Human

Writing Christmas songs is hard.

There are truly two types.

One, the fa la la stuff. The glitter. The jingly ones. Tinsel, bows, lights. The party songs.

Two, the Christ in Christmas songs. The ones about the Gospel come to life. I find these to be the best, the most heart wrenchingly beautiful ones.

I'm always in love with the Christmas season because it does something to me. Experiencing Christmas every year again teaches me something new every time. It's amazing.

Last night, Caleb and I went to the Dave Barnes Christmas concert in Nashville. It was the best concert ever. For a thousand reasons. But I could have just sobbed hearing a man (in the concert-- way to be outside the box DB!) read his own story about Mary and Joseph.

A few thoughts struck me while I was listening to this aged, white bearded man read his story in his cushiony velvet seat. Mary had just given birth. And so many strangers gathered around her in her post partum distress.

I recalled how utterly fallen apart I felt after Selah was placed in my arms for the first time.

The in love obsession was not what I expected when I first saw her. I was completely asleep to anything and everything else going on around me. I was fixated upon this little baby, and only aware of Caleb next to me and then absolutely nothing else. It wasn't a moment I could even fully feel.

I cannot even imagine what it felt like for Mary to not only see her baby, but to see the King of Kings in the hormonally explosive recovery period after birth.

Ohhh God must have been holding her together in so many ways.

But then I considered how her faith had been so tried while she was in labor. No room anywhere. Sent to deliver in the midst of animals. So unfit. So devastating. How much she must have felt forgotten, slighted, unseen.

And then after the pain, the exhaustion, concentration and determination of only a woman in labor, calm.

People came.

She wasn't forgotten.

I wonder if she doubted that she was really even carrying Jesus. Her Savior.

If I were her, I think I'd have had some pretty ridiculous self talk going on.

"Maybe I'm not a virgin and pregnant. Maybe you can get pregnant from drinking milk gone bad... I know I've done that a few times..."

We talk such nonsense when we're trying to grasp something too far out of reach. Too holy. Too much to comprehend in such a human state. Somehow insanity feels more sane than the unearthly world we came from, from the Father.

As people crowded around the manger, the little baby, the Jesus the Angel assured Mary was the Messiah, I wonder how Mary felt. Did she feel the awe of worship that cripples human and flawed thoughts or doubts?

When my family and Caleb's family flooded into the delivery room when Selah was only minutes old, I felt ok. I felt better than I looked, though. I didn't know how beaten up I looked until Zach showed us the pictures he'd taken. I'd had a cold, and I already looked awful. Then add 27 hours of labor to it, and delivering a baby at 5:43 in the morning... I looked like I'd given all the life I had in my body to the little life then cuddled in her father's arms. I look back on those moments wondering how everyone must have thought of me. My sisters told me I looked awful, though beautiful as everyone HAS to say about a woman who'd just delivered a baby. I feel a bit self conscious when I remember how I actually looked.

But it didn't matter. My baby was here.

Did it matter to Mary? I'd imagine not... her baby was there. But not only that... her Messiah was there. Finally. He has finally come.

Did she doubt? I would have. To look at a baby, so human, I think I'd have questioned the Lord. Yes, she had just witnessed a miracle. She had to have known that the baby was truly conceived by the Holy Spirit. Of course she knew. Of course it felt indescribable to watch her pregnancy progress, knowing this was done by the Lord. But to see the baby look like that... like a real baby... like only a baby... I wonder if she felt despair.

In such a shambled mess of humanness, I need to remember this. Yes, there is brokenness in humanity. But it was saved. We live in the year of our Lord. In a time where humanness isn't the final answer.

The Lord, in His power, in His grace and love... humanity is only a way to show Himself great, now. It was accomplished. His plan. Such purpose in His ways. Such direction and intent.

Even sin can't separate us from Him, now. No humanness, no limitations we possess can deter His purpose.

What a heart breaking, breath giving love.

Advent

I love the Advent season. A season of warmth, though windows frost.

It's noteworthy the fact that Advent is so easy to celebrate and experience due to the fact that we know so fully the outcome of the awaited for. The Christ child, the Baby Jesus. We know what happened, and when it happened.

The Advent season though in the Bible lasted years. Decades. What was to come had not come, and no one quite understood how the Messiah would come.

The distress of the unknown caused so much ache, so much grief at the realization no control. Faith was all the Old Testament could have at best. In the New Testament, so many needed to see to believe.

In my own life, I can easily see ways I do not live my life in Advent. The seasons of waiting. The lineage of what is to come is happening now, and I don't pay attention.

The miracles, the blessings in Jesus' story long before He himself was given to us on a night in Bethlehem, they were happening.

Jesus was coming long before He came.

I want to be able to see Him everyday in the Advent of His plans for me. His "coming" through the things that happen today, on His way to my tomorrow.

I've been struck by this hope, this cool hand on a feverish head of mine. I love Advent. I love Christmas, this season of peace.

And it's mine today, not just as a reflection, but as a representation of my Savior existing in my today, as He walks me through my ever "coming" tomorrows.

Luke 2:8-15

8And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. 9An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. 11Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. 12This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

13Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

14“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

15When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

So often we take our responsibilities so wearily, like shepherds watching our flocks by night, in the fatigue and strain of darkness. We tire. Sometimes the glory of the Lord is the depths of our depression, our heart wrenches, and our disappointments. In His glory, His plans prevail, though they seem to be ours broken. We become terrified.

Yet the Lord reaches out to us, holding us, offering us the hope to enable us not to be afraid. There is Good News. A joy for us. Now, today.

In the city of Hermitage, Tennessee, a Savior is still born to me, today.  Christ, the Lord. My constant struggles and failings represent a sign to me that I'm still in need of Him, and He is still Mine as I am His.

We can say to each other, let's open our eyes to see what the Lord has told us about. In his word. He's promised to never leave us, to never forsake us. Forsaking all else, He prizes us above the rest of the universe. His priorities rest on us. His best interests are with us. He is Immanuel.

I want to be as those shepherds were, praising God, singing glory to God in the highest. They didn't know that they would be walking into yet another season of Advent, of waiting for what He would be next.

We'll always be in a season of Advent. The coming of His Kingdom. Our desires for the future might become wrapped in swaddling clothes, sometimes seeming so inappropriate. The King of Kings lay his head where animals ate. Our expectations and hopes get thrown so out of our hands in a way that feels painful, mocking. Yet His coming is not delayed. His plans are prevailing.

Advent is here, and always coming.

Anticipation is exciting. It's something I enjoy almost more than the real thing sometimes.

Today's my birthday. I realized on my way to a birthday lunch with my daughter and my husband that my birthday was already half way over. It made me sad. I spend all year waiting for my birthday, and it's already almost gone. The anticipation of it is half the fun.

The Advent season is filled with anticipation. Every moment is pregnant with excitement. As a pregnant woman aches to be relieved of the weight of the unborn, desiring to see the face of what is to come, we ache presently with our plans, or futures. Longing so deeply to be relieved of the weight of hope, the burden anticipation lays on us.

Yet with Christ, His yoke is easy, His burden is light. In Him we can see the face of rest, though we anticipate. Though we look forward, we can laugh with easiness at the days to come. We can experience Advent every moment with the restored hope that all is well.

This Advent, I'm refreshed by the truth that Advent is not just a memory of what happened in Bethlehem so many years ago, but that Advent is a future and a hope that God knows. He knows the plans He has for us.

Advent might become more dim as Christmas lights get put away, and left over Christmas cookies for breakfast become kale smoothies again.

But Advent is not over. We still look forward with the Hope we have in Christ, no matter what comes.

Thank heaven

We. Like sheep. Gone astray? Not always. So trusting, though. Some seem so much like us, then are not. Wolves. Dressed like us, but they're not like us.

A Shepherd. He would know us, speak to us, tenderly, calmly. He not only knows our names, but gave us our names. Preciously, purposefully named us. His voice, we know it. We know the velvet, the softness, the smoothness, the inviting fragrance that sound can create.

We. Like sheep?

We wander. So prone, so prone to wander. We know that Voice, but we enjoy others too. Too often.

Thank heaven. Thank Heaven for a Shepherd. A Shepherd who knew the importance of inviting earthly shepherds to come and worship Him on the night of His birth. The night He would lay among sheep, among us. A Shepherd who knew He had to stoop down to our height or lack thereof, to show us His heart. A Shepherd who knew that we are oh so limited in what we can comprehend.

We know His voice. But we can't always understand it.

This Shepherd knew He would have to communicate somehow, communicate differently to us, His sheep.

He in His splender, His glory, so bright. Too bright.

We couldn't look right at Him. We might only get to glance at His back as He passes by, sometimes in places we weren't even aware He was surely there.

A reflection might have to do. A dull, but true representation of the Son, like rays dancing on still water, dim, but there. Existent because it's real.

The moment our lips pressed against the fruit, the forbidden... good and evil, knowledge, nakedness. Hiding. Hidden.

The reflections might be harder to find now.  The skin of the fruit we bit off now films over our eyes, shading, sometimes disfiguring what we behold.

Should the reflections give up? We can't always see them. Maybe it's not worth it.

But, no. The Good Shepherd would be good. He would be bright, even when we couldn't see. He would know us, even when His light wasn't responsible for our blindness.

He had a plan. There would be arrows. Arrows shot straight for our hearts, and then pointing up. Everything, arrows everywhere. Pointing, leading, inviting, assuring.

The world broke when the skin on that fruit was pierced. The sweet flavor of fruitful flesh delighted for a moment. Then ate ours. Damaged.

But there was a plan. A reflection, sometimes so dim we'd miss it entirely.

We. Like sheep. So, so like sheep. He would walk with us along water, to see His reflection when we'd follow Him only to see His back sometimes.

He would orchestrate every facet of our lives, and as we'd walk through each day along the waters, we might see Him.

Thank heaven for a Savior. For a Shepherd.

The Lord is my shepherd

Moses spoke words I often speak. With my heart, with my eyes, searching, needing. I need someone to depend on. To lead me. Shepherd me. To go out before me, and in before me. Should I become that of a sheep without a shepherd? Should I be that of an aimless wanderer, lost?

The shepherds in my life have taken on many forms. The shepherds in my life have been people, things, thoughts, places.

They disappoint.

"Let the Lord, the God of the spirits of all flesh, appoint a man over the congregation who shall go out before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in, that the congregation of the Lord may not be as sheep that have no shepherd. " (Number 27:15-17)

It's a cry of old, a desire repeated, a tendency strained to look towards someone. To be led. To trust.

A building, walls. Sunday mornings, sometimes more. A church. A pastor.

Disappointment.

I could shrivel up. I have. I could continue, still, to dry.

That would mean the Gospel failed. But, it hasn't.

The herds of people, sinners like me, sheep, leaving the church or remaking it have one thing in common: their shepherd.

Our shepherd was never meant to be a creation, a human, a place. A creation created by the Creator, the Good Shepherd, the One who goes before us, hems us in behind and before.

In order to find healing, in order to forgive, forget, remember, stand again, we must acknowledge who our true Shepherd is.

Words

I used to read. Constantly. I'd yearn for the words that would tell the stories, the thoughts. I'd live the words I read.

I always took delight in the beautifully worded phrases.

I always noticed how Lynn Austin would use three adjectives in a row, and only separated them by commas. It made the description feel like a swelling of the truth. I felt like I was wrapped up in the moment she wrote about.

I get excited to read perfectly written words.

A good song, excellently sung, or accurately sounding like the unspeakable emotions they tell... my heart aches in receiving it.

Communication is the attempt.

Understanding is the success.

Sometimes, I understand.

When the written, the sung, the attempted words reach me, I feel the entirety of the reward. I understand. I relate.

I love good communication. I love when words can actually accomplish much.

For a long time, I have felt that I'd rather write my own words as opposed to reading someone else's. Reading someone's words made me crave joining them. Writing, too. It's probably based in a bit of pride in my own abilities. I love to write.

But I think, too, it's just a reflection in the drive God gave me. I love to write. I love to communicate. It's a force, not hidden, but deep within me. I must write. It feels disastrous. I must write. When I read  words birthed of another's pen, it makes me ache to conceive my own new words. To carry them, to deliver them. No matter how wet, no matter how unkept, no matter how helpless, needy, lacking, beautiful... I want these words.

God speaks to me through words.

Sometimes through my own.

It's a way God communicates with me. He created communication. Communication originated with a God who longed to live with us, in us, through us.

I can't dispose my unbelievable desire to write. Always. Constantly. Forever.

He made it happen. So He could meet me there. Here. Where I write.

I'm very happy to tell you that I've come to a point where I almost couldn't put a book down. I'm reading One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. I've had this book for almost a year. My friend Katie gave it to me right before I had Selah. I've wanted to read it, but I couldn't get my ever wandering mind to slow down. I couldn't get my hands to stop scratching my own words.

I might not have even wanted to read someone else's words.

But this book... these words... my laughable, dorky, author-like mind is on fire. Every line. Every description. I am in love. She is the best writer I've read. I'm infatuated with her style. As a writer, I feel enlivened. I catch her words. I notice her usage of a comma. I notice the deliberate use of a period instead of a comma the next time she says the same thing.

I love how language can do that.

For some reason, I've always held to how language is just always a lost cause when it comes to God. We can never use enough words, never use the right words to describe God. I have always felt a little disappointed in that. Of course, God is indescribable.

But can't we use the tools we have? Can't we, or those of us who love words, do a good job with what we have to use? Can't God speak to us in our attempts? Can't we be good stewards of our abilities, and meticulous overwhelming desires to try?

I feel excited.

A good author, a good writer can stir up the author, the writer in another.

Yes. I feel stirred. And I feel thrilled to read more. It's a delicious feeling.

Identity

Identity is so necessary. My identities I possess create who I am.

Identity also creates our to-do lists.

If I'm a teacher, I teach.

If I'm a mommy, I mother.

If I'm a singer, I sing.

If I'm a writer, I write.

I never realized before the significance of the relation that identity has to works.

As a task oriented person, and someone very structured and conscious of my identities, this is really important beyond words. Of course, feeling significant in the world is a necessary thing. I'm not putting that away. But I do recognize some very deep and powerful flaws here in my own life.

There is so much in the Bible about works. I wrongfully have rendered works always being linked to "good works" or things people assume can get them into heaven. The attempts at perfection.

I've never really considered works to simply be just the things we do.

I find so much security in my works. What I accomplish. What I do.

Salvation comes only from what the Lord did and does. The things He does.

I feel like there's steam coming out my ears trying to wrap my head about this heavenly concept... gosh, what I'd give for just a little bit more brain capacity to understand things we just can't about the Lord...

Bottom line: our works don't save us. Our works aren't what make us significant. His works have saved us. His works accomplished much. As His children, we share in his accomplishments by receiving the benefit of what He did.

Similarly, our identities (which determine our works) don't save us. Our identities do not make us significant. Who He is, is the only thing that changes anything.

I'm hardly even scratching the surface of this. It's beyond me.

Reassurance

The methods in which the Lord chooses to minister to us is worth some reflection. I think it's mind boggling how intricately God ordains our moments. My day feels like a mess, and completely off beat sometimes. Yet it's happening perfectly, and quite timely in the eyes of the Lord.

I need to bask in the fact that there's no possible way things can really unravel. God is the grand puppeteer and is working all things out for my good.

Someone recently came to me for advice. I'm in no way much more trustworthy an advice giver than the next guy, but it truly opened my eyes to hearing the advice I myself needed too, without even knowing it.

I knew the answer to my own frustrating concerns, but in the midst of frustration comes a lot of dust. Chipping away at my own frailty causes a cloud of smoke that confuses me and throws me off.

When someone shares a similar experience, I can step back and see what's happening to them so much more clearly.

Suddenly, I'm looking at myself, and realizing for the first time the things I actually needed to hear myself.

I love seeing so clearly how the Lord is working in my life.

I love knowing that the challenges that come up during the day are in fact perfectly timed for when I'll need to quit trying to use my own strength and submit to His.

It's reassuring.