Invasion of the Christmas Elephant

There is a giant blow-up elephant sitting on my front porch.

He sits, smiling, glowing softly with a red stocking cap on his head, his ears flapping happily in the winter wind.

He sits, tied tightly to the bench in front of our picture window, and greets the neighborhood with his Christmas grin.

In the corner of our living room, just beside the picture window and the Christmas elephant, is our Christmas tree.

A real blue spruce with the smell of pine needles, it sits. Full of wild colored lights and red candy cane garland, magically and sublime, it sits.

Strung with a set of Bob the Builder lights, and another set of Jungle Animal lights, it sits. Full of Mickey Mouse and African elephant ornaments, it sits.

The window in front of the elephant is covered in Christmas-themed window clings. Shepherds and a manger, snowmen and snowflakes, Christmas trees and trains, all stuck haphazardly on the windows. Four Christmas socks hang from the wall, different sizes, slightly crooked.

But truthfully friends, it all comes back to the elephant on the front porch. He sits, and every time I pull in the driveway or look out the window he is there, ears flapping, giving me that big smile.

My three year old fell in love with this Christmas elephant last year, and when I did not buy it for him, he continued to ask about it. All. Year. Long. Until finally his grandma found one on sale this year. And now he sits on our porch.

He sits there, and in some strange way, in the quiet of my exhausted heart, in that sweet moment at the end of the day when it is FINALLY quiet in this house and I can hold a thought in my head, he represents everything that is both wonderfully happy and magically insane in my life as a mother of two boys.

Our Christmas Elephant

This elephant sits on the front porch, and represents all the joy of toddlers who love silly things and make me re-live the childhood wonder of this season. In his smile is the sweetness of little boys who smell like syrup and laughter, and who give sloppy kisses and demand mommy snuggles before bed. In his soft glow is the touch of their child skin, the soft padding of their little feet going through the house, and the magic of making memories.

He sits there, and his constant presence also represents the way my life is no longer my own, because I have been invaded by little people who have entirely taken over my heart and home.

He sits, and in his crooked flapping ears I see the way that everything is crooked, from our broken blinds to the cracked Santa lamp and the way the Christmas lights are drooping off the tree because the boys try to play with them.

He sits, and in him I see all that is insane about being a mother, and the general way that being the mother of two toddlers makes you lose all dignity in every way.

When I look at him, I see the way they peel the window clings off of the windows with an evil glint in their eyes. The way they won’t go to sleep at night without an hour of monkey business. The way they mash their food in their hair at dinner, wipe ravioli 

fingerprints all over the walls, and then flood the bathroom when they take a bath.        

The Face of Naughty

I see the way they try to stack furniture into towers and turn our home into a toddler apocalypse. The way they break things, scream for more cartoons, and have emotional breakdowns over chocolate milk and pop tarts. The way I feel like taking a shower with the door locked is a luxury vacation. The way they leave me feeling like a porcupine or some kind of road kill by the end of the day, pecked to death by vultures.

But alongside the insanity and loss of dignity, this elephant sits and reminds me that in this season, it is more important to be silly and joyful than to be serious and organized. He sits and tells me to keep a sense of humor, because it is simply just hard to stay mad when you see an elephant with a Christmas hat smiling at you from your front porch every day.

He sits, and invites me into childhood silliness, the place where monkey noises are hilarious and bodily functions are simply hysterical. The place where tickle fights and dance parties rule, where we go on long treasure hunts for acorns and use plastic straws as pirate swords to make each other walk the plank.

He sits, and something in his glow invites me into slowness, simplicity, and joy. He invites me to be a child, to receive the beauty of grace, of snow falling, grace falling.

He sits, and in all his happiness mixed with motherly torture, he is temporary, and so he reminds me of this too. He reminds me that the magic and the joy, the insanity and loss of dignity, they are all a temporary season.

And in him I see it all clearly and simply, the beauty, the wonder, the sweetness and joy laid over the exhaustion, a blanket of laughter laid softly over my weariness. The temporariness of everything. And I am grateful.          

He represents our life here in this home, just as it is, real, raw, hilarious, full of warmth, and uniquely ours. He is the perfect snapshot capturing all that is today with these precious little people and our undignified family. This is a season worth being grateful for.

Having kids keeps me grounded. I love to reflect deeply on the meaning of Advent, the incarnation, and all the mysteries of our awesome God. I feel that God is found in these things, in His Word, in the deep caverns of Christian tradition.

But the greatest, most profound thing to me today about the meaning of the season, is that God is also found right here, in the silly, smiling, flapping elephant on my front porch. He is found right here, coming to us just as we are, loving us just as we are.

Our lack of dignity is not troublesome to our God who was born in a manger that probably smelled like animal poop. Our droopy Christmas lights do not offend our God.

And even more than outward appearances of orderly lights and ribbons, God comes to our undignified and stinky hearts, too. He knows the truth. He is onto us. And so He comes, right into the yuck of our selves.

Our God is an authentic, drop-the-PR-campaign because I came here knowing the truth about you and I want to have a real relationship with you kind of God. And then He does real business in our hearts and we are never the same again. Aren’t you glad?

So I am left to be grateful, for our Christmas elephant, sitting there, and all he represents. He is a happy glowing reminder of grace that is life right now given by a God who is here with us just as we are. He is a word of gratitude for God’s blessings and favor. He is the comfort of knowing that God gives good things to His children.

He says do not struggle, but rather just be, and receive, and see the grace falling around you, and love and be loved this season.

I hope you are having a profound, enriching, occasionally silly and always magical Advent season so far, enjoying God with you in the realness of life!

Watching the snow fall...

Advent: The Way God Comes

When I was growing up, one of our family traditions was to drive out to the Christmas tree farm as a family and chop down our very own tree for our home.

            

As is the case with many family traditions, this one was a steady mixture between the magic and wonder of the Christmas season, and the comic relief of trying to make special memories in the complex context of family life.

           

My sister, and I would wander around the Christmas farm in subzero temperatures, sometimes for hours, marveling at the beauty of the snow glistening on the pine trees. Mom would be ever cheerful, and Dad would grumble. Fingers and toes would become numb.

            

We could never come to a collective agreement on a tree. Finally dad would give us an ultimatum and we would have to force a decision. Then he would saw the tree down by hand and heave it into our vehicle. Mom, still happy, wished dad would be happier. We were all cold.

            

At home, we would all get warm and watch with rosy cheeks while dad figured out how to get the tree cleaned up, through the front door, and into the stand. By the end of the night the tree was up, decorated to capacity, and the house smelled like pine. Whether or not dad thought it was worth the work, all of his girls were very pleased.

            

For the rest of the month the tree stood in its corner, lit up, full of magic and mystery, hope and excitement, wonder and beauty, begging you to linger a little longer. It was the presence of Christmas in our home. These are those real-life, perfectly imperfect kind of memories that we cherish close to our hearts.

           

This year we decided to carry this tradition into our own family. On Monday afternoon, I awoke from a nap, grumpy. The boys awoke a moment later, grumpy. There was not a flake of snow to be seen, but I drank some stale old coffee, and we piled into the truck and drove off to the tree farm.

            

Little Theo and I exchanged opinions about tree shapes and sizes. Remi bobbed around, thrilled to be running in an open field. My husband told us to hurry up. Like my mom, I worried that he didn’t realize the importance of this experience.

            

We picked a tree, and the boys watched their dad cut it down. Then, my husband picked up the tree, lugged it over his shoulder, and promptly turned to walk to the truck. He nearly took my head off with the tree, and hit me in the face with it, but I suppose that worse things have happened.

            

Little Theo got to ride on the back of the tailgate with me, and both boys got to see how the tree-shaker works. My husband did all the hard work of getting the tree into the house, and by the end of the night it was lit up, decorated, and standing in the corner, bringing wonder and magic into our home.

            

The tree will be with us for the entire month, an ever-present reminder of God’s presence promised, God’s presence coming, God’s presence born to us in Jesus and dwelling with us until He comes back again.

           

Each night, as it grows dark outside, we plug in the lights of the tree, and our home is filled again with that mysterious, soft, still warmth. When the kids finally fall asleep, and my husband is outside in his shop, and I am left alone with the sparkling lights and the lingering smell of pine, I can’t help but feel called, beckoned, invited into its rest. I can’t help but think…yes…yes this is how God comes.

            

God comes again, and again, new every day, and every night. God comes softly knocking on the heart, inviting you to linger a little longer in His presence. God feels like cherished childhood memories and like safety and warm fire places. God smells like pine needles in my home.

           

He comes into our homes and into our hearts, the ever-present One dwelling with us. Ready or not, He comes. Sunshine or rain, snowflakes or sleet, He stays. He is with us always, offering us light always, our soft place to land, always. Teaching us to love each other, always.

           

God comes to me after my long day, He enters right into my weariness and my aching head. He softly says Come child, sit, rest, bask in my Word. And by the soft light of Christmas lights on the tree, I do.

            

God enters into my grumpy, and into the way my coffee tastes stale and old. He dwells among our pre-nap and post-nap grumps. He is with us when my 2 year-old is screaming at midnight because we won’t let him sleep in our bed. He is with us when my 2 year-old is screaming again at 4am for the same reason. He is walking beside me when I am red-eyed and sleep-deprived, little people clawing at me before the sun is up.

            

God dwells with our family, in our home, among the crumbs that always seem to be there and the chocolate milk fingerprints on the walls. He enters into my impatient mommy heart when I have nothing left for these little people, and He gives me a little more to give, a fresh dose of grace for their sake and my sake. He walks with me through my fears and my worst moments.

            

He comes and cuts right through my PR campaign, and reminds me that He knows the truth, and loves the true me. He sprinkles my conscience with His blood, reminding me that I am free to be His true child, with total freedom to love and to serve.

             

He dwells with us and changes us, and in the lull of the Christmas tree lights it seems so clear that He is always offering us a Word of hope and healing in a very raw world, always offering us grace that renews and rest that restores, enough for each day.

           

It is hard for me to wrap my mind around this God-with-us, God-with me. The sense of wonder that comes with this season, the sparkling lights, the crystal snow, the music, the magical crisp feeling of nighttime silence after the snow falls…it is overwhelming.

            

 I feel flooded by grace, wrapped up in grace like a warm, soft blanket surrounding me. Nurtured by God’s Word and the constant reminders of His presence, I feel quieted to my very core.

            

This is how God comes, to me and to the whole world. Quietly, like the biggest understatement there ever could be. Softly, like the glow of a candle.

            

He comes simply, into an unspectacular manger, a cold night, a tired mother, a clueless sin-sick world. No pomp and circumstance, no glory, just God entering into our space, coming to us just as we are. Born to die for our redemption, born to suffer for our healing. 

            

Tonight I write this reminder to myself. When the pleasant haze of Christmas has passed, when the decorations are down and the tree is dead, when this soft warmth has shriveled back into winter cold and nothingness…Christ still comes.

           

He comes when fear sets in and tries to paralyze. He comes when depression brings exhaustion. He comes when sin infests the heart. He comes when the broken world seems too much to bear. He comes to walk beside, to love, to cry, to guide.  

            

Those times will come, and even tomorrow may be a new kind of hellish valley. But the great thing about Christmas is that this reminder of Christ’s presence is just so tangible, so real. We taste it and touch it and live in it. It bombards us and overwhelms us, wraps us and holds us and quiets us. What a foretaste of our eternal inheritance! The God who came as a baby to die for the ugly broken world will come to our hearts again and again, and will be faithful to return, wiping every tear, making all things new.

           

Friends, in years past I would always suffer from Holiday panic. Anxiety and depression almost always gripped me as I thought about all the activity pressing in on me. This year, there is only one thing that is different. God has drawn me to shift my focus onto Him, not just in theory but in reality. He whispers stop child, stop looking around. Don’t worry about that. Just look to me, think about me, dwell in me, let me heal you with grace and mend you with my Word. Come to me as I come to you, fix your eyes upon Jesus and be at peace.

           

And it is much better this way, just expecting God to come. 

Advent and Defiance

This coming Sunday marks the beginning of Advent, the season leading up to Christmas Day when we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ into our world.

Advent means “coming” or “arrival.” During these weeks leading up to Christmas, we live in anticipation of Jesus’ arrival. While it is tempting to run ahead to the celebration, to walk in the spirit of Advent means to temper our impatience, to slow down, and to live in the time of waiting.

            

A long time ago, God promised a Savior to the world. The book of Isaiah records that this Savior would come “out of the stump of David’s family” and would be “a banner of salvation to all the world” (Isaiah11:1-2, 10). And so, God’s people waited, and waited, and waited for this light to come to the broken world.

            

We also know from Scripture that David’s family line turned from God, and became greedy, fallen, lovers of money and sin. Their lives were ruined. They were unfaithful. But God keeps His promises. He is faithful even when we are not, and so even out of the unfaithful He brings forth the Savior of the world.

            

For us today, in Advent, we reflect on being in the in-between time. We look back, and we sit in waiting with God’s people who waited anxiously, painfully, and often unfaithfully for the Savior of the world. They ached, sin crushed the world, and they waited. And we ache and wait along with them.

           

Yet we know that Christ has come, and we know that God was faithful to bring a conclusion to the waiting. So we reflect on God’s faithfulness, we marvel at our promise-keeping God who follows through even when we don’t, who comes with redemption even when we wander away. We know that in Christ, God has begun to restore all things.

            

Looking forward, we are waiting for the return of Christ. This is our in-between time, the time in which we remember the waiting, and we remember God’s faithfulness, and we hold onto that faithfulness because it is our confidence while we wait for Him to come back.

            

This season we reflect on the fact that the one and only thing the world needs is coming and has come – Jesus Christ Himself. God, coming to us, a gift to us, coming to reconcile all things to Himself. This season we say yes Lord, be born in my heart again, and again, and again.

          

 So much more could be said. What a magical season, a time when the Christian can be soaked, saturated, filled, and completely swept away by the mystery of God’s grace.

            

Or – it can be missed. Entirely missed. Dear Christians, have you ever stumbled through Christmas while missing Christ? Because I have. And I’m not doing it this year. I’m not doing it.

            

One thing I understand well is defiance. They say that stubbornness, pointed in the right direction, can be a powerful force for good. I am taking a defiant stand for good this Christmas.

            

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and the world is already spinning, already shopping, already spending and planning and eating and whirling. Holiday sales have already made the stores feel like crack dens. Calendars are already filling up. It already feels out of control, like it is already overtaking you in its loud sparkling chaos.

            

Okay, maybe you don’t feel like that at all. If you are someone who floats through holiday chaos with no sense of resistance then I applaud you and you need read no further. But for the rest of us –

           

This is my act of defiance: I’m not doing it. I’m not missing out. I will not let the miracle of Christmas get buried in stress and anxiety. I will not let the presence of Jesus and the mystery of the incarnation get lost in the whirlwind of a world which chases everything while needing nothing other than to look that mystery straight in the face and fall in love.

            

This is my defiance, heels dug in, unmoved, pointed in the right direction. This year I don’t want to just survive, I don’t want to just get through the holidays gritting my teeth and taking shelter in sarcastic humor. Nope, I want more.

I want to know God more. I want to stop and stare at the nativity, and I want to meditate on its wonder. I want to understand the Old Testament passages which are attached to our Jesus but of which I have no understanding of whatsoever.

I want to not pretend away my ignorance of this season and all its majesty. I want to feel the pain of Israel and I want to taste the hope of Jesus’ return. I want to believe that every tear will be wiped away by God Himself.

           

I want to reflect on God-made-man, fully-divine fully human, born of the Virgin Mary. I want to get lost in the thought of infinite God born as tiny sweet baby, having the sweet baby smell, needing His mommy. I want to be swept away entirely in the soft light coming from the Christmas tree while basking in the Word every night.

            

I want to share the wonder as it sparkles in the eyes of my children. I want to really see them this year. I want to tell them about Jesus. I want to help them learn how to be a defiantly different person in Christ against the tidal wave of our culture. I want to linger in the romantic light of the Christmas tree, I want to see the snow sparkle, and I want to see Christ in all of it.

            

I want to go deeper with this God who came here so that we would have the option to do so. I want to stand with other Christians in worship every week and sing about Jesus’ coming. In Sunday school, I want to read and discuss the coming of the Event which changed the world and our hearts forever. With Christians around the world I want to say yes, this season is about Jesus, about God’s faithfulness, about hope and light in a broken world.

           

I want to be present to the people around me, and rather than my usual sarcastic thoughts about holiday tolerance, I want to be able to offer the hope and light of Jesus to those who are already feeling exhausted, depressed, hopeless, full of grief, and broken this year.

I want more of this God, this Jesus whom we can’t possibly wrap our infinite minds around, but who was born in a manger and lives in our hearts. I am hungry, I want to be saturated, because the only other option is to starve in the dry and weary land of consumerism and shallow holiday greetings. I am bent on waiting for the Savior to be born in my heart again, to reveal Himself to me again, and again, and again. Anew, and anew, and anew.

If there is one thing God is teaching me right now, it is that He has to be my first priority. Not just in theory, not just because I say He is, but because I will it to be so, I make it so, it is in reality. When this theory becomes reality, it changes how time is spent, it changes priorities, it changes relationships and thought-life, it changes everything. What better season than this?

Carol Carletto writes: The best metaphor for our world of today is astronauts speeding through the cosmos, but with their life-support capsule pierced by a meteorite fragment. But the Church resembles Mary and Joseph traveling from Egypt to Nazareth on a donkey, holding in their arms the weakness and poverty of the child Jesus: God incarnate.

Yes. God help us all to wait, to slow down, to seek, and to expect miracles this season. Help us see clearly that busy schedules and ribbons and bows do not a fed Christian make. Help us not to be so silly that we starve even though we are surrounded by the richest kind of food in Scripture and tradition this season. Come Lord Jesus, come!

God's Will

What is God’s will for my life…..?

I have traveled through several real and imagined journeys while being haunted by this question. For many years it seemed to me that “God’s will” was some ridiculous Christian insider phrase, some secret knowledge discernable only by those who knew God in some absurdly intimate way which I would never, ever experience.

I can't hear You, God?!?!

I would hear Christians say that “God told them” something, and it was enough to make me consider moving to another state where I could be a quiet atheist free from the sickening plague of spiritual inferiority, and removed from the well-meaning condescension of Christians who did not understand why I was incapable of tuning into that “still, small voice.”

What they (and I) didn’t realize was that I had drowned that still, small, God-conscious voice in years of booze and covered it in crushed up pills and buried it in debauchery and veiled it in plumes of marijuana smoke. It would be years before that voice would become discernable again. And so I struggled.

My whole life, from childhood on, I felt like everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing, and everyone received the life instruction booklet. Except me. For whatever reason, I lived in chronic anxiety and confusion, never having a clue what it was I supposed to be doing, and hating everyone else who did.

This was no different. Everyone knew exactly what God’s special purpose was for them, everyone could hear His voice, everyone was living delightfully in the certainty that they were walking on the path God had planned for them.

Everyone except me. Because I had no idea what God wanted from me. I couldn’t distinguish His voice from all the other voices inside my head warring for my attention.

I figured that even if God had a path planned out for me, which seemed unlikely, it wouldn’t matter anyways, because there was no way I was going to find it in my bumbling, unspiritual, confused idiocy.

Sometimes I hated all of it so much that I just wanted to walk away from God, from Jesus and Christianity and people who threw around their knowledge of God’s voice like it was a spiritual medal of honor. Get me out of here please I need some air….

This is a good time to point out the grace of Jesus Christ and the power of God’s Word. I hated all of it, I hated the struggle, the internal war, the questions, the doubts, and especially the people who “knew God.” Even when they were sincere I hated it. For whatever reason, I burdened myself with an absolutely insane obligation and personal responsibility to find and discern “God’s Will” for my life. It was all up to me, and I was bound to fail, and so I was mad.

But while I hated it all and shook my fist at this God who would not give me my answers, I was still drawn to the name of Jesus. There was just no walking away from Him. Not only this, but in my self-reliant struggle to find all answers, God’s Word began to break into my heart, changing me and shaping me, even as I kicked and struggled. Jesus Christ and God’s written Word are more powerful and capable than any battle I try to fight, thanks be to God.

Eating Bugs?

Eventually, my rage turned to indifference. Alright God, if you aren’t going to show me the long-range plot of my life and exactly where it is in Africa that I will be eating bugs for Jesus, then whatever. I’m going to do the best I can with what’s in front of me, I’m going to seek you, and I’m going to stop thinking about it. I’m done trying to hear some mystical wind pointing me in the right direction. Whatever.

About this time, a dear friend quoted Micah 6:8 to me: “He has shown you, o mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”

What a relief. God wants me to love Him, and to do what is in front of me. And this is enough. I do not have to figure out the rest of my life today. I only have to figure out how to best love God in my actions in each moment today. Is it so simple?

It is. I began to realize that in my childish demand to see and fully grasp the big picture, I was failing to live as God wanted me to in the daily picture. And the daily picture is truly what matters the most, because it is the string of daily moments which weaves together our bigger picture.

            

In truth, what am I really doing if I cannot be obedient to Jesus in the present? Isn’t my willingness to obey some far-off destiny as futile as sand running through my fingers if I am unable to obey Him right now in this very moment? The desire for big-picture obedience might be veiled in good intentions and nobility, but not if I am neglecting Jesus right now.

           

My ego would like me to believe that real ministry and work for God are somewhere other than right in front of me. My ego would like me to believe that my far off romantic destiny of eating bugs for Jesus in Africa (or whatever) is way more important than the daily humdrum of laundry, dishes, jungle animals, coloring books, and the ever-present reminder that I can never sweep the floors clear enough to not have crumbs stuck to the bottom of my socks. Never, it never happens.

            

But then Jesus reminds me that in His Kingdom, things are upside down, or perhaps right side up. What seems important to me is not, and what seems trivial to me is significant in the eyes of God. To see God Himself dead on the Cross is to see that surely He acts in unexpected ways. His ways are not our own.

            

Trial, error, struggle, exhaustion, and surrender have taught me that to love God and love others I have to start with one person at a time, particularly the person right in front of me at any given moment. It is not about grandiosity or glory, but about trying to make the lives of the people around me a little better, one at a time, often in ways that seem insignificant very much un-glorious.

          

In my world, this means that the big picture thoughts surrender to the immediate needs in front of me. My curiosity about when/where/how/what will come in the future bows to the filthy construction worker clothes that must be washed, the lunch that needs to be packed, the little people who need to play with blocks and learn hymns and hear about Jesus from their mama. I am learning more and more that Jesus wants me to be right here, right now. Nothing more, nothing less. Just here, present in love.

            

This also means I have come to firmly believe that God cares about the seemingly tiniest and most intimate details of our lives. He sometimes gives big-picture guidance, but more often, He gives guidance about what is most important right now, because that is enough, and this is walking by faith.

And yes, I have even come to firmly believe that God does speak to us. I had to be rid of a lot of sin-sickness and it had to be replaced with a lot of God’s Word and Christian love. This is daily work, but it is not really work to receive the gift of grace from God. A small price to pay indeed for finally being able to hear His voice today.

It was pouring rain on Saturday night when little Theo and I walked out of a restaurant. He was my dinner date. As the rain began to hit our heads, he began laughing out loud, the sound echoing across the parking lot and into the night. “It’s raining mama – it’s raining! Hahahahahaha….”

This is God's Will for me

I laughed and we ran to the truck holding hands, getting pelted by rain and laughing the whole way. Before we got in, I knelt on one knee in the rain and looked him in the face and told him that I love him and that he is so very special. We hugged in the rain and I thought  -

Yes.    

This.     

This warm and random November rain, this sweet child, this laughter.  

This is it. 

This is God’s perfect Will for me. 

This is how God teaches me. 

All Saints and Ghost Babies

November 1 was a rainy, cold day. Like many of you, I had what can only be described as a sugar hangover, the consequence of indulging too freely in the Halloween candy which was acquired from neighbors by my little elephant and little purple dragon the night before. 

 November 1 was also All Saints Day. Traditionally, the church held this as a day to recognize and remember not only the martyrs of the Christian faith whose blood helped to carry the church along, but to remember all those Christians who have led us, taught us, been examples to us, and gone to be with Jesus. On this day we reflect upon the “great cloud of witnesses” which surrounds us and encourages us. (Heb 12:1).

          

 There is nothing like looking one more time at the pictures of those who have died. The memories come, and with them the happy but sad knot that wells up in your throat and your stomach. Suddenly life feels like sand slipping through your fingers, like someone has pulled the rug out from under your feet. It is hard to put into words, even for this writer who dwells always in a cacophony of word-related delight.

This year I realized, for the very first time, that I know a lot of dead people. Until recently, my dead grandparents held a cherished place in my heart, but their deadness was a very far away thing; a very unique and unusual thing. Over these past years, I have seen many more join them, including two great uncles and a cherished aunt who all made their way to heaven last month within days of each other. Death has come a bit closer to me.

As I looked out the window at the sloppy wet leaves covering the driveway and sidewalk, I was hit by a grief-wave reminder. Death has come a bit closer to me not just by these relatives, but in my own home, in my own womb not too long ago.

            

We had a miscarriage in July. It was not the first time, but that did not make it any less strange or painful. It was very early in pregnancy, but this also did not make it any less strange or painful. We were not expecting to get pregnant, but again, this did not make it any less strange or painful. We have two healthy boys already, but this too did not make it any less strange or painful.

            

Statistics tells us that most women will have a miscarriage or several of them throughout the course of their life. Why is it that we hear so little about it? I have no scientific explanation for the quietness that surrounds miscarriage, but I can tell you why it simply had to be a lonely silence for me as I walked through it.

            

When I found I was pregnant, I was stunned, which is pretty much always the case went you aren’t expecting it. Surprise quickly turned into enormous excitement because THERE IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER BABY, and my friends, there is just no way to not be excited about that!

            

Hormones began to rage. I began to crave celery with grapes and blue cheese. Strange. The July heat led to headaches and nausea, part of the bitter sweetness of building a little person inside of you. We began to talk about how exhausted we already are with two boys, and how we might never sleep again. We began to cautiously dream of a quiet, soft, sweet little girl who would sleep through the night, snuggle with pink teddy bears, and generally not be another rough and tumble little boy.

So you begin to hope and dream, to imagine doctor appointments, labor, little fingers and little toes, curls and the smell of newborn skin. Big brothers. You experience the profound flicker of new life, the sense of wonder which makes you float like a balloon. And then, suddenly, the flicker goes out, like trying to light a match in the rain.

Anger comes, and part of me couldn’t help feeling like God was a big mean bully dangling a piece of the best candy ever in front of my face, only to snatch it away when I was just about to taste it. My prayer life for a while consisted only of the question – God, what in the world was the point of this rollercoaster ride?

           

Sadness and depression also came, and I walked around for weeks feeling like one big raw nerve ending exposed to the elements. Everything hurt, and something as soft as the wind blowing could send me into tears. More than anything else, I was tired.

            

A few people knew, and I coveted their prayers, knowing the waves could easily sweep me away, and someone ought to be praying for me. Yet for the most part, I kept it to myself, like most women do.

            

Why do we do this? Because while suffering alone is terrifying, it is preferable to suffering in public. There are a lot of things that I will put right out there for everyone to see, like my testimony of being a drunken drug addicted spiritually bankrupt fool until I was redeemed by Jesus thank you God.

            

But unlike testimony, which might help others, the thought of airing this searing pain in public was enough to send me running for the hills. All I had was a heavy sadness and a sense of blank emptiness – not only spiritually and emotionally, but literally physically too. I suffered in silence mainly because I had two little T-shirts in a bag under the bathroom sink (along with the positive pregnancy test) that both said “BIG BROTHER,” and I had been waiting for the right moment to put them on the boys and send them to see their grandparents. (The shirts are still there – I’m not ready to deal with that yet).

I didn’t want to talk about it because I had nothing to say, nothing but an overwhelming sense of nothing and stupid injustice and hateful death in a broken stupid Fallen world of misery.

Several months later I still don’t like it, but with grace I finally have enough acceptance that I think it could be helpful to others who suffer in silence.

It still feels unfair and really sad. But here is what I know – Scripture tells us that eternal life with Jesus is a real thing. Our little phantom baby of July is with Jesus, and with the rest of the Saints – and that is far more than I ever could have given that little one here.

            

C.S. Lewis says this: “We are very shy nowadays of even mentioning heaven. We are afraid of the jeer about ‘pie in the sky’, and of being told that we are trying to ‘escape’ from the duty of making a happy world here and now into dreams of a happy world elsewhere. But either there is ‘pie in the sky’ or there is not. If there is not, then Christianity is false, for this doctrine is woven into its whole fabric.”

            

Right you are, Mr. Lewis. While I don’t know what the other side looks like, I know that Jesus has my children – all of them, the ones on earth and the ones in that happy place with Him. God’s ways are not my own, because I want my babies, all of them, with me, today and forever, for my selfish enjoyment. His ways are better. 

            
Maybe you know someone who is silently suffering with the pain of a phantom baby. Maybe instead of trying to be helpful or offering her rational comforts, you can give her this article, and leave her to lay in bed in all her emptiness. We have to live in that empty place for a time. She will come out of it, because God is full of grace, and because ultimately we mothers can’t help but come to the conclusion that we, in all our motherliness, are not the Savior, and in truth it is at once sad, but restful and wonderful to know that He holds our little ones.          

Butterflies and Theology

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good” -Genesis 1:31

Last week I took little Theo to the Meier Gardens to see the butterflies in bloom. It was a beautiful sunny day. Little Theo rocked his Mickey Mouse sunglasses, and sat happy as can be in the back seat, talking my ear off all the way to the East Beltline.

We got there just after the doors opened, but the parking lot was already packed. As we walked inside, we were overwhelmed by crowds of happy children moving about. Theo clung to my hand with big eyes.

We paid the outrageous price to get in, and headed towards the butterfly room. If you have not been there, it is an absolutely enormous greenhouse of exotic plants, flowers, vines, streams and waterfalls. It is bright, humid, and simply beautiful, like stepping suddenly into a tropical rainforest.

As soon as we walked through the door, we couldn’t move because there were so many people. I’m talking stepping-on-the-backs-of-your-shoes kind of crowded. I’m talking I-can-smell-your-breath-because-we-are-standing-so-close kind of crowded. I’m talking I’m-going-to-lose-my-son kind of crowded. I’m talking I’m-going-to-spontaneously-combust kind of crowded.

The bigger kids knocked into my little Theo, stepping on his toes and shoving their way in front of him. Someone’s stray one year-old was tearing the wings off of a butterfly. A butterfly fluttered past us, and my Theo screamed and clung to my leg.

As a parent you think you have a good idea, and you create this expectation of an event which will lead to priceless and picture-perfect snapshots to remember forever. I imagined my Theo, in his bright blue sweater, smiling his magical smile, reaching candidly for a gorgeous fluttering butterfly, under a perfect canopy of vines and flowers, and with heavenly sunlight shining through the greens to create the most perfect picture anyone has ever seen.

Instead, I got a 3 year-old screaming terrified of butterflies while getting shoved by bigger kids who are simultaneously stomping on my toes. Really? I just paid to do this? Totally overrated.

As we shuffled down the winding path, the crowd began to thin out, at least enough so that you take a breath without having to share the oxygen with someone else. Theo was finally able to stop and get a good look.

We were standing by a waterfall, and enormous tree-leaves were drooping near us, covered in bright butterflies. Something caught my eye, and I looked up to see two enormous butterflies chasing each other, fluttering happily behind the backdrop of the waterfall, bright rays of sunlight streaming through the water and reflecting on their bright blue happy wings. Picture perfect.

It was so beautiful my pulse skyrocketed, and I actually gasped out loud as it took the wind right out of me. I was, in an instant, in the midst of my cynicism, confronted with all things creative, beautiful, unspeakable, and inexpressible. 

It pointed to God, His creation, His gifts to us, His handiwork, His immeasurable and all-surpassing awesomeness summed up in a fleeting dance of butterflies. It was a glimpse of Heaven, of Jesus, of all things made right and perfect and unblemished.

And in the middle of this giant crowd of people and disorder, I burst into tears. There was just no way around, it was too beautiful and I just couldn’t even pretend to stay composed in the face of God’s wonder. My irritated heart was melted, and remolded into something more whimsical and childlike.

For the rest of the day and on, things looked different. The sky brighter, and the air fresher. The curls on the heads of my boys sweeter, their little bodies more precious. The soft sense of God with us more real. Details viewed through the lens of grace.

I used to be tough. Tough, and smart. And arrogant. A couple of years ago, if I was reading about someone crying over some stupid butterflies, I would roll my eyes right out of my head and write it off as useless emotionalism. Smart, strong, respectable people don’t cry over silly things, especially butterflies for crying out loud. Smart, strong, respectable people also don’t see God in such little useless details. Don’t they know that God is way bigger and more important than that? Butterflies. Give me a break.

But here I am, writing about butterflies and getting the lump in my throat again just thinking about it.

In the Old Testament, God promised to restore the world to how it was supposed to be, to restore it to His normal. Not the normal of sin and disorder, but the normal of harmony with God, with ourselves, with each other, and with Creation.

Jesus has begun this process of the new normal, and we know He will return to finish it. We live in the in-between time, seeing glimpses of God’s completed perfect normal which we will know and live when Jesus comes back again.

Paul puts it this way, saying, “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (1 Cor. 13:12). What we see is imperfect and incomplete, a foretaste of what will become much more. 

It is strange, sometimes, the ways we can come face-to-face with glimpses into God’s perfect normal. Jesus chose to be present to me via butterflies that day, and it certainly changed me, but I do not know why He did it by these means, at this time, in this way. Apparently He knew that I needed something, and gave it to me without explanation, in the same way I give my boys what they need because they don’t know what is good for them. Just receive, child! 

I don’t have the whole picture, and I am not sure that I can articulate a coherent theological connection between butterflies, and the presence of Jesus. But I know Jesus melts my heart, heals my vision, and corrects my perspective. And that is enough, enough to make me want to stay very near to Him. Because I want more. 

Time and time again, from person to person, I have seen that Jesus melts the heart of stone. For me, it has been a process of healing, and it is still incredibly unsettling to realize that the presence of Jesus and His great love can knock me off of my square and turn me into a weeping whimsical child crying over butterflies at any moment. I have come to believe that Jesus loves us in more intimate, detailed ways than we realize. I hope you have your own beautiful Jesus butterflies today, your own glimpse and foretaste of God’s normal for us.

Boston and Gospel

Friends, it was scarcely six months ago when I sat in this office, staring at a blank page with a blinking cursor, asking God what words I could possibly use to make sense of the slaughter of innocent children which took place in the Sandy Hook school shooting in Connecticut. 

Today seems to be more of the same, and so soon. More Sandy Hook, more September 11th, more Columbine, more Oklahoma City Bombing. More. 

Regardless of how we feel about the state of our media, one thing is for sure: they guarantee that we will get on-the-spot, real time graphic coverage. 

Last night, we tucked our kids into their safe beds a little early, and like you, clicked on the nightly news. We saw the video of the bomb going off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, and then we saw it again, and again. We saw the blood-spattered cement, and clumps of what we can easily assume were dismembered body parts laying among the bodies of victims on the ground. 

We saw the victims being wheeled away, bloody and in shock, bones sticking out of legs. We desperately grabbed at the one positive thing we saw, which was the first-responders and spectators alike running to the scene to help the victims. This, a tiny beacon of light in the dark of hell. 

The chaos of evil has broken into our normal lives once again. Most of us here are not affected in the sense of losing loved ones or being there when it happened, but we are affected. We are sad and we are scared. 

How does one connect the dots to make good come out of this kind of evil, to make sense out of nonsense? 

It is tempting to try our hardest to cling to the hope for humanity which we see present in those emergency people and spectators who risked themselves to help their fellow man. Indeed, this is hopeful. But it is not enough, it is not enough to keep us from sinking into despair, drowning in the lurking notion that God is nowhere, or God hates us. 

No, the nobility of man, no matter how moving or true, ultimately does not overshadow the blatant act of evil chaos which has taken place. It is a hopeful and soothing balm, in and of itself, but it does not solve the problem or erase the evil. 

What then? 

The only thing to do today is to boldly preach the gospel in the face of hell breaking loose on earth. That’s it. There is no other consolation, no other fancy spiritual-worded mumbo jumbo to cling to for satisfaction. Just the gospel, the sweet gospel, the balm for the sin-sick soul which is Jesus Christ. 

So what we need to hear today is not an eloquent psychoanalyzing of the state of society, of the mental health system, gun legislation, the demise of constitutional America, terrorism, or any other such issue. 

We just need the sweet truth of the gospel.

Here are some truths to trust in today, some truths that are true no matter what hell we see on earth coming into our living room through our television screens: 

Through bombs and explosions, war, death, tragedy, and all suffering, the God of Israel is still our God, and is still sovereign over His Creation, completely regardless of if we understand what is going on or not. 

Jesus Christ is still His only Son, and He is still “the Word who became flesh and made His dwelling among us” (John 1:14). 

Jesus is still our Savior, the lover of sinners, “the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). 

Jesus still died for us, for sinners in the sin-sick world. It is still finished, and He has still taken the sin of the world on Himself that we might be free (John 19:30). 

Jesus is still risen from the dead, the tomb continues to be empty (John 20). 

Through Christ, we have been given “the right to become children of God” (John 1:12). We are at peace with God and we can trust that He loves us. 

Through the Holy Spirit Jesus continues to give us peace in the midst of chaos (John 14:27). 

Jesus will return to finish the redemption of the world which He has started, to judge the living and the dead, and “every knee will bow and every tongue will confess to God” (Romans 14:9-11). 

Through blood and tear-stained eyes, it still stands that “God so loved the world, that He sent His one and Only Son that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16). God loves sinners, and Jesus came as the one and only light to this dark world. 

This is our hope, and a blessed hope it is. The truth of our salvation, of God’s love for us, and of God’s ultimate victory over evil – this is the solid rock on which we stand. Jesus as Lord does not shift with the sands, does not get blown about in the wind, and does not change due to even the ugliest and worst circumstances. 

Today and in the days to come, do not waste your time and energy looking about, looking up down and around trying to find sense and reason where there is only nonsense and unreasonableness. 

Evil is chaos. Do not stare into evil or it will lead you to despair. I do not say this to say that we should not be engaged with this suffering. As Christians, we should feel it deeply, we should pray deeply and hurt deeply. Indeed we have all shed tears and feel sick and heavy today. Love for Jesus means painful love for the broken world, love which brings tears and questions and heartache. But do not look to your own reason, to politicians or media for hope. Look to Jesus, turn your face to Him constantly. He is our Rock. 

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. –Romans 8:37-39 

Lord, we pray for your presence and light today. We pray for these victims of violence and everyone affected, including the caverns of our own hearts. Be with your people who trust you, and be with those who do not know you and do not have hope. We pray that the world would turn to You and believe. In Jesus’ name, amen.