful people inside hospitals.  

Hospitals are one of the most horrible places on earth.

I spent three and a half days in a highly reputable Atlanta area hospital, 24 hours of which I was so strung out on anesthesia and pain meds I slept and vomited my way through them.  And I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

We have excellent healthcare available in America, and I am fully aware of the lack of healthcare many people face in developing countries.  My surgery and consequent hospital stay were in a facility I’m incredibly blessed to have such easy access to, and there were hundreds of others there receiving quality care at the same time I was.  The doctors and nurses were trained professionals, educated in some of the most widely respected medical schools in the world.  I had my own recovery room, complete with a bed, full bathroom, and a television, and I had access to any medicines or health products I could have needed at the push of a button.  Someone came in each day to clean my room, and offered to use only soap and water because of my nausea.  Someone came in each day to deliver my liquid only meals, and didn’t say a thing when he had to remove them an hour later untouched.  Someone delivered me one foot away from the car door in a wheelchair upon my discharge. 

I. Am. So. Grateful.

And yet, I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK.

I know there are children who will not get a meal today, liquid or otherwise.  I know there are babies who won’t get the medicines they need.  I know they are people who haven’t showered in three days and feel as disgusting as I did but won’t get to shower for how knows how long because they don’t have a shower or a house or food or a bed or a television or a hospital.  Please know I KNOW these things and I am so grateful. 

But y’all, hospitals are truly horrible places, and after three and a half days in one, I think America can do better.

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing.

How can healing come when medicines are being pumped into a body that can’t take them?  When the patient, in fact, has to be the one to suggest perhaps all the heavy-duty pain meds on a continuous drip into a body that hasn’t consumed food in days might be what is causing all the nausea?  When the patient, who thankfully was coherent enough to speak and think for herself (not always the case in hospitals) has to ask if we can just try something by mouth instead?  (Advil is working just fine, my friends, and the nausea was gone almost as soon as that pain pump was removed – I really should have gone to med school, don’t you think?)

How can healing come when one person enters a room where a patient is trying to rest every couple of hours to listen to her heart and bowel sounds (it sounds like a hot tub down there in case your curious - the neighbors can hear my bowel sounds right now without a stethoscope), and then another person comes in every couple of hours, BUT NEVER AT THE SAME TIME, to take the patient’s pulse, blood pressure, and temperature?  Thinking maybe that could be the same person, since the entire process would then take a total of three minutes instead of two minutes but everything would be done at once, instead of every stinking hour throughout the entire stinking night? 

Just a thought.

Along those same lines, they could use a few more classes on time management and multitasking in nursing school, in my opinion.  Please be aware that this very humble opinion comes from someone totally and completely inadequate as a caregiver who could never be a nurse in her life and thank you to that wonderful man who held the barf bag for me and cheered for me every time I vomited into it like I had just finished a marathon.  Still, I’m pretty sure there is someone out there who could train nurses to be able to get both a bandaid and a cup of ice at the same time, preferably within less than seventy minutes.  (Just so you understand I'm not trying to be ungrateful - this was not a one time incident - this happened with every nurse, every time, with everything I needed.)

How can healing come when the food given to someone who just had almost a foot of her colon removed is full of artificial colors, flavors, preservatives and even sweeteners?  Seriously?  Italian Ice and orange Jello for someone who wants to get healthy and never have to go back to the hospital – are you kidding me?

I'm home, and although I know it is wrong, I am finding great joy in my circumstances today.  I’ve showered.  I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair and even had a cup of coffee with my creamer that has nothing whatsoever artificial in it.  I’ve taken a few more Advil and I’m resting comfortably in a chair in my home, and I am so very grateful.  There are people in downtown Atlanta who didn’t get to leave that hospital yesterday.  There are people all across the world who don’t have a hospital and need one.

I will remember the man who held the bag and cheered for me as I threw up into it.  I will remember the woman who offered to clean my room with only soap and water.  I will remember the nurse who told me I looked so much better when I could only have looked so much worse.  I will remember the boy who delivered my food and encouraged me to eat my grits. I will remember how lucky I am to have access to doctors with the amazing abilities to provide a higher quality of life for me.  And when I look at the six incisions across my stomach, I will forever remember what a true blessing it is to have wonderful friends who cared enough to pray for me, and a family to come home to when the worst was over.

Thank you, God, for hospitals.  Thank you for all the nurses and doctors who work in them.  Thank you for those unseen in the hospitals – the ones who prepare food and deliver equipment and test blood and stock rooms.  Thank you for medicine.  Thank you for life.  Thank you for friends, for family, and today, maybe more than any day I’ve ever known, thank you, God,

 for home.

Bring On the Semi-Colon!

Surgery is a very interesting thing.  The anxiety dreams I’ve been having are nothing short of hilarious. The brain is miraculous, the way it weaves your fears into a film that plays on repeat while you sleep.  I’ve been late for the surgery, failed to do the prep work for the surgery, and forgotten the surgery altogether, all in the middle of the night over the course of the last week.  And in the grand finale of all surgery anxiety dreams . . . last night there were no operating rooms available, so my doctor threw me over his shoulder, my gown blowing wide open to reveal everything I never want revealed, and carried me on a trip around the OUTSIDE of the hospital to find another location to do his job.  Pretty sure that one’s never happened before, which I suppose just goes to show my brain might be slightly . . . ‘abnormal’ is the first word that comes to mind, but in the name of that whole self-love thing, let’s go with ‘creative.’

Surgery is a lot like pregnancy, I’ve learned.  It ignites an intense desire to nest.  I forced my family to cut short our Christmas trip to the lake so I could come home and get things in order before my three to four day stint in the hospital.  Not sure exactly what I’m afraid of – do I think my home and family will crumble without me?  Is my husband not capable of putting away the Christmas decorations and returning the too-large Christmas clothes and helping the kids write thank-you notes and cleaning the toilets and doing the laundry and vacuuming the basement and painting the powder room because the color is slightly too dark and has been bothering me for months and HOW MANY THINGS CAN I GET DONE BEFORE THIS SURGERY??? 

My husband is very capable.  Well, at least up until the part about painting the powder room.

Of course, my real fear has nothing to do with forgetting to arrive at the hospital on time or failing to clean out the fridge before my 4-6 week recovery period begins.  My real fear is that I might die on that operating table today because bad things happen. 

I know, I know. I could die any day of the week in a car accident or crossing the street or choking on a piece of chicken.  But today, the possibility of death seems just too close. There will be anesthesia and several hours of surgery to remove part of my colon and my appendix and several days in the hospital where people have pneumonia and the staff bacteria thrives and you just never know. 

Bad things happen.

It always sucks the air out of a mother’s lungs when she imagines the thought of leaving her children, but when your children are 8 and 10, like mine, you can’t help but let your mind wonder to the fact that they will likely remember very little of me if I do die in that hospital today.  And that stops my breath altogether.

I keep thinking of the millions of things I still want to do with them.  The millions of memories we still have to make.  The millions of things I still need to tell them.  And just in case I’m out of time, I’m going to tell them one thing, right here, right now.

Be love, my darlings.

BE LOVE.

Be love to your family and friends.  Be love to teachers and classmates.  Be love to people who serve you meals and people who ring up your purchases and people who cut your hair.  Be love to your future college roommates and your future spouses and your future children.  Be love to those you disagree with and those who make choices you don’t understand.  Be love to strangers in your city and the sick all over the country and the hurting from one end of the earth to the other. 

Be love.  The world is seeking it and you can be people who share it.  Sometimes, it will be hard.  Sometimes, you will have to search deep in your heart to find love for someone, because sometimes, people seem unlovable.  But God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son to die for them (John 3:16) and He is love and He showed us how to love and we have His love and we can BE HIS LOVE to everyone we encounter.

I’m sure I’ll be coming home at the end of the week.  I doubt the toilets will be clean, but I know my family and home will be happy and healthy, despite my absence.  I will be sore and tired and incredibly grateful the hard part is over.

But just in case . . .

Be love.

The After

We waited and it came and He came and it’s over and I’m . . .

Okay. 

Strange, how it always used to bring on sadness, the end of the Christmas season.  It used to feel so final, like it was simply a beginning and an end and 335 long days until it all came again.  I once dreaded the day after, when the enthusiasm of it all was over and there was no more anticipation for what would be.  

Strange, how adulthood changes everything, with no exception for Christmas.  Christmas, in fact, shines a blaring light on the transformation that occurs with age and maturity, as we go from waiting on Santa to becoming Santa to explaining Santa.

He knew the truth this year.  Said something about the Easter bunny last spring and when he did, he used his ten year-old fingers to make air quotes in the sky.  We were shocked, but not devastated.  Amused, but not annoyed.  Truthfully, I found some relief in discussing reality with my son.  It felt important, this exchange between parent and child, a way to cement our relationship in honesty.  It encouraged me to embrace the fact that time marches on, while allowing me to explain to Charlie that there is only one person I care about him believing in, and He doesn’t deliver baskets of eggs or fill stockings with presents.

Christmas was different this year, and not just because I'm pushing forty and there has been no denial of adulthood for quite some time.  There was less magic, less mystery for our family now that the oldest knows the truth and the youngest is more than a little suspicious.  Yet I am grateful for the changes, as the receding magic and mystery seemed to give way to something much better . . . more meaning.

I think that’s why Christmas is over and I’m okay.  Because Christmas as an adult and a mother has come to mean so much more than the weeks leading up to the twenty-fifth day of December . . . so much more than the excitement over celebrating the birth of a baby.  The birth of the baby no longer means the holiday season is over.  The birth of the baby no longer signifies the end of the most wonderful time of the year.  Christmas is over for another year and its okay because the birth of a baby is never an ending . . . it’s always a beginning.  And this baby . . . He didn’t come as the finale to a month of merriment.  He didn’t come as a conclusion.  This baby came to start and finish and live and be the most wonderful love story OF ALL TIME. 

This baby means everything. 

I will miss the world adorned in its holiday splendor, lights twinkling all over town to announce the arrival of the Light of the World.  I will miss cards arriving in the mailbox each day and searching for surprises and songs about a silent night. Still, it is okay, because although the Christmas season is over, I no longer miss what I was missing all that time.  I no longer miss Him. 

We waited and it came and He came. 

For all.  For always.   

Happy Birthday Jesus

Oh come, let us adore Him.

 

May the laughter echo off your walls today, my friends, and may the peace of Jesus, born this day to change lives from one end of the earth to the other, reign in your hearts and minds as we celebrate the day God came to live with us.

 

Merry Christmas!!!

4 Days Until Christmas!!!

There’s a whole lot of waiting in December.

Waiting to buy presents at the mall, waiting in line to visit Santa, waiting to open gifts, waiting for the mail to come each afternoon, waiting for school to get out, waiting and waiting and even more waiting.

Waiting is hard.  Patience is a virtue, after all, and maybe even more so in December.  Our patience already worn thin by the pressures we heap on ourselves during this, the busiest season of the year, we look for joy in so many places.  Sometimes, we find it.  Joy is in all those places we seek to discover it. 

There is joy in searching for just the right gift for the people you love most.  There is joy in rolling out cookie dough and spreading icing on sugar angels.  There is joy in coming up with clever elf tricks after the kids go to bed and hiding that perfect present in a spot no one will think to look and drinking eggnog with family members you wish you saw more than once every twelve months.

But that virtuous patience . . . sometimes it stretches so thin it simply can’t hold, and the waiting suddenly begins to feel void of anything worthy of honor.  Still, the waiting . . . it does mean something.

In December, we wait because we have hope for what is to come.  We wait for the One we know is coming.  We wait for Him, and HE. IS. ALWAYS. WORTHY.  He is void of nothing, except for sin, and he came as a baby to grow into a man who would become our sin, and die for our sin, and forgive our sin.

We worship the day the baby came.  We worship with trees covered in lights and wreaths on every door and songs about a manger.  We wait all month and then we worship the baby who became a man and a Savior.  We gather and we celebrate and the joy . . . it’s so full. 

Christmas is just so full.

And yet, the waiting continues.

Because He came, and He lived, and He died, and even after December is over and the trees and wreaths have been put away, we will not forget.  The One who came as a baby in Bethlehem?  The One who lived as a human without sin?  The One who died on a hill in Calvary?

He is coming again. 

That’s why the waiting means something, my friends.  Waiting for Him shows all the world that WE BELIEVE.

We believe in the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes.  We believe in the man who taught us what love means.  We believe in the Savior who hung on a cross to set us free.

We believe in Jesus, and this Christmas, and all the Christmases to come . . .

We will wait for Him.

Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart: wait, I say, on the Lord. 

Psalm 27:14

One Mother to Another

I can’t seem to get Mary off my mind.

Can you even imagine?   

Do you think she knew the stories? 

Had she heard of a man named Adam and a woman named Eve, who died spiritually when they chose to disobey their Creator, leaving us all with a legacy of sin and the need for someone to take it all away?

Had Mary heard about Abraham and the trip he made up a mountainside to do the unthinkable?  Did she know how God provided a sacrificial lamb at the last moment to take Isaac’s place, so the boy did not have to die on that mountain at the hands of his father?

Do you think Mary knew the story of David, a shepherd boy whose incredible faith allowed him to slay a giant and become a king, the first in a line that led to THE King?

The angel came and told, and she trusted and carried and delivered a child who would be called the most beautiful names in history . . .

Prince of Peace

Son of Man

Lamb of God

Emmanuel

Messiah

Redeemer

Comforter

Healer

Teacher

Savior

Jesus.

Do you remember what it was like to be a mother for the first time?  The anxiety and worry and sleepless nights watching every breath to make sure he was happy and healthy and safe from harm.

What if you were up all night watching the One promised to save an entire world from itself?

What if you had to watch him take his first steps and climb his first hill and stumble and fall and cry for help?

Can you even imagine the weight of such responsibility? 

Not yet a bride, she was told she would bear the Son of God.  Not yet a woman, she gave birth to a King.  She had to hold him and mold him and no doubt scold him.  She had to watch him stumble and fall and cry while a crown of thorns sat atop his head, and a crowd of people who once called him their own chose to disown and disgrace and discard, and then she had to watch him die on a cross between two men whose only resemblance to Him was their flesh.

The angel called her favored, honored, chosen.

We call her Mary.

A lovely name.  A name always meant to go down in history, and it did, and it should.

But He called her Mom.

Can you even imagine?

The angel said to Mary, "Do not be afraid; you have found favor with God.  You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus.  He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High.  The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end."

Luke 1:30-33

 

Fifteen Years And Counting

There are lines around his eyes that weren’t there fifteen years ago today.  We were just a couple of kids then, barely into our twenties, crazy about each other and filled with only hope for what life might bring.  We couldn’t wait to start the journey of marriage - to see what all those tomorrows together might become.  We stood on that altar in front of God and all those people, and made promises that are hard to keep.  Now, when I look into those eyes of his, the lines of all our years remind me how far we’ve come, and I’m glad we’ve kept those promises.

His hands are different, too.  Their look of youth is fading fast and they remind me we don’t have forever.  But those hands . . . they held tight to mine through every pain, and they held babies as they breathed their first.  Those hands have changed diapers and prepared meals and cradled faces and stroked skin.  They’ve been covered in filth with the responsibilities of our lives for days and weeks and months that have stretched into all this time.  Those hands of his are etched with the sacrifices of a man who has given himself to his family, and I am grateful.

Even his smile has changed.  Still sincere . . . contagious really . . . but not as simple as it once was.  He knows more now.  He knows the demands and duties and difficulties that come with being a husband and father.  He knows worry and disappointment and sorrow, and how each can grow deep into a long night.  He knows pure joy, too.  He knows what it means to have your baby boy rest his head on your chest, and what it’s like to witness your daughter’s first steps.  That smile of his . . . it holds so much understanding after fifteen years of marriage.  It reaches me from across a room and all our memories pass unspoken between us, and there is a sustaining security I could never put into words, but which I feel all the way down to my soul.

I thought I knew him well on the day we said, "I do."  Looking back now, I can see that I barely knew myself.  Thankfully, we've grown closer as we've grown up, navigating our union while building a life.  I'm not the same girl who walked down the aisle towards him fifteen years ago.  I wonder, some days, how he can even recognize me as his bride, and yet . . . he always does.

He's not the same man I married either.  He’s so much more.  He's a man weathered and changed and matured by shared happiness, forgiven hurts, kept commitments. 

Today, I’ve spent a decade and a half as his wife.  I’ve spent even longer by his side.  

And I would still choose him.

If two lie down together, they will keep warm. 
But how can one keep warm alone? 
Ecclesiastes 4:11

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.