The Fullness of Time

So what kind of year did I have? 

I had a full year. 

We are so quick to want to say that something was good or bad, a positive or a negative, a gain or a loss. We are so quick to want to quantify and qualify our lives so that we know what to make of them, or think that we know what to make of them. We will do just about anything to get out of the ambivalence of feeling the tension between the truths that sometimes, life is easy and sometimes, life is hard, and some days are better than others and other days are absolute trash. 

But this is the fullness of the human experience. At least, it is this side of the curse. 

We were created, we know, for better than this, but this is where we are, and the reality of living here is that we feel both our brokenness and our redemption all the time. That's the real tension that we're feeling, the real ambivalence we're dealing with our lives. 

Some of what we're living is the curse and some of what we're living is the Cross and some of it is the tomb and some of it has the stone rolled away. Some of it is our own rebellion; some of it is our homecoming. Some of it is trouble; some of it is grace. 

We feel the weight of the fallen world and the glory of the risen Savior all at once. 

This is what it means to be human. 

This is what it means to be trying to make sense of things. This is what it means to be doing our best and to sometimes be failing and to sometimes be flying and to sometimes not know what we're doing at all except to say that somehow, we're making it, but we don't know what that looks like. 

That's okay. 

That's what your life is supposed to look like. 

Our broken moments are the things that send us searching for something better, that keep us hoping, that drive us into the arms of God. And our good moments are the ones that keep us holding on when the world goes dark again, that keep us remembering the light, that let us live with hope and confident assurance. 

The broken moments build our faith so that we can rejoice in the goodness of God when it comes to us, and the goodness of God when it comes to us build our faith so that we can persevere through the broken moments that are coming back. 

We experience God's mercy when we need it, His grace when we are desperate for it, His goodness when it fills all the empty spaces that this world has created. When we live full lives in the world, we get to experience the fullness of God, and the fullness of God fills us and encourages us to embrace the fullness of our lives - for good or for bad or for whatever they are. 

This was a hard year. I will never forget the things that this year took from me. But it gave me some beautiful gifts, too, even in those losses, and I can't forget those, either. It's so tempting to want to say that this was the worst year that ever existed in the history of years. That is has been, as many of my friends will undoubtedly say, a year of total suckdom. 

But that's simply not true. It's simply been a year. A full year. A very full, very human, very this-side-of-the-curse year with enough of the Cross thrown in that I just might make it after all. 

A year probably very similar to the year you actually had, if you really think about it. A year like we always seem to have. 

Such is life as we know it. 

But still, we will turn the page...  

The Year As We Know It

So did this year suck? 

That's a difficult question to answer. We are drawn by the illusions of time and pain to say that of course it sucked. It was a hard year. And yet, if you scroll through most of our social media feeds, you'll see that the whole year didn't suck. Maybe just parts of it did. Maybe just a few things - a few big things. Yet, the whole weight of the calendar, all twelve pages of it, just feels so heavy. 

We are a people who do not deal well with ambivalence - the tension of feeling two opposite things at the same time. And we are a people who spend a lot of time dwelling on the surface and trying simply to pick one or the other because it's easier. How are you? I'm fine. How are you? 

I'm fine. 

I'm good. Things are good. Happy to be here. Blessed. Doing my best. Having a day. Whatever it is. Not everything is okay, but even as we're thinking about the things that are not okay, there's something in our spirit that is pulling us toward the things that are. And if we were to focus on the things that are okay, which we usually do out of social niceties, there's something in our spirit that reminds us that not everything is okay right now. 

The truth is, we live complicated lives. Lives that cannot be compartmentalized one way or another. Most of us don't know what to do with that, and many of us are troubled by it. Why can't life just be this or that? Why can't we ever figure out what we're feeling? Why can't we ever know what our lives are really like? 

If we look back at the year that we've had, really look at it, we will see both the good and the bad. And it feels like a betrayal to focus on one thing or another. 

Yet, it's actually destroying us to not be able to do this. 

Most of us settle on the bad. That's why we say our year sucked. Because we don't want to ignore the heavy things. But if we ignore the good things, then we live lives of perpetual suckdom and grumble every year and look back and think we've hated our lives. That's not good, either. And if we try to paint over our lives by focusing on only the good things, we live aloof - separated by some kind of distance from the things that are truly shaping us, too, just because they are the harder things. That's not good. 

What kind of year did I have? 

I turned 40 and was very excited to do so. I was convinced that this was going to be the best year of my life. Then, I lost my independence. Then, I lost two best friends. Then, I lost a measure of my health. But I also got a new friend. And I weaned off a couple of medications I have been on forever that I no longer need. And I got some good news and better test results. And I settled into my new role at work...and I was rejected for an opportunity to do something else that I love to do. And I connected with a new church, but I missed all of the connection class opportunities, so I still have more questions than answers. And I have a few good friends, but I've lost some, too, and I find myself in a lot of spaces where I don't know anyone at all, so I feel a little anonymous some days. But I also found out how many of my neighbors have been watching me for longer than I've known it, and I've come to know a few new folks this year and had some good conversations on porches. And I've made some good food, and I've found a few new foods that I decidedly don't like. And I've heard some good music. And I've tried to figure out what to do with myself. And I've missed some opportunities, but I've walked right into others that I wasn't even expecting. 

And there's something inside of me that wants to say, yeah, this year has sucked. It's a year that took so much from me. My losses this year have been huge. I will never forget this year's losses. Never. 

But I had some really good times this year, too. Some really good victories. Some fullness of hope. Some confident assurance. Some holy moments. And I can't let myself forget those, either. I can't let myself overshadow the gains with losses. I don't want to be miserable just because part of this year sucked. 

So what kind of year did I have? Why, the same kind that you had, I bet. And I'll tell you tomorrow what that means. 

The Illusion of Time and Pain

We are coming to the end of another year, as we tell it. It's not really true that January 1 will be any different, fundamentally, than December 31, except that we have made our calendars that way and there's something about a blank slate, a new page, a fresh opportunity that attracts us. 

I think I say that every year. 

Regardless of what it means or doesn't mean, here we are, preparing to move into a new year and to say goodbye to the last one. 

What's interesting is that most of us seem to have forgotten the whole year. That is, there will be an overwhelming number of posts coming up this week that will tell us that 2025, like every year before it, was a year of total suckdom, a sucky-suck-suck-suck. Goodbye and good riddance to a terrible year! 

I have friends who do it every year. Hate the year they're getting rid of and look forward to the one that is coming. And yet, next year, they'll do the same thing. They have had year of total suckdom after year of total suckdom after year of total suckdom. And you'd think that they must hate their lives, that their lives must not be worth living any more. 

And yet, if you actually looked through their feeds, you would see pictures of celebrations, of victories, of smiles, of families, of good relationships, of happy moments. An occasional post, perhaps, of a struggle, but overwhelmingly, good news. Good gifts. Good graces. 

Good golly. 

So what is happening? How can these persons who fill their feeds with happiness and joy and love end up disgruntled every year with how their life is going? How can we live our lives and always seem to come to the end of the calendar weary? How can we have so many good days and look back and only remember the bad? 

A couple of things are going on.

The first is time itself. If you have ended your year with struggle, then struggle will be all that you remember. If the last few weeks have been hard, it feels like forever has been hard. If you're currently fighting, then this whole year feels like a fight. 

That's actually because it feels like time is running out. The days are numbered. The end of the page is coming. And...if you don't turn a corner now, you're going to end this year on a loss. None of us like losing. None of us like feeling like we missed our chance to turn it around. So if this year is about to end, if these pages are about to be thrown in the trash, and the last thing we recorded on them was a loss - a struggle, a fight, a defeat - then it feels like the whole year must have been that way. Good riddance to this rubbish! It's trash. 

The second thing that's going on is that pain requires more than we often have to give it. That is, we have to move forward with our lives and don't often get the time to properly grieve the hard things in our lives. So we come to a week like this bearing the weight of the things that weigh heavy on us, the things we haven't fully put to rest. The losses and defeats we haven't fully grieved. And with something unfinished in our souls, it pulls us back into the tough spots of this year almost indefinitely; it feels like we'll never get out of them. So there's something holding us here with a weight that feels so heavy...and it makes the whole year feel heavy, as we remember it. 

So did this year suck? Or is it the illusion of time and pain that make us think that it did? 

That's still not an easy question to answer.... 

Louise

I was so afraid of failing. 

It was my first season as a chaplain. It had all come together really quickly and in such dramatic fashion that I knew it was God's doing. It had been on my heart for a long time, and now, here I was, entering my first shift as a chaplain and meeting my preceptor for the first time. 

Insecure as I was, I had also recently found my voice, and so as I sat across the table from Sister Louise, I wrung my hands a little, looked down at the tabletop, and told her all of the ways that I was about to fail...and why. 

I told her that I needed her to have a little grace with me, to take it easy on me in a few very specific ways that I was most likely to fail. That I already knew my failures and shortcomings and was doing my best to overcome them, so just give me some space and don't worry too much about it. 

Sister Louise didn't say anything. 

In fact, she said very little at all over the course of the next 6 months. The truth is that as long as I worked under her, I never heard a thing. She had my assignment sheet printed out for me in the mornings, she checked on my rounding during the day, but every bit of feedback or critique that I received that semester came from my educational preceptors, not my clinical one. 

The truth is, I never knew if Sister Louise even liked me at all, and that drove me NUTS. It drove me absolutely crazy. 

I didn't know if I was doing a good job. I didn't know if she thought I was going to make it as a chaplain. I didn't know what I needed to improve on. I didn't know anything.

Don't get me wrong - our relationship was not cold. She took me over to the house where the sisters lived, invited me over to a meal with her. She greeted me warmly.

Every single day, she set an amazing example of the kind of peace and purpose and faith that I wanted to have in my own life. I was watching her like a hawk for any tiny inkling of an indication of what she actually thought of me, but in all that watching, what I saw was a life filled with faith, with grace, with confident assurance. The kind of quiet, beautiful life that I still aspire to to this day. 

At the end of the semester, as we sat around that same table for end-of-program evaluations, Sister Louise looked at me and said, "Do you remember what you said to me when we first met at this table?" Truth is, by that point, I didn't. I had completely forgotten. 

She recounted to me all of the things I had told her, all of the ways I was going to fail, all of the ways I told her she had to cut me some slack, all the grace I had asked for right up front...

...and then she told me I hadn't needed any of it. In fact, what she told me was how long a way I had come in believing in myself in those few short months...and how good of a chaplain I was. 

Sister Louise was supposed to be my preceptor in becoming a better chaplain, but she spent that entire term quietly letting me become a better me. 

I remember her fondly. 

And I wonder about the roles that I play in the lives of others. I wonder about those who have their own insecurities and who think they're just looking for a little grace when what they actually need is the space to grow some confidence. I wonder about those who are wrestling with whether or not I like them, how much feedback I am or am not giving them. I wonder about those who are watching me like a hawk for any indication that might ease their own insecurities...and what they're actually seeing when they're watching me. 

Are they seeing a life of quiet grace, faith, and confident assurance? Are they seeing enough little wry smiles as I think about all the good things they are going to do in the world? Am I an encouragement to them while they're busy beating up on themselves? 

I always said I wanted to be more like Sister Louise. I wonder if, in 12 years, I am any closer. But...I'm still trying. 

Good News

We feel like failures because we're probably going to miss Christmas again this year. No matter how hard we try to hold onto the hope that is this season, no matter how much we want to go forward in our lives with something new inside our spirits, the truth is that most of us won't. Monday's a'-comin', and we will go back to the grind and find it - and ourselves - just the way we left it. 

But there's still good news...

And that good news is the Good News. 

The Good News that God is with us. That no matter what else is happening, He has come to dwell among us. That He walks with us. That He bridged the gap and came to join us even on our Mondays. That even if it takes us the rest of a lifetime to ever fully hold onto the hope the way that we want to (and for some of us, even a lifetime won't be long enough), that hope is still right here. 

In the flesh. In a manger. In a silent night (ha!). In the dust and the dirt and the grime and the brokenness and the hurt and the heartache of our fallen world and all of our Mondays. 

Remember, almost no one noticed the baby in the manger. Almost no one. A few shepherds heard from some angels and came in from the fields for a moment. There were a couple of older persons who had spent their lives in the Temple praying for this very moment who just happened to be there when Mary and Joseph brought the baby Jesus at eight days old, and they recognized Him.  

But the Bible doesn't even tell us that the priest who circumcised and dedicated the baby Jesus recognized anything special about Him. There was no proclamation that this was the One. This was Mary and Joseph's boy, born out of wedlock, bearing the shame of sin. It was cute that they were trying to be all faithful now, but where was that kind of faithfulness nine months ago when they should have been waiting for marriage before getting themselves into something like this? 

A couple of shepherds, Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, Zechariah, Anna, and Simeon. That's it. The rest of the world had no idea what just happened to them. 

Until twelve years later, when He declared in the holy assembly that He was the one the prophet Isaiah was talking about. 

Until He turned water into wine. 

Until He healed the blind, gave sound to the deaf, cast out demons, made the lame walk, put the religious authorities in their place, challenged the status-quo. 

Until He hung on the Cross. 

Until darkness fell. 

Until the stone was rolled away and the tomb was empty. 

That first Christmas - it wasn't 0 A.D. That's not when the whole world changed. At least, that's not when the whole world knew that it changed. It wasn't until more than thirty years later that the world truly figured out what happened. Then, all of a sudden...what good news! 

So if you're missing Christmas this year, that's okay. Almost everyone missed it two thousand years ago. 

Yet the baby in the manger still changes everything for everyone. The good news is still good, even if it takes what seems like a long time to really get it, to really grasp it, to really, finally, hold onto this hope. 

Merry Christmas. The whole world has changed. 

Whether it feels like that today or not. 

Life as We Know It

The truth is that even as life goes on, there's something inside of us that's wishing it wouldn't. Something inside of us that's believing it will change. Something inside of us that needs life to change. 

Nobody in Israel had forgotten the 400-year-old prophecy that the Messiah was coming; it just didn't affect their day-to-day living. And even after a little baby was born in a manger in a small town on a cold night, it still didn't affect their day-to-day. At least not for several more years, when Jesus would truly come onto the scene and start showing the world who He was.

If you're like me, you always want Christmas to be the start of something. You want to take all of the hope that's wrapped up into this moment, into this morning, and you want to use it to set a new tone for your life. To turn some things around. To set yourself free. To start something new. To quit something you should have quit a long time ago. To finally live the kind of life you are supposed to be living. 

You want Christmas to be the day. In all the stillness, with all the light in the dark, with the joy all around, with the family, with everyone being so friendly and magnanimous. With all the hope...

There's something about the hope, isn't there? Two thousand years ago, Israel had a hope for the Savior of the World, the messiah who would set them free, the redemption that was coming their way. And if there's one thing we still have two thousand years later, it's the hope. 

We can't quite put our finger on it. We know the story. We know how it started and how it ends. And yet, there's still something distant about it. Something that can become humdrum as we do it again and again every year. And yet...the hope still holds on. We cannot help but keep hoping that something incredible happens at Christmas, and we all want to grab hold of that hope and carry it with us into the life that we most want to be living. Into the relationship with God that we so desire to have. 

But the truth is that no matter how mindful we are this Christmas morning, no matter how intentional, no matter how well we do what we're hoping to do, to borrow (sort of) a phrase from our Easter worship...Monday's a-comin'. 

We have this beautiful holiday, this moment of rest, this time of reflection and reconnection and inspiration and hope, but just a few days from now, our lives are going back to the way they were last week. We're going back to work, the kids are going back to school, we'll turn the pages on our calendars and find the same grind that we just got out of, for just a moment. 

And somehow, on Monday, the Christmas magic melts. We fall back into old routines. We revert to our auto-pilot. We clock in, sit down, and do the very same things we always did until we clock out, go home, and do the very same things we did, and nothing feels different about work or home or family or chores or anything at all in our lives. They are exactly the same as they were before the baby was born in the manger. 

And...now what? 

We beat ourselves up for losing it all so quickly. For not being able to hold onto that hope. For not being able to live like the world is different for even one simple day, one regular day. We are failures...again...this Christmas. How do we keep doing this? 

But there is still good news...  

Missing Christmas

I'm afraid I'm going to miss Christmas this year. The season I have been in for the past couple of months has been a very difficult one, and as I looked at the calendar this week and realized that this is Christmas, I realize how not ready I am to celebrate. 

And yet, as I think about what that means - to not be ready for Christmas for the first time in my life - I realize that I'm actually in good company. 

Nobody in Bethlehem was ready for it, either. 

Think about it. These were faithful Jews. They had invested their lives in God's story; they knew it forwards and backwards. They knew the promises of the prophets, and they had some expectation somewhere in their hearts for the coming Messiah, whenever that would be. I mean, it had been four hundred something years since anyone had really spoken about it, had talked about it, had prophesied about it. 

In four hundred something years? Life happens. 

Life happens and all of these distractions start pouring in and building up. At the time of the actual birth of Jesus, the very first Christmas moment, Immanuel, God with us, a large portion of the people of God were on the move, trudging over well-worn terrain trying to get back to their natural homeland to take part in this weird census that the Roman government had suddenly called out of nowhere. 

They'd packed up their families, saddled their donkeys, sent word ahead to their relatives, and were on their way. They were covered in dust, weary. Their bread was becoming stale. They were looking forward to just getting there so that they could stop for a minute, be counted or whatever they had to do, and then get back to their lives as they knew them. 

When Joseph and Mary got to the inn in Bethlehem, the place where they thought they would be staying for a couple of days until this whole Roman business could be settled, there wasn't even any room for them. They ended up down in the basement with the animals. 

Who is thinking about a 400-year-old prophecy right now? 

Almost nobody. 

And that's actually how it happens that the baby Jesus, the Son of God, is born in a manger and most of the world just goes on as normal. Most of the world doesn't seem to notice. 

A few shepherds, with word from an angel, come over to check it out. A couple of years later, the Roman government hears some kind of rumor about a night long past when something might have changed and sends a few spies to try to figure things out before mass murdering every little boy who might be the one. 

But for the most part, the world goes on as it has. Nobody notices. Christmas...simply passes by. Almost everyone missed it. It was only well after the fact - maybe thirty some years later - that they realized what really happened in Bethlehem that night. 

So when I think about missing Christmas this year, when I worry about not being ready in my heart, I recognize that I wouldn't be the first. 

Two thousand years ago, a newborn baby cried out into a silent night and almost no one heard Him.  

Not Ready

Christmas is sneaking up on me this year. By which I mean to say, Christmas is this week. How did that happen? 

I am one of those persons who starts planning for Christmas early, who usually has the shopping done by the end of October, who puts up all of the decorations right after Thanksgiving, who spends Advent soaking in all of the beautiful things that make the Christmas season special so that by the time this week gets here, there's a certain peace that has settled into my soul. A readiness for the season. A new ability to breathe. 

But not this year. 

This year...this year has been hard. 

At the time when I would have been doing the bulk of my Christmas shopping, I was spending my savings to try to save the life of my best friend (Sister Mary Thunder), only to have her die a couple of days later anyway from a fluke occurrence that none of us could have expected.

That same day, that very same day, my good ear ruptured for the first time and shortly after, a wicked upper respiratory infection set in that took more than a month to kick out of my body. 

I brought home a new puppy, which prevented me from putting up the kind of Christmas decorations that I normally do. Puppies and shiny balls do not mix. And I do not want to spend the whole Christmas season yelling at the puppy to leave things alone. 

When I would have been rolling my running playlist over to Christmas music and tuning in to the journey to Bethlehem, I wasn't even allowed to run because of where I'm at with vestibular rehab, which also, by the way, has re-handicapped my driving abilities that I was just starting to get back, which means I haven't been to church at all since this whole difficult season started to unfold. 

Then, as December started creeping in, I got buried in an uncharacteristically heavy stretch at work and all of a sudden, I get a day off, take a breath, look up, and...it's Christmas. 

Already. 

To be honest with you, I feel a little lost. I'm not ready this year, in my spirit, and I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to take the very few little hours I have left before the most joyous moment in human history and prepare myself for what's happening. I don't know how to get into the space that I normally enjoy. 

I'm trying to figure out, just a few days before Christmas, what it even means to me this year. What it looks like. What it holds. 

I'm afraid...I'm going to miss it. 

But I wouldn't be the first one.  

Anya

I met Anya when she came in for her first shift, and I disliked her almost immediately. She knows this; we used to laugh about it. Because over time, Anya and I became friends. I came to appreciate her raw honesty, her passion for certain subjects, and her kind heart. She was still a little rough around the edges, but she had so much potential bottled up in her little spirit that I just couldn't help but like her. 

It wasn't long into working together that I noticed that Anya would go down to the cafeteria every day for lunch, purchase a meal for herself, come back to our unit, and eat only half of it. She would throw the other half in the trash. Every day. 

Finally, I asked her what was up. Why do you throw half of your lunch away every day? 

She confessed she really only wanted the chicken tenders, but she felt silly buying only chicken tenders, so she got french fries, too, even though she didn't like them. It made her feel better about the purchase. But she always threw the fries away. 

Well, don't throw them away! I told her. We were always working with around half a dozen other folks or so. Certainly, there was someone who would want her fries. (When I said this, it didn't have to be me. I knew plenty of my coworkers were always doordashing this or that for lunch. Certainly, someone had to be hungry.) And so began a pattern where Anya would go down to the cafeteria, buy chicken tenders and fries in separate containers, come back to the unit, and shove a container of fries toward me. 

Some days, I really needed those fries. (As much as anyone ever really needs fries, I suppose.) Most days, I didn't really need them. I ate them anyway, every time. Because I hate wasting food; it's one of my things.

Eventually, Anya learned to buy just her chicken tenders, and I recognized the growth that it took for her to do that. I was always very happy when she came back with just whatever she wanted from the cafeteria and nothing extra. 

But I think about those fries a lot. 

Because I recognize that we all have our quirks, myself included. I have these little things about me that probably don't make a lot of sense to anyone else, things I couldn't really explain if I had to, except to know that in my spirit there's something that makes it simply have to be so. And as I think about what these things are (and sometimes, reflect on what these things are, as in when someone gives me a strange look and tells me I'm weird), I wonder if maybe, like Anya, there might be someone around me who can benefit from the things I do to satisfy myself that don't make any sense. 

Things that might actually be wasteful. 

There are things I do that make my brain feel better about itself, that put my soul at rest, that make me breathe a little easier. Not all of them make sense. Some of them end up just making more stuff that spills out over a life that can't really hold them. Or doesn't want to. Or whatever it is. But I think about what I said to Anya, and how she responded, and I wonder if I need to say the same thing to myself: 

Well, don't throw it away. 

Look around you. Find someone who can benefit from it. Look for a way to bless others. There's always a way.

When I think about Anya, I always think of her generous spirit, a spirit that was always willing to give. I think about how amazing she was when she was locked in. I think about how I really didn't like her at first, but we grew to be friends. I don't know where life is taking her next, but I'm rooting for her. Truly. She's a little rough around the edges, but when she gets locked in, she's golden. And she's going to do great things in this world. 

And I'm going to do better things because of the time that we spent together. 

May my quirks become blessings to others through a spirit of generosity. What an incredible goal. 

God is Good

One of the questions that plagues us as a people of faith is how it is that persons without faith still have good lives. Why do the wicked prosper? Why does it seem nothing happens to those who do not fear God? 

The answer, as hard as it can be for us sometimes, is simply the truth that we already know: 

Because God is good. 

That's it. That's why the wicked prosper. That's why bad things don't happen to bad persons (or persons who make bad choices). Because God is good. He cannot be otherwise. 

Malachi says it plainly in a way that can confuse us or even cause our hearts to wrestle: 

God is good not just to His own people (1:5).

God is good. That's the gist of it. That's the heart of it. And God has to be good. If God were not good, through and through, then even those of us who believe in Him would have trouble knowing when He is being good and when He is not. We would spend our lives trying to figure out if what is happening in our lives right now is part of God's goodness or not part of God's goodness. In order for us to be able to trust God, we have to know that He is good, and if we have to know that God is good, then God has to be good at all times and in all circumstances and yes, with all persons. 

Even the wicked ones. 

It's a tough pill to swallow, but I'm going to be honest and say...I'm glad He is. 

I'm glad God is good to not just His own people because for the first decade and a half of my life, I was not one of His people. I didn't grow up in the church. I didn't go to church. I didn't have a Bible. I didn't know anything about God. I knew that the guy who lived next door who went to church didn't want me chasing loose balls onto his lawn and that he spent a lot of his time spraying the cracks in the sidewalk for weeds and that I'm pretty sure he's the one who reported us to the city for spray painting bases on the cul-de-sac for our pick-up games of kickball. 

When I was growing up, we made fun of Christians. I never thought in my wildest imagination that I would ever be one. 

And yet, by the grace of God. No, by the goodness of God. 

By all of the little good things in my life that couldn't be explained any other way. By the little tokens of favor that kept showing up from "the universe." By the kindnesses of other Christians that I met along the way. By over and over and over again, all of these little good things that didn't make any sense if there wasn't a God...a God who must be thoroughly good because He was good even to me, even before I knew Him. 

Friends, it's hard to see good things happen to "bad" people, but I'm here to tell you that bad people don't become good people unless good things happen to them. The lost don't become found unless good things happen to them. The wayward don't become the faithful unless God is good to them. They come to know that God is good and then, over time, that He even loves them. And then, they can't help but become His. 

So I don't worry about the good things that happen in this world, no matter where I find them or under what circumstances. Because they simply remind me of the truth that I know: God is good. 

And I am so thankful for that. 

God is Holy

The difference between something mundane and something special is the story that we've associated with it. 

Face it - that bowl that you always mix up waffles in because your grandmother always mixed up waffles in it isn't really special. It's just a bowl. But it has become special because of the story that you've associated with it: it's grandma's waffle bowl. 

The little knickknack that sits on your desk is nothing more than a little knickknack. Except that you remember the story of how you got, from whom, under what circumstances, and that makes it special. 

The curtain in the Tabernacle that separated the holy place from the Most Holy Place was fundamentally no different, as a curtain, than the ones that hung in the courtyard. Except that this curtain had a story-based significance that made it something more. 

There is a passage in the Scriptures that talks about God as a potter and declares, "If God wants to make one pot for everyday use and another one for sacred use, what is it to you? He can do that" (a paraphrase). 

But the truth is that there are no sacred things; there are only common things. It is common things that become sacred things when God attaches His story to them. 

Zechariah says it more succinctly: God makes common things holy (14:21). 

And I am so thankful. 

I will tell you - I am a common thing. I am the most common of things. I am a simple human female with very human things about me. Human things so common as to be completely boring. If you were to put my life on paper, as it exists in and of itself, it would not be anything very impressive or meaningful. 

But when you start filling in my story with all of the things God is doing with my very common self, it becomes something more. 

When you see the ways that He's gifted my very common flesh, that He's graced my very common spirit, that He's blessed my very common soul, I become something more than I could ever be on my own. This fragile piece of clay that looks like nothing more than average pottery is actually something very sacred...because in my very fragile parts, I carry His very amazing story. 

I carry a story of redemption. I carry a story of grace. I carry a story of love. I carry a story of favor. I carry a story of healing and holiness. I carry a testimony within me that cannot be carried in any other way, and because of that story that I hold, I am anything but common. 

I am His handiwork, His masterpiece, His treasure. I am His light on top of a hill; don't try to put me under a basket. Maybe I am a basket, but I am carrying the leftover scraps of bread from the miracle that He just performed. I am a living, breathing, walking evidence of the goodness of God. 

And that makes this very common woman something more. Something holy. 

And you are, too. 

In what ways is your very common self carrying God's story? In what ways is He, the master potter, taking your common thing and making you holy? Do you see it?  

God of Clouds

As kids, we used to look up into the sky and wonder about the clouds. How they made their shapes. What kinds they were. Where they came from. 

The prophet Zechariah answers that question: God makes the clouds (10:1). 

When I read that verse recently, what actually popped into my mind is that God gathers the waters. 

Water is such a hard thing to gather. Have you ever spilled any? Have you ever spent time on your hands and knees, pushing water around with a towel or a cloth of some kind because it just refuses to soak in and come up? Have you ever tried to squeegee it into a bucket? You put water into a cup, and as soon as you move, it starts sloshing around trying to get out. 

Water is hard to contain. 

And yet, God gathers the waters. 

He gathers the rain drops. And the rivers. And the little creeks. And the oceans. He gathers the drip from the kitchen faucet and the stuff that goes down the toilet and into the sewer. He gathers what's sitting stagnant in the gutters and what's flowing freely over the water mill. He even gathers your tears. 

That's what really struck me about it. All of the kinds of water there is in the world, and God simply gathers it all and makes the clouds. Clouds that give us shade on a sunny day. Clouds that give us rain on a parched land. Clouds that form themselves into amusing shapes so that we can lie on our backs and stare up at them and dream a little, using our imaginations to think of something more than the troubles of this world. 

It's a beautiful metaphor for the rest of our lives. 

God gathers our lives, our stories. Our hurts and our aches. Our victories and our triumphs. Our illness and our healing. Our struggle and our success. Our brokenness and the little bits that are coming back together. God takes all the little pieces of us - from the rain drops to the oceans - and makes something beautiful. 

Something refreshing. 

Something nourishing. 

Something sheltering. 

Something life-giving. 

And if we just take some time to rest, to pause, to stop for a second and look up into the heavens, we'll see it. And maybe we'll take a minute to ponder what it looks like, to marvel at its shape, to laugh a little or even rejoice at the glory of our God...

...and what He can do when He gathers the waters. 

God of Fire

God is love. And His love burns like a fire for His holy place and people. 

But when someone like Zechariah says such a thing from the Lord - that His love is like a fire burning within Him (8:1) - what does that even mean? 

First, it means that His love is all-consuming. Fire eats up everything in its path and spreads until there's nothing left to feed it. There are very few substances in this world that can persist through fire's consuming flame (a few metals, for example, and three or so guys from Israel...). For the most part, fire takes up everything in its path and leaves very little behind. 

So when we talk about God's love being like a fire, we have to understand it takes up every square inch of Him. It fills Him. It consumes every single iota of His being because it is fueled by who He is.

Second, it means that His love is provisional. That is, it provides something for those of us who receive it. 

This, I think, is two-fold. First, it provides warmth, the kind of warmth that spreads through our souls. Remember when the guys were on the road to Emmaus after Jesus died, and they were talking with this stranger who turns out to be Jesus, and they said to each other, "Didn't we feel strangely warm while talking to Him?" That's the fire of God's love. It burns so wholly that it makes us warm. 

It also provides a means for us. Fire, as all-consuming as it can be, can also do a lot of very beneficial things for us. It is a way, for example, to cook food. It is a way to refine impurities in metal so that it can be used for other things. It is a way to harden pottery so that it can be useful. It burns gasoline in our cars so that we can drive places. Our lives are fueled by fire in a bunch of small and big ways. 

In the same way, our lives are fueled by God's love. God's love nourishes us, provides for us, makes our lives possible. It gives us the resources we need to do the things that God desires for us to do...and the things we want to do for Him. 

Third, fire is a light in the darkness. Have you ever noticed how many candles it takes to light up a dark room? 

One. 

Just one. It only takes the tiniest little bit of flame to totally transform the darkness. And it only takes the tiniest little bit of God's love to totally transform our lives. On our hardest days, in the face of our toughest trials, when the whole world seems to be falling apart, one microscopic little bit of God's love is enough to completely change everything. 

And, of course, God never deals in microscopic little bits of love. He can't. He is love. 

And His love is like a fire.... 

Bob

I was Bob's client long before I was Bob's friend. And he intimidated me from the very moment I met him. 

Bob is one of those guys who is extremely knowledgeable - not just in book learning, but in life experience. He has an extremely good intuition and an insight that has developed over decades of putting his passion into practice. When you talk to Bob, you feel the gap between everything you thought you knew and the gift that a lifetime of experience has to offer. 

Not on purpose. I mean, not because Bob is in any way arrogant about it. In fact, he is a great teacher. It's just that...well, maybe it's my own insecurities that get in the way. (I know that it is.) 

After many years of being his client, Bob and I had the opportunity to become friends, by virtue of worshiping together in the same church. That automatically made us brother and sister, and Bob took that seriously. There's not a member of the church who is not Bob's sibling. But...I don't think I spoke to him for the first several years. 

Bob and I actually share many of our passions. We both love God. We both love humans. And we both love dogs. And Bob has always been willing to share generously on all of these topics. 

For me, I always worry about others thinking I am taking advantage of them. I worry about developing one-emphasis relationships. I worry about feeling like a leach or coming across as needy. I worry about...well, I worry about a lot of things. 

But when I really needed Bob, when my dog was struggling beyond my capacity to provide for her, Bob was right there. He offered freely from his wisdom and helped me navigate some really tricky terrain - first with an epileptic dog, then later when she developed diabetes. When I had ankle surgery and couldn't take my best friend for a walk for a few months, Bob came up and walked her for me a few times. He even took her out for ice cream. 

When her seizure medicine was backordered and I couldn't seem to get my hands on any, Bob used his credentials to get us what we needed.

You would think, then, that in her final months (which I didn't know were her final months), when we were really struggling all over again, Bob would have been my first call...but he wasn't. The truth is that even in all these years of worshiping together, learning together, loving together, serving together, I have never gotten over my initial intimidation. That's on me, not him. 

Because when we were really struggling again, Bob called me. He provided his wisdom again. He offered to help again. He reminded me to call him whenever I needed again. 

I don't think he knows the things I wrestle with in my heart when I talk to him. Again, those are my issues, not his. But he continues to be so generous with his wisdom and his love. That's who he is. 

I find myself in a similar position. I have a number of persons in my life in this season, as I have in many seasons past, who are intimidated by me for one reason or another. Because of my knowledge. Because of my experience. Because of my faith (I hope). Because of whatever. I have a number of persons who I know feel that gap when they talk with me, and because of the way that I feel when I talk with Bob, I am keenly aware of it. 

The challenge that I give myself, then, is to live like Bob. To live so graciously and generously with what I have to offer that it's clear that the hindrances are not from my side. At the same time, to be so gracious and generous that when I know there's a hindrance there, I'm the one to pick up the phone. 

It bothers me to think that anyone might be intimidated by me. I hate that. It's not something I do intentionally, and I do everything I can to not be intimidated, but to be gracious and welcoming and loving and encouraging and all of the things that Bob has been to me over the years. And yet, I know so well that it just still happens. 

One of the regrets that I have in my life is that I don't think I took advantage of the opportunities that God had for me in the seasons in which Bob was a more prominent factor in my life and my faith. But I'm thankful that even in missing that chance, I am still learning a lesson. A lesson that will hopefully make me more, ironically, like Bob. And a better friend to those around me. 

Thanks, Bob. Honestly. 

God With You

I talk to God a lot more when I'm scared. That's just the truth. 

Whenever I'm doing something that requires more than I think I have in me, I become keenly aware of my desperate need for God to not only be God, but to be near. 

I remember the first couple of times I made inter-state drives by myself. I would periodically look at the mile markers I was passing and the odometer on my car, take a breath, and pray, "God, together, we have gotten this far. No matter how far we get, You have to get me home." And every time, He did. 

Before a number of my surgeries, I have prayed for God to comfort me, to give me peace, to give my body the rest that it needs to recuperate. 

On difficult days, I have to stop and remember that I do nothing in my own strength. 

And when I'm stressed, exhausted, or burdened beyond my measure and the worst parts of me start to come out, I remind myself that God is with me and that what I'm doing is unbecoming of a child of God...especially in the very presence of her Father. 

Every year as Christmas approaches, this is the very thing that we prepare our hearts and minds for - the coming of Christ, the presence of God, Immanuel. It is the greatest promise - and fulfillment - of God. 

God with us. 

But God with us is not just the promise of Christmas; it's the promise of God's entire story. 

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. He filled them, then He walked in the garden in the cool of the day with Adam and Eve. On the banks of the Jabbok River, He wrestled with Jacob. At the burning bush, He met with Moses. His glory filled the Tabernacle and later, the Temple - a visible, tangible glory. 

And then, the exile. And then, trouble. And then, the Temple is lying in ruins. And then, for too long in Israel's history, it was so hard for them to understand, to believe, that God was still with them. 

That's why the words of Haggai are so powerful. The prophet reminds the people not once, but twice, that God is with them (1:13, 2:4).

And just like me when I'm scared, this long period of silence and alienation and uncertainty and fear was exactly when God's people needed most to hear that. It's when they most needed that reminder. 

It's probably when you most need it, too. 

God is with you. Whatever you're facing, whatever this day brings, however much you think you're missing, however quiet the heavens sound, however far from home you feel, whether we're approaching Christmas quite yet or not, if you need this reminder today, then here it is for you. Say it with every emphasis that you can. 

God is with you.

God is with you. 

God is with you. 

God is with you. 

And He will never leave you nor forsake you. That's the promise, and you can count on it. 

God's Sacrifice

I have never killed anything. (Well, bugs.) I have never been hunting. But I watch a lot of survival shows, so I've seen some other folks do it. 

It's messy. 

And I've read the Old Testament, every word of Leviticus, and it sounds hard. I mean, I find it difficult to trim a piece of meat I just bought from the store that the store has already trimmed but left a little too much fat on for my liking. I never seem to have a knife sharp enough. I can't get the meat to stay still enough to get the fat off. All of a sudden, there's blood everywhere (some of it might be mine), and I decide, you know, it's fine. 

When I'm reading the Old Testament and thinking about the sacrifices, it's hard for me to switch my brain sometimes and realize just how much blood there was. The beautiful altar and table and tools that were made for the Temple would have lasted exactly one use before they were blood-covered. The garments for the priests? Blood-covered. I once joked about how everyone likes a good hog roast (except, apparently, God, since pork was unclean) and how roasting meet smells so good, but have you ever smelled that much blood? 

I work in healthcare. Trust me, you don't want to smell that much blood.

The point is - the sacrifice is tedious, messy work. It's nauseating for most of it. It's bloody and gooey and requires the sharpest of tools to do it well. Separate the fat from one lobe of the liver and the kidneys? It takes a certain skill...and an iron stomach...to prepare a sacrifice. 

And remember - the people of God were doing this themselves. The priest's job was to offer the sacrifice, not to prepare it. The Levites might have helped sometimes, but the Bible repeatedly tells the people to prepare their sacrifice. Even the big one - the Passover - every family was to slaughter their own lamb, smear their own doorframes with blood (again, the smell...).

This was a distasteful task that every (male) Israelite was responsible for. But I think that was the point. I think God wanted His people to understand how dirty and disgusting and laborious and messy this whole process was. I think He wanted them to be good and familiar with it, down to their bones. 

And then...

And then along comes a prophet who says God has prepared a sacrifice (Zephaniah 1:7). He's done the dirty work. He's got the sharp tools, the right knife. He's separating the fat from the organs. He's draining the blood at the side of the altar (some of it might be His...okay, it is His). He's smelling that awful smell. 

It wasn't the first time. When Adam and Eve sinned and found themselves in shame, it was God who slaughtered the first animal to make them coverings of animal skins. It was very early on in our sin that the smell of that blood hit our noses...and God's. 

But it would be the last time. 

Praise the Lord. 

God of the Unbelievable

What is something that could happen in the world right now that you wouldn't believe it if I told you? 

Ask that question, and your mind might go to any of a number of negative things. That's the way the world has wired us, I guess - to expect the worst of things. Maybe you're thinking about world wars or atomic bombs or rapists or murderers or all kinds of things that make headlines. 

But I'm talking about the good things. I'm talking about the cool things. I'm talking about the things that don't seem possible, not that seems unthinkable. 

I'm talking what it must have felt like to be around when the first ships crossed the ocean, when the first spacecraft came back from orbit. When we finally get the flying cars that the Jetsons promised us. 

...when cancer finds a cure. When addiction is broken. When families are restored.

I'm talking about that moment when you put glasses on a baby and their face lights up because they finally see what their momma looks like. 

I'm talking about the unbelievable. 

What is the miracle you're waiting on? What doesn't seem possible right now? 

Got it? Okay, good. 

What if I told you that God was already working on it? 

Maybe not that specific thing. We don't get to know His timelines. We don't get to understand His ways. 

But I am telling you that right now, God is working on something you wouldn't believe if I told you. You wouldn't believe it if He told you. Like Sarai, you might even laugh a little. 

The Bible is full of these stories, sure, but these aren't Bible times. Friend, these are still God's times, and He's still the same God that wrote every one of those stories. He's the God that's writing yours. 

Habakkuk tells us that God is doing things in our lifetime that we won't believe (1:5), and it's true. If you live with your eyes of faith open, you'll see all kinds of things that are beyond our wildest imagination, the hopes we've had, the miracles we've been praying for, and they are happening. 

Have you seen any of them? Maybe you've lived one or two. 

God is doing it. The same way He came to Sarai and made a nonagenarian pregnant, the same way He came to a virgin and implanted in her the Savior of the world...God is pregnant with the unbelievable, and He's giving new life every day into a world that least suspects it. 

So what are you least suspecting? Is it possible He's already working on it? 

God's Anger

God is slow to anger; you've probably heard that somewhere. But another way to say that, the way that Nahum presents it, is that God is not quick to anger (1:3). 

That difference is important.

When we say that God is slow to anger, we imply that the anger gradually builds up inside of Him over a long period of time. That His anger builds in small increments, every little thing adding onto the last thing and the thing before that and the thing before that. He remembers them all, and they're building on each other until God just finally erupts into anger and then, you've had it. 

Like that person you just pester and pester and pester and tease and provoke until finally, they've had it, and all of a sudden, it's like...whoa. 

Then, we say, God is angry. God has had it. He's fed up with us. He's done. He's finally going to smite us the way He's always wanted to; He's just been biding His time until now, but now, we've done it. 

I think a lot of us have had that image of God at some point in our journey. Some of us may still have that image now. It's actually a pretty common one - God is secretly angry and can't wait to come down on us, but He "has" to be patient. 

But if you read this passage another way, if you read it the way this translation struck me and you read that God is not quick to anger, it paints an entirely different portrait. 

It gives us an image of God who doesn't want to be angry. He's not packing everything away in some mental file in His head that's just building Him toward more anger. He's not being patient with us; He's being consistent with Himself. He's trying actively to not become angry because He's not a God of anger; He's a God of love. 

He's forgiving by nature. His first instinct is to treat us with grace. Remember when He found Adam and Eve naked and ashamed? The first thing He did was to make them garments to cover themselves...garments way better than their raggedly ol' fig leaves they'd tied together. He made them durable, lasting coverings of animal hide. Because that's who He is.

He was heartbroken, but He wasn't angry. And I think that's the God we need to have more of in our heads and in our hearts. At the core of it, there are probably a thousand other adjectives we could use before we could use angry because angry is the last thing God wants to be. 

He's heartbroken. He's sad. He's grieving. He's compassionate. He's gracious. He's merciful. 

He's not quick to anger. 

He's not slow to anger because the anger isn't just building all the time like that phrase implies; He's simply not quick to anger because angry is the last thing He really wants to be. 

That's the God who loves us. 

Helen

I've known Helen almost my whole life, off and on. When I was an elementary school student, she worked at my elementary school. As I grew up through the rest of the grades, I kept seeing her. She was a lunch lady and, occasionally, a custodian, and always had that certain way about her. 

When I became a lunch lady myself and walked into the high school cafeteria on my first day, Helen wasn't there. But she showed up a couple of hours later for her shift. Every day. Thirty-plus years after I had first walked through my kindergarten doors, I walked through the back doors of the kitchen and Helen was still there. 

And she knew her stuff.  She had been around long enough that she knew just about everything. And, as with most persons in her generation, had an opinion about everything. She was more the boss of that kitchen than the actual manager. 

At first, Helen made a lot of complaints about me, I think. The manager kept coming to talk to me, telling me I was doing things wrong, or that I should be doing them a different way. It always bugged me that Helen wouldn't just tell me these things herself. I mean, we were both adults. Talk to me like an adult and tell me that you prefer things a certain way. Not a problem. 

But as time went on, Helen warmed up to me, and she started taking me under her wing a bit more. She started showing me some of her tricks. She started winking at me when she'd bend the rules a little. 

One day, I took a heavy load of dishes from my work line back to the dish room, where Helen was busily working to keep up. She took one look at my pile as I unloaded it from my cart, looked at me, and said, with that knowing smile of hers, "You're lucky I like you." 

And indeed, I was. 

Over the next few years, Helen would say that to me often. "You're lucky I like you," then smile a little. Maybe even chuckle a bit. It got to the point where I would beat her to it. I'd run into her in the grocery store, put an arm around her shoulder, and say, "You know, I'm lucky you like me," and she'd smile. 

It's been four years since I worked with Helen, and my life has taken me in a different direction since then. These days, I'm one of the persons at work who has been there the longest, even though I haven't been there very long at all. I've been in the business, though, for quite awhile, and I have a breadth and a depth of knowledge about a lot of things, about how we operate. 

In other words, I'm quickly becoming Helen. 

I'm becoming the person who knows how to do it. Who has the experience to be a good help. Who is the person that all the new persons, all the young persons, are looking up to. Who low-key sometimes kind of runs the place...not on purpose. 

And I admit, there are times I just take these young persons and feed them right up the chain. Tell management that they need to have a talk with the new one. Need to set them straight. Need to get the ground rules right. 

But I warm up to them, too. I enjoy mentoring and teaching and helping. I enjoy working with them, not just for work stuff, but for their lives, too. They come to me and say, "Can you help me with something?" And I think about that little ol' cart overloaded with dirty dishes, and I get a little smile on my face. 

The other day, I might even have said to one of them, "You're lucky I like you," and laughed a little. 

I am so lucky Helen liked me. Truly. Helen was such a tremendous blessing in my life for a very long time - as a student, as an employee, as a friend. And now, I'm becoming Helen. I'm becoming that person. 

Helen's friendship made me feel like one of the luckiest young women in the world. I can only hope my friendship does the same for these young folks around me. 

God Redeems

If you've ever watched horror movies, thrillers, or even true-crime documentaries, you know that the instinct of the captive is to run first and ask questions later. See an opening? Take it. Lost in the woods now? That's still better. Overestimated your endurance? At least you have a head start. 

You always see someone hiding behind a tree, trying not to be noticed by the psychopath who is pursuing them. Diving into a ditch. Ducking into an abandoned whatever. (Not smart, by the way, but here we are.) There's one thing in the captive's mind: 

I'm never going back there.

But what if "back there" is the only place you can ever truly find freedom?

Our instinct in life is to run. To get away. As far as we can as fast as we can. We'll make the rest of the plan later. 

But no one ever found true freedom by running away. You spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, always afraid it's coming back to get you, always wondering what's lurking around the next corner. Overreacting to every little noise, every flicker of light, every change in routine. You can never truly be free by running. 

But you can be free in Christ. 

And when God sets you free, He goes "back there" to make sure it sticks. Micah puts it this way: God goes to the place of your captivity to buy you back (4:10). To redeem you. To set you free. 

God goes to where your body is most broken and starts the healing there. God goes to where your relationships have failed and starts the healing there. God goes to where your life is falling apart, and that's where He starts putting it back together. 

God goes right to where the psychopath who is trying to hold you captive dwells, looks that enemy straight in the face, shoves death back into his hands and declares, "This one's Mine." 

Then He walks you away from that place, truly free. 

It's the only way. 

God of the Ruins

Have you ever seen a weed in the cracks? 

These things will grow anywhere. You're walking down a beautiful sidewalk and right there in the middle of it is a beautiful...dandelion. Around my area, the little maple tree seeds fall in their helicopters and bloom right wherever they land. We've got little tiny wannabe trees popping up in the oddest of places. 

And they'll grow right through the fence, too. See, my neighbor has weeds. But a few of them have reached through the millimeters of space between my fence boards to say hello to my yard, too. Weeds, I might add, that are growing in the 18-inch-wide patch of dirt between his garage and my 6-foot fence, where there's no such thing as sunshine and barely any rain falls and how on earth does anything grow here?

But it does. 

Sometimes, I wonder the same thing about my life. Especially in the more desolate seasons. 

In the times in which I have lost so much, seemingly everything. When the hits keep coming. When the paycheck isn't quite as big as the bills. When the food goes rotten in the fridge long before its expiration date. When the dog gets sick. When the car breaks down. When my health falters. When my faith falters. When it seems like everything around me is lying in ruins and I feel a little bit like Job, looking around for shards of the life I used to know to at least scratch the unbearable itch while my skin and my eyes weep over the troubles of this fallen world, this broken life. 

But then, a sprout. A tiny little thing. A speck of green, of new life, peeking through the cracks. 

Taking root. 

This is what our God does. He grows things in the places it doesn't seem like they would grow. Micah says He plants vineyards in the ruins (1:6), and that's true. It's not just weeds; it's flowers. And it's branches. And it's fruit. 

If I'm being honest, the fruit isn't always a comfort. Sometimes, it's bitter. When I look around the ruins of a life that seems to be falling apart, the last thing I am amused by is some little fig starting to form. Like, cool, I'm starving to death but here's one bite of fructose. Yippee. 

It's like being on a survival show and finding a grub on day 11. Fantastic. 

Yet if I'm also being honest, every time I'm out and about and see one of these little weeds that has popped up in the most unexpected place, one of these trees that's starting to sprout in a weird spot just because it doesn't know anything else to do, one little branch of a vine waving at me through my fence, I marvel at how resilient life is. At how amazing it is that even in what looks like the worst of all circumstances, something is growing here. 

Because God made it to grow. 

He plants vineyards in the ruins and we reap a harvest of the finest wine. 

That's God for ya'. 

God Sees

One of the fun things about being an adult in a middle school was catching the kids in all kinds of moments they didn't think anyone was watching. I'd just be walking down the hallway and end up walking right through some crazy handshake, some weird dance-off, some conversation that doesn't make sense unless you happen to be 12 years old. 

One of the challenges was knowing that no matter what I came upon, I may still have missed something. It's the moment you catch a normally good kid doing something totally out of character, but you missed whatever the bully did that provoked her. You see a kid ripping some toy out of another kid's hands, and it's tempting to want to step in and correct the behavior, but what you missed was that the other kid ripped the toy out someone else's hands first. It can be a lot of pressure to think you're the witness. 

It takes a lot of humility to confess that you might not know everything about what you see. 

(Honestly, I don't even know anything about any of the handshakes that I saw.) 

And I confess there have been many times in my life where I have wanted to defend myself, too. Where I have been caught in half-a-story, in a scene that doesn't quite portray the truth of what's been going on. Where what I'm seen doing doesn't seem to make any sense, but if you only had a little more context.... 

One of the comforts that we give ourselves when the world wrongly judges us is that "God knows." God knows what's really going on. God knows our hearts. God understands the whole situation. 

He saw everything. 

The prophet Jonah confirms this. God sees what people do, he says (3:10). 

God sees the thing that started it all. He sees the quiet moments that put it all in perspective. He knows what one thing has led to another. 

God sees the thing that looks totally out of character, and He knows how you got here. He doesn't have to confess He might have missed something; He saw it all. 

But what's cool about this is that God sees my good moments, too. He sees my goofy moments. He hears the little joke that makes me smile. He witnesses the secret handshake that maybe I'm just working on with myself. He sees the little bounce in my step when I'm trying something new. 

It's cool to think that as many neat moments as I've had walking the halls of a school, God has those moments all the time. And He has them in my life. 

It makes me think about what I want Him to catch me doing. What I want Him to see. It makes me think about what it means to be walking the same hallways of this world as God Himself does and knowing that at any moment, He might see something I wasn't even thinking anyone might be watching. That He might hear something that only makes sense if you've lived my life. 

Impromptu dance-off! 

God Judges

If you're paying attention to the news, you know about Israel and Gaza and you know about Russia and Ukraine. If you've got a little bit wider spread, you might be aware of what's happening to Christians in many parts of Africa. A little bit closer to home, you probably have a keen awareness of how your brother has always gotten away with everything or how your one toxic coworker seems to continue to have a stranglehold on the whole workplace. 

Face it - the world is full of broken things. Upside-down things. Things that make us wonder if God is really good, if He's really in control, and if He's ever going to do anything about the things that are so wrong in our world. 

Rest assured, friends. 

He is. 

As I think about what it means to be a person of faith trying to live in this space, in this already-but-not-yet of brokenness that hasn't been redeemed, restored, or even revenged (wouldn't that be nice?), it's easy for me to be asking the same questions as everyone else. What is God waiting on? 

I'm learning the patience. I'm learning the prayerfulness. I'm learning to wait and to try to live my own life and mind my own business and worry about me. I'm doing the things that I'm told, or that I believe, are the right things to do - trying to be faithful and figure out what faith looks like in this space and take responsibility for what it looks like to be a Christian here and now, but if I'm honest, it feels like that always falls on me. Like I'm always trying to turn these opportunities into ones for personal reflection and growth. Like I'm always putting the burden of "better" on my own shoulders as I try to just keep being faithful. 

And I wonder why it is that the burden has to be so heavy for those of us who most expectantly wait for God to step in.

Then, another verse, this one out of the New Testament, straight out of the mouth of Jesus Himself, comes to mind. "Take care of the plank in your own eye before you try to remove the speck from your brother's." 

In other words, a reminder that God has always had a higher standard for His people than He has for everyone else. A higher expectation of believers than of the non-believing world. 

We're supposed to love each other first, then worry about all the rest of the stuff that's out there. 

And when it looks like the broken world is winning, like things are falling apart and will never come back together, like hate is greater than love, like we'll never find common ground to stand on, like God isn't coming to fix things, remember that we were called to be His people first. 

So yes, what's happening in the world is tragic. It's heartbreaking. It makes us question what God is doing in the world. But perhaps the most troublesome things of all aren't the ones in the headlines; they're the ones in our heart. They're not the ones happening half a world away, but just down the street. Or maybe even in our own homes. 

As Obadiah says, the day is coming. God's judging is coming to the nations (Obadiah 1:15). 

It just starts with us.