That Loud, Unholy Night.

It's a tradition I love. Every year, at Christmas Eve service, our congregation sings "Silent Night" as we pass the tiny flame from the candles cupped in our hands down the rows of pews lining our sanctuary. Once the room is filled with those warm, flickering heartbeats in the dark, we stand, file outside, and huddle together. All the while, singing,

Silent night, holy night;all is calm, all is bright. 

I adore the song. I truly do. But recently, in the midst of my recitation of the so-familiar tune, my Father reminded me that its lyrics, like so many of our other traditional Christmas imaginings (really now, a blonde baby Jesus?), are far from accurate.

The night was not silent. It was filled with the sounds of donkey-brays and lamb-bleats--with the piercing cries of a woman in labor--with the newborn wails of an infant come into the broken and screaming Earth.

The night was not holy. It was filled with the the violence of a world not yet redeemed--a night with no room for this child who would never know spot nor stain until the day He bore sins that were not His own--a night that within a few years would spark the slaughter of babes as a jealous king sought to destroy the only one who was ever good.

Jesus did not sleep in heavenly peace. He forsook heavenly peace, trading it for earthly sorrow, so that we, through the redemption of our souls and the indwelling of the Spirit (God with us), may know a peace from Heaven that none before us had ever experienced.

Jesus was not Lord at His birth. He gave up lordship to come as a servant. He came in complete submission to the will of His Father. He surrendered His authority, refusing to flee from death, refusing to call the angels to His aid--surrendering to the grave, to the curse of the mankind, to the Enemy--that He might gain the ultimate victory and offer all power and authority to us.

Yes, we know the ending to this story, and it is beautiful. But let us not water down its beginnings for nostalgia's sake. Let us not forget, Beloved, what our Savior endured for us. Let us never take His gift for granted--this dawn of redeeming grace.

Be a Pansy.

The December sun is warm on the backs of our necks as Grandma stoops down to pluck off a few wilted, purple blooms from the plant.

"You have to pick off the dead parts, or the whole plant will die," she explains. "It's called deadheading."

I tuck the information away, in the special portion of my mind I save for things I know will one day be important.

***

I often hear pansy used (and use it myself) as a name to denote weakness. But I've learned that pansies aren't really weak at all. They can bloom in any season, in almost every color. They're strong enough to survive through winter.

Maybe we should all try to be a little more like pansies. Rather than allowing the parts of our old nature to corrupt the new, we should pick off those dead pieces, as Jesus said:

If your hand or foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away (Matthew 18:8).

After all,

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness (Ephesians 4:22-24).

Maybe we should learn to bloom in any season. Maybe we should learn to love our infinite varieties of color. Maybe we're strong enough to make it through the winter.

Maybe the next time someone calls you a pansy (...okay, well, it happens to me), instead of being offended, you should simply smile and say, "Thanks."

Maybe what the world calls weakness, is really a beautiful strength.

From the Belly of Hell Cried I.

I want to spew out curses honest as Peter's betrayal - overflow of this black-burnt heart spat through unclean lips - four-letter nails cutting holy flesh. Screaming

this body You gave,

why, oh Potter?

Screaming hatred at the malformed clay that cages my soul - screaming hatred at me - screaming hatred at You. Screaming

how long, how long, how long

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

wallow in

my infantile selfishness,

my petulant greed,

my suffocating shame

my

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

close my eyes against the tides

that always 

pull me back 

to the starting line

and (let me (please don't let me))

drown.

I had a dream

I spent everything I had, kicking out against thick waters. So close

to safety, my fingers clutching the dock's splintered edge. But

my arms were far too weak to carry my own weight. And

a creature, dark and hungry, was swimming up from the depths.

...

[Epilogue]
? ? later

When the morning came,

it came with sunlight

weeping mercy.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Listening is not a passive act.

It requires focus, attention to detail--to the dip and rise of her voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in her face, the watery depths (or lack) of emotion in her eyes, the layers (or absence) of meaning in her words.

It requires self-control--not simply of your tongue (which, as an introvert, I'm fairly proficient at bridling), but of your mind (which, as an introvert, I'm not at all proficient at bridling).

That's probably why I talk so much to God. Because there's no fake-listening as far as He's concerned. He knows my scattered, rampant thoughts. I say, Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening, but He knows I'm not really waiting to hear His voice. Sure, my mouth is shut, but my mind has already wandered to yesterday, or tomorrow, sliding down the steep and inevitable spiral into self-absorption.

So, in a misguided effort to avoid this trap, I talk. Talk, talk, talk. Words, words, words. On, on, and on.

Until He gently chastens me.

Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong. Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few. As a dream comes when there are many cares, so the speech of a fool when there are many words. Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore stand in awe of God, (Ecclesiastes 5:1-3, 7).

All too often, I am the fool, coming to God with my many words, thinking they will be a pleasing offering to Him. The words are beautiful, to be sure. But more times than I'd care to admit, they are empty.

God's words, however, are never empty. They are full of power. They release freedom and truth. They never return void. They are the words that shaped the universe and sparked the beating of our hearts.

How He longs for us to listen Him. To learn--the dip and rise of His voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in His face, the unending depths of emotion in His eyes, the infinite layers of meaning in His words.

Day after day, the God of eternity invites us to sit at His feet, and to listen. Oh, Beloved. There is no greater privilege than this.

I Ask the Stars.

I'm learning to take comfort in my backwards life.

I still struggle sometimes, with the desire for "normality". People with normal lives aren't questioned, cautioned, asked to justify themselves. Instead, they are applauded, praised, considered a success. Rather than having a panic attack when asked about their future, they can calmly give a response detailing their educational, financial, career, and marital goals. They know the kind of car they want to drive, the kind of house they want to live in, and have already begun a college fund for their 1.5 children.

And when my own response is an awkward shrug of the shoulders, I'm already inwardly cringing at the expressions of disbelief I know I'll receive in return (their thoughts, loud enough to hear, what is wrong with you, what are you thinking?), and a (large, loud) part of me wishes that I had my life together, neatly packaged and ready for send-off into a big, bright future I've sculpted with my bare hands.

But I'm learning to take comfort, in this rather unsettling brand of insanity that is my life. I'm learning to set up my sails and trust the wind that carries me. I'm learning that I love you, but I don't need you, to tell me I'm alright.

I've placed my compass in better Hands.

It's been a long time since I've seen it. And there are moments, stretching painfully long, when my faith wavers. On those dark and desperate nights, I look up with pleading glance, and ask, Where, oh where, am I?

And the stars reply, with their twinkling eyes: Little child, of little faith. Do not fear; you are on course. These waters are drawing you, ever North.

If Only We Were Squirrels, & Could Sleep These Months Away.

Mid-October in Southern Georgia, a chill has finally taken to the air. I pull my jacket tighter, and welcome it. I welcome the season of thick socks and sweaters, of ear-warming beanies and noose-tight scarves. I welcome the change.

Which is a rarity, for me--I, who, most days, am such a resistor of change in any form. I , who, at the first sign of the season's turning, would often much rather stock up my goods, bury myself in a cave's warm belly, and drift into the sweet bliss of hibernation, than wait out the months among a world made bitter and barren with cold.

But there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven*, and hibernation has never been an option. When our time to be born is exchanged for our time to die, when our time to plant is exchanged for our time to uproot, when our time to search is exchanged for our time to give up, when our time to keep is exchanged for our time to throw away--these are the seasons our eyes strain for color, but are filled instead with only winter's gray.

What we are always forgetting is--how quickly the seasons shift. How soon the pain will pass--how inevitably the frost will melt--how marvelously those colors will be born again--and how deeply we will breathe in, that new and infinite expanse.

*Ecclesiastes 3:1.

Unmerciful Servant, There Will Be Weeping.

Why are you surprised at this, as if something strange is happening to you?

Of course. Of course the Enemy attacks our relationships. Of course he rips apart the sinews of the Body. Of course he snaps the tendons, tears the ligaments, shatters the bones. Of course.

He heard, too, that day God said It is not good for man to be alone. It is the day loneliness became a weapon, isolation a tactic of torture.

And we accept it so willingly. Blame, embitter, hate. Withdraw, retreat, run away. Flinging away our antidotes--forgiveness, mercy, love--far from our sob-wracked hearts.

We'd rather lay down and bleed. We'd rather curl up and die.

If you could hear these words spoken in my heart's voice, they'd be screaming. Dear brothers, dear sisters, have we fallen so far? We claim to follow the Perfect One, the Flawless, the Beautiful, who said of those who crushed Him, Forgive them, for they know not what they do--and yet, we will not fight for our brothers, our sisters? Because of a mistake, because of a sin? Because of our pride, because of our laziness?

We blame our inability to love on the other. I cannot love him, I cannot love her, because they did, they didn't do.

But it is our flaw, Beloved. It is we who refuse to love.

May God have mercy on us.