(IN)Courage

[Judy Harder]

Don't Kick the Anthill
Lysa TerKeurst



I stood at the little red dirt mound watching ants. They were busy. I was not.

The afternoon had been a little too slow for me. Several of my friends had gotten an invitation to the community pool. Another friend was at camp for the week. Even my very last resort, the pigtailed aggravation that lived in the apartment below ours, was busy. "She's napping," her mom had informed me.

I walked away thinking, "She's 6 years old. Only two years younger than me and she still takes naps? That's the awfullest thing a mom could do to her child. And this is now the awfullest afternoon ever."

I sat on the swing of the sad little playground behind our apartment complex. I scuffed the toes of my red Keds, making lines in the dirt as I moved slowly back and forth. If a child could have died from boredom, I felt quite terminal at that moment.

Then I spotted the anthill.

I walked over and stood there. Just about the time I was thinking about how lucky all those ants were to have so many friends, I heard a scratchy little voice call out to me.

"I bet you won't stick your foot through that anthill." Pigtailed girl had woken up from her afternoon slumber. And for heaven's sake I would not, could not be shamed by a girl who still took naps.

I knew with my mind I shouldn't kick the anthill. I knew with my heart I shouldn't kick the anthill. And I knew deep down in my soul I shouldn't kick the anthill. I knew. Every part of me knew I should walk away from the anthill.

But some silly part of my mouth betrayed me.

"Yes, I will!" I declared as I kicked my foot into the middle of ant Hades.

It didn't take long to feel as if someone had lit 1,000 needles on fire and was stabbing me mercilessly.

Since that day I haven't kicked an anthill. At least not in the literal sense.

But I have gotten myself into situations where I invited trouble into my life that just didn't need to be there. Especially in the area of saying yes to something I absolutely should say no to.

I will know with my mind I should say no. I will know with my heart I should say no. I will know deep down in my soul I should say no.

But then my mouth will betray me, "Yes, of course I will do that."

And then?

The sting of the three d's comes...

Dread – As I write yet another thing on my schedule, I feel the weight of overload.

Disappointment – In order to make this happen, I will disappoint someone. Time is like money in the bank – there is only so much of it. And once it runs out, any further expenditures will cause an overdrawn account.

Drama – Dread and disappointment will ratchet my emotions to a tipping point. A tipping point that's not healthy for me or those with whom I do life.

Here's what I'm trying to preach to myself: Just because I can do something doesn't mean I should do it.

I kicked the anthill that day for three reasons... I thought it proved I was something. I thought it would impress nap girl. And because I didn't think through the cost beforehand.

Maybe, before saying yes to one more thing on my schedule today, I should ask myself...

Am I trying to prove something?

Am I trying to impress someone?

Have I thought through the cost of saying yes?

It's not bad to say yes to opportunities. But we really should consider whether this is an assignment or an anthill.

Take the assignment if it's yours. But, don't kick the anthills.

"He who heeds discipline shows the way to life, but whoever ignores correction leads others astray," (Proverbs 10:17).

By Lysa TerKeurst

[Judy Harder]

Peace in the Making
Dec 07, 2013 12:20 am | Sarah Markley



It happened in the kitchen.

Around a skillet of cheesy eggs and another one full of turkey bacon. Breakfast for dinner only happens when Daddy is home late from work.

Everything else in my life has been calling so loudly. The children's homework. The house that does not clean itself. The laundry baskets and Christmas planning, the holiday parties that need wrapped hostess gifts and the school programs. The other for-pay jobs I do each day even when I don't have time.

The details. Oh, the details that keep us crawling to the finish line of Christmas.

It all screams so big and loud so that even my own brain cannot fix itself on anything for more than a moment.

And I must write. I must. Not for my blog or my {unwritten} book or for anyone else. But for my own sanity.

But there hasn't been a stitch of time. Each stolen minute is filled with the loud calls from everything else in my life and one needs quiet to create, right?

I sat for an hour with a blinking cursor while I answered everyone else's calls except the ones that would calm the urgency inside.

So tonight I lost all sense of adulthood and advent and crumpled once again into a folded mess of a cardigan, jeans and boots in the dining room.

It was then I decided that breakfast for dinner was just as good as anything.

I asked the eleven-year-old to make the eggs and the seven-year-old to empty the dishwasher. And they sensed I was needy. I'd already apologized forty-five thousand times in the last hour.

So they obeyed with wide, empathetic eyes.

I pulled the bacon out of the refrigerator and retrieved the skillets from where I'd hidden them inside the oven.

"Maybe you need a few minutes by yourself, Mama." The oldest said as she swept crumbs from the counter. "I can make dinner." My heart. My grief at my own brokenness. My whole spirit begging not to be a failure as a mother.

It was all that it took to break my sense of urgency and mania.

"No. Let's do it together." Burners on. Skillets hot. Bacon dropped onto the heat. And we moved in the kitchen together. All three of us, two generations of sensitivity and womanhood and youth as we worked together to create a simple meal.

She beat the eggs. "Like this, Mama?"

She used a fork instead of a whisk.

"Yes, now add a bit of milk."

The seven-year-old found a step stool to reach the high cabinet. She put the glasses away while her little voice sang a happy song she'd heard on the way to school this morning.

"The princess and the frog..." she sang while her sister poured eggs into the skillet.

There was peace in the making, in the creating and even in the working tonight, beauty in the simplicity of a meal made and a meal eaten together. There was redemption in the whisking of yolk and white and in the sizzling of meat on a stovetop. There was grace in the teaching and in the praise and in the song.

And these girls teach me over and over again what it means to be a woman. They teach me over and over again what grace with hands and feet look like. And they teach me the quiet in the heart of a Sabbath Savior that loves to meet us when we are weak.

[Judy Harder]

Grace for Your Unmerry Moments
Dec 09, 2013 12:20 am | Holley Gerth



Confession: Sometimes I have a bad attitude at the holidays {please tell me I'm not the only one}. I want peace on earth but then I wind up feeling tempted to run over people with my shopping cart when they're rude. I want to spread cheer but then I get PMS and just want to spread chocolate on every surface I can find. I want to shine brightly like the lights on a Christmas tree but then I get too busy and just want to say "lights out" so I can get some sleep.

I used to feel guilty about this quite a bit. What kind of person was I if I got all grumpy at the most wonderful time of year? And besides that, it's the birthday of Jesus. Surely I must be a heathen and not know it. Dang. But then I realized this: Even if the holidays are here I'm still human. And there's not some super-spirituality switch I can flip on like the lights on the Griswold's house at Christmas. No, ma'am.

Struggling at the holidays is just proof that what Christmas is all about is true: I need a Savior. And the same grace that covers me the rest of the year is there for me in my unmerry moments, too.

Does this mean I just do and say whatever I want? Nope. But it does mean that when I mess up and fall short of the expectations of myself and others, it's okay. It's not a time for guilt and condemnation. It's a time for celebration because the moments when I fall are when the message of Christmas means most of all.

Crazy? Yep. But so is sending the Son of God to be born in a manger. The whole gospel is full of surprises and upside-down thinking. That's the wonder of it all.

So if you've been threatening to give yourself a lump of coal for Christmas because you just can't seem to get it together, take it a bit easier on yourself today. Remember that you're loved, accepted and that God doesn't want perfection from you. Instead he wants to give you whatever it is you need–perhaps a bit more patience, some laughter and a lot of extra grace. And you can share all of those good gifts with your friends, family and even the person you thought about running over with your shopping cart, too.

XOXO

Holley Gerth, best-selling author or You're Already Amazing {great for Christmas gifts!}

[Judy Harder]

Sometimes I Forget To Be Grateful
Dec 13, 2013 12:20 am | Dawn Camp



In the two weeks before Thanksgiving, our dishwasher quit emptying out the dirty water; our washing machine wouldn't spin at the end of the rinse cycle; and our old faithful van started herking and jerking in a way that frightened me but delighted my children, who declared it as good as sitting in a massage chair.

My husband is an awesome DIYer. We only hand-washed dishes for three days while he determined the problem and then ordered and replaced the dishwasher pump. Eight people generate an awful lot of dirty dishes. We only flooded the kitchen twice in the repair process.

The washing machine quit spinning out the water at the end of the rinse cycle on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Eight people produce as many dirty clothes and towels as dishes. I stayed calm through the analysis and repair process on the dishwasher, but the washing machine was a different story.

My husband stayed up until 1:30 a.m. Tuesday night going back and forth between the computer (repairclinic.com and YouTube washing machine repair videos) and taking the machine apart, but still no definite solution.

Wednesday morning I kicked into what-if-I-need-a-new-washing-machine? mode, so I left home and spent the day researching the latest models. I found washers larger than mine, with more settings than mine, and lovelier than mine (red!) and I was smitten. Smitten. {Yes, I'm the kind of girl who can be smitten by a washing machine.}

I hardly noticed the transition from fact finding to checking delivery dates. My husband later told me I wasn't supposed to shop, just research. When I looked puzzled, he said, "Fact finding with the intent to purchase is shopping." Live and learn.

He stayed up until 2 a.m. working on it that night. The result? You guessed it. He figured out how to fix the washing machine, too. Admittedly, there were moments when I wasn't sure I wanted it to work again . . .

I'd seen the greener grass on the other side of the fence.

When we thought the transmission might be going out on the van I've driven for 11 years and 206K+ miles, I imagined power door locks that work (mine quit); no more dings and cracks in the window (a 15-passenger van attracts rocks to the glass and other people's car doors to the sides—it's a big target). In my wilder thoughts I envisioned heated seats, dual sunroofs, and easily parking in any space.

But our mechanic replaced two coils (whatever they are) and that van was back in business.

We're familiar with the phrase What Would Jesus Do?, but lately I've been thinking what would Jesus own? If He walked among us now, in 2013, I'm willing to bet my washing machine, dishwasher, car, phone, and computer would be nicer than His.

Would He even have those things?

It's easy to become discontent. To want more. To forget to be grateful for what He's given me. My blessings come from God. Being dissatisfied with what I have is like saying, "I'm not happy with what you've given me," and that's not where I want my heart to be.

I did get something new in the process: a rearranged and more functional laundry room. The washing machine fact finding/shopping trip gave us the idea to stack our washer and dryer, and then we brought a large set of metal shelves in from the garage and put them on the side of the wall where the dryer used to be. I have loads of extra storage space and even a bright and cozy rug on the floor. Cost: nothing.

At Christmas, more than ever, I want to model for my children a grateful heart and a deeper appreciation for what I've been given. Don't you?

What simple blessings are you thankful for today?

by Dawn Camp at My Home Sweet Home, newly grateful for her old ride and appliances

[Judy Harder]

The Noise & the Notes
Dec 14, 2013 12:20 am | Angie Smith



If I'm being honest with you, I only went to the Christmas tree place because I knew my kids would want to look back and see pictures of me there with them.

I didn't want them to think I was a Scrooge, or that I was preoccupied, or that I didn't care about all the moments that will string together in their minds to create childhood memories. So I did go, and I smiled when the flash went off, but I wasn't really there.

I knew we were going to be getting on a bus in two days and we weren't going to be back for nearly three weeks. I was panicked about packing, getting my work in order to bring with me to make sure I wasn't falling behind, and mentally gearing up for being on the road touring in such a hectic season.

Todd dragged the tree into the house while the kids bounced around and plotted ornament strategy. I walked behind him, kneeling intermittently and lamenting the number of pine needles being embedded in the carpet after every step.

We weren't going to even see the tree for more than a few days total, so we were tempted to just bypass the whole thing, but again, THE MENTAL SCRAPBOOK AND ALL.

It was late by the time it stood up in its metal base, and Todd made a makeshift untangling station for the lights while the kids camped out on the floor waiting for the big moment. Some time later (and my memory is fuzzy, but I believe it was at least 10 hours), the plug slipped into the wall and all the room filled with hazy blues and yellows, reds and greens, and the sense that it might just be well after all.

They wanted to decorate it because Todd was leaving in the morning, but the process of digging ornaments out was a little daunting at 11 pm, so we kissed their heads and whispered, "Tomorrow."

I slept late, waking to the sounds of little voices above me and feet running back and forth in a hallway they don't normally use. I slipped on my glasses and stumbled up the stairs to find what can only be described as, "Christmas just vomited everywhere."


They had found the boxes tucked deep in closets and had literally taken out any item that even remotely resembled a holiday theme.

There was a garden picket sign, propped against the wall pointing the way to a pumpkin patch. It sat next to a rocking chair that had been decorated (and I use this term very loosely) with at least three full strands of garland and a snowman I don't have the heart to throw away despite the fact that our dog swallowed half his face a couple years ago.

I bet he was happy to see what was outside that box. Well, with his good eye at least.

I stood in the doorway, my stomach turning, and wondered how in the world I was going to clean this up on top of everything else I was supposed to be doing. They had discovered a horrific instrumental Christmas CD somewhere in the chaos, and it was playing in the background of what I had now decided was my official undoing.

I was motionless as they continued their frenzied routine, and I glanced down to see the dog dressed in a Christmas tree bedskirt, his eyes fixed on the wall in what appeared to be a therapeutic coping mechanism.


Finally, Charlotte looked up at me.

"Hi Mommy!" she shouted, and the others turned to face me, their eyes bright with anticipation over what would surely be my awestruck praise.

I fell short of the goal, stuttering out the words, "Is that an Easter bunny?" while pointing at the mantel.

Three different manger scenes were spread out on the ground like a crime scene, and the bubble wrap was being put to good use by Kate. Repeatedly.

My eyes welled up with tears, my hands covering my face instinctively so I wouldn't ruin their celebration. Abby knew right away because she always does, and she started walking over to me while I shrank to a sitting position. Between the music, the pop-pop-pop-pop of bubble wrap and the lack of one square inch of visible carpet, I had simply reached the end of my mental rope.

"Mommy, are you okay?" She whispered. I nodded yes but my shoulders shook in disagreement.

Abby sat with me for a few minutes while I got myself together, trying to dig through the clutter in my mind before facing the clutter on the floor.

What I wanted was what I saw everywhere else. A warm fire and a string of popcorn, the smell of hot chocolate and the sound of ANYTHING BUT THAT MUSIC.

It's the kind of scene I remember from my own childhood, and I want them to have it, too. And now it was all a mess. Goblins and shepherds and pastel eggs were the least of my worries; I felt like I had failed to give them this moment and now they were grabbing at what was left of it.

Truly, it was a ridiculous scene.

And one I will never forget.

Because when I finally opened my eyes I saw a joy I feared I had stolen. In all my "trying to make it perfect" sketches of what Christmas should look like, this would never have occurred to me.

But God uses moments when you can't see past yourself to remind you that He can.

Baby Jesus was lying on His side facing a string of Valentine's Day hearts, and I was captivated by the simplicity of what I saw.

Despite everything, He remained.

I begged God to bring me peace, my eyes focused on the tiny figurine, and two words echoed through my mind:

He did.

He is real, you know.

More real than anything we could haphazardly string around the room in an attempt to hasten the season of hope.

He saw me smile for the camera and make a tilting motion with my hands when Todd asked if the tree was straight. He saw me on my knees, picking pine needles from the path, and He saw me climb the stairs the next day.

And if you ask me, He knew that somehow in the hustle of boxes and seasons, that baby would lie in front of me speaking a thousand volumes about what I was missing all along.

Smile for the camera, but look past it to Me.

When the tree is crooked and your head is shaking, remember why it stands here at all.

When you find yourself on your knees, desperate to make things right and clean and good, stay there and worship the One who did.

Climb up to the mess of your days, a life that feels scattered and out of order, with more than you think you can fix, and find Me right in the middle of it all.

It's not a new story – this "trying to focus on the Lord instead of all the other Christmas hoopla" theme. I know that.

But maybe today you needed to be reminded as much as I did to look beyond the boxes and the hours, the nagging sense that you have to get it right, and the countless obstacles that come against a grateful heart.

It is a mess; I won't deny it. And the music is often noise instead of notes.

We're paralyzed by expectation and forgetful of the expectancy.

It looks all wrong from the doorway sometimes, doesn't it?

My prayer for you (and for myself) is that I am reminded daily how little my own hands can do to "make" Christmas. After all, it's not about what they might remember me doing anyway.

It's Him I want them to remember – more than the soundtrack of our days and the smell of a fresh-cut tree.

And so I picked up the baby, tenderly placed Him in the manger, and whispered into the chaos of it all:

Lord...let them never forget.

[Judy Harder]

A Sunday Scripture
Dec 15, 2013 12:20 am | incourage



This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about:

His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, "Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins."

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:

"The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel" (which means "God with us").

When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took Mary home as his wife.
Matthew 1:18-24

[Judy Harder]

A Lamp That Will Light the Whole World
Dec 16, 2013 12:20 am | Emily Freeman


Lately it's been a struggle for me to write. It's a combination of the natural post-partum discouragement that comes a few months after releasing a book combined with the simple fact that I haven't been writing consistently.


When writing isn't a regular part of my day, it becomes more and more of a big deal. And anything feeling like a big deal makes it harder to approach.

I read somewhere that writer's block isn't really a thing. No one ever has talkers block. And writing is just talking on paper.

We only have writer's block when we think what we write has to actually be good, and the pressure of writing something good keeps us from writing at all.

When I don't write every day, or nearly every day, this is what happens to me. Maybe you too.

Today, it's time to write. I fiddle with my ear buds. There isn't any music in them, only silence. I use them as plugs to drown out the noise of the house, the dog, even the rain. Sometimes the sound of the rain inspires. Today, it annoys.

Julia Cameron says creativity is a lamp, not a candle.

Plug it in, turn it on and the current does its work to light the room. Not necessarily glamorous. But functional. Useful. Lit.

A candle is romantic, offering a more beautiful image of the creative life – a Muse visiting with orange, yellow skirts, dancing in the corner of the room. But fire on a wick flickers with the wind and blows out in a puff of smoke.

It's mysterious and peaceful, but it's hard to hold onto.

It's true, I would rather look at myself in a mirror by candlelight than lamplight. But candles don't show the full picture. And they aren't powerful enough to light the room.

John and I went to hear Andrew Peterson on Saturday night. He sang with Jill Phillips, Andy Gullahorn, Ben Shive, Andrew Osenga and Ellie Holcomb in their annual Behold the Lamb of God tour. My soul swelled up in that room because every note and lyric pointed straight to Christ, our hope of glory.

Proverb 29:18 says where there is no vision, the people perish.

No hope? No life.

The concert Saturday was a reminder of hope, a reminder of the one story the Bible tells, one of  a brave little boy who, as C.S. Lewis points out in Mere Christianity, "came as a baby because he needed to slip quietly, even clandestinely, through enemy lines."

Maybe the people were waiting for a candle, a romantic idea of a Savior, of a powerful king with an obvious agenda. Instead, they got a lamp in the form of a baby. An unlikely hero from an ordinary family born in a stable on the outskirts of town.

A lamp who seemed unremarkable and non-descript.

A lamp who was only inspiration for those who had the eyes to see it.

But a Lamp who would light the whole world.

In the same region there were some shepherds staying out in the fields and keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord suddenly stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them; and they were terribly frightened. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.

Luke 2:8-11

[Judy Harder]

Pregnant with Christmas: The Birthing
Dec 18, 2013 12:20 am | Lisa-Jo Baker



Lisa-Jo wrote a beautiful Advent series a while back called Pregnant with Christmas. Today's post was the final part of that series.

The first time I give birth, I am afraid. I am in South Africa, home after a decade away, and afraid of the vast unknown of child birth.

The second time I give birth, I am more afraid. Because this time I know what lies ahead.

I realize that pregnancy, like marriage, is an act of courage and submission.

"I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May your word to me be fulfilled." Luke 1:38

For the joy set before him, he endured the cross. Hebrews 12:1

Every second-time mother knows the intimate joy of holding in her arms a being whose life is so new, so delicate, its skin is still translucent with heaven. She knows the smell of baby breath and the delicate warmth of a heart that is beating with all four chambers for the first time.

She knows.

But she also remembers.

She remembers the hard work of growing, carrying, and delivering that child into the world. She bears scars. And she needs to gird her courage around about her to do it again.

Jesus knew why he was coming. Birthed of a mother, he came to deliver us. He came to carry us in his sinless heart and birth us into his Father's family. And he knew what the labor pains would feel like and what the delivery would cost him.

Death and life. Ask any pregnant mother and you will find her thoughts equally consumed by both. Birth is hard and messy work. It is intimate and exposed at the same time. And the God born in a barn ended his days executed like a common criminal. Bloody, messy journey. A thirty three year gestation period to deliver us into the hands of God the Father.

"I have revealed you to those whom you gave me out of the world. They were yours; you gave them to me and they have obeyed your word. Now they know that everything you have given me comes from you...Holy Father, protect them by the power of your name, the name you gave me, so that they may be one as we are one." John 17:6-12

He was born so that we might have life – and have it to the full.

I want to sing my thanks with the angels.
I want to run to kneel by his side with the shepherds.
I want to give him extravagant and exotic gifts.

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests." Luke 2:14

Even though I know they'd be mere finger paintings, macaroni necklaces, mere doodles outside the lines to the King of the Cosmos. But I also know he'd treasure them.

Because I am his daughter. Carried, birthed, delivered.

And so are you.

And so are you.

[Judy Harder]

More Love
Dec 19, 2013 12:20 am | Deidra Riggs



We moved around a lot when I was young, but by the time I was three years old, we'd settled into a little yellow cape cod on a suburban cul-de-sac in New Jersey. My dad commuted over the bridge into the city each day for work. My mom taught piano lessons in our living room and worked herself into the plow position with her girlfriends on the Oriental rug.

In the summer my sister and I climbed trees, rode our bikes, and ran through the sprinklers in the front yard. In the fall I walked to school, on a trail that someone had named the Pony Path. But as soon as the temperature dipped just a bit, my thoughts turned directly to Christmas.

Christmas meant Virginia. And grandparents. And more love than one child could ever hold onto.

Each Christmas, my parents packed up the car and drove us South – below the Mason-Dixon line – to the state where they'd both grown up. After hours of driving, we'd pull up in front of my grandparents' house, my mom and dad weary from traveling so far. No matter what time of day we arrived, my grandmother would fling open the door and come running to greet us. Her arms spread wide, my grandmother called to us as she ran to the sidewalk to squeeze us tight. Each time I thought my heart would burst wide open from all the love that she poured in it.

I thought surely one day the love would just spill out all over the sidewalk and folks would have to step around it on their way to work on Monday. They'd shake their heads and glance up at the porch there where my grandparents lived. They'd say to one another, "Ida's children must be home again. Looks as if they brought the grandchildren, too. Just look at all that love piled up here on this sidewalk! More love than one child could ever hold onto!"

Inside, I'd sit at the kitchen table with the chrome legs and Formica top that was flecked with spots of color on a white background. On the stove, a dollop of sweet cream butter melted its way to the bottom of a pan of White House applesauce that burped slow bubbles over a soft blue flame. I'd swing my legs and rest my chin on my hands on the top of that table. I don't know if we talked or not – or if it was good enough just to be there, sharing space with my grandmother and her love.

On Christmas Eve, she'd tuck me into bed beneath a window that looked out onto the alley in back. I'd wait until she'd kissed my forehead and shut the door behind her, then I'd scramble up onto my knees and press my forehead to the glass, and watch for shooting stars that might streak a path across the night. At first light I'd spring from bed and wake the house with fits of joy, then tumble down the staircase into one more Christmas morn.

It was extravagant.

All day long the love dripped from the ceilings and crammed its way into the corners and spilled out from beneath the tree in circles that were piled up high. And it seeped down into the marrow of my bones and found a home and still, it was far more than one child could hold onto. I tried to catch my breath and wondered at the miracle of love so great as this.

One year, on that trip across the highways to Virginia, we breezed past suburbs and bungalows on cul-de-sacs with tiny, sparkling, colored lights glowing and twinkling and dancing as we passed by. It was late and dark and we'd been riding for awhile in silence. But then, my mother exhaled deep and turned from the glass to face us in the darkness of the car. A band of light reflected across my dad's eyes as he drove us and he watched my mother as she said, "Do you see all of the beautiful lights? Aren't they just beautiful?" And I remember nodding and thinking that I especially liked the white lights that hung across the garage door we had just passed by. I remember thinking that the world was filled with wonder.

"You know," my mother said, "we wouldn't have all of this if it hadn't been for Jesus."

I thought that she just meant the lights. We wouldn't have the lights if it hadn't been for Jesus. But what she meant was all of it. The love piled up on the sidewalk while applesauce cooked on the stove. The love shared at the kitchen table and the window that looked out over the alley while stars left streaks across the sky. The kisses on my forehead and the love that dripped down from the ceiling and Light to shine and lead the way.

We wouldn't have this extravagant Love that reaches for us in the dark and fills up our hearts and seeps into our marrow and makes us press our foreheads to the glass to search for light across the sky.

[Judy Harder]

If You're Longing For Beauty: God's Winter Song For You
Dec 21, 2013 12:20 am | Bonnie Gray



"Through the many winters, Your touch brings me comfort
Your song lifts me up and carries me to Spring...
Through all the tears to come, All my many trials
Till the end of my longest night, I will search for you..."
~ Michael McDonald, Through the Many Winters

Have ever seen the snow fall in the moonlight?

It falls tenderly, fine like the whispers of a newborn's eyelashes, curling ever so gently as she dreams.

It cascades down through a clear winter night sky, floating, like the last autumn leaf carried down from yesterday's rainfall.

I was bundled warm, making my steps slowly outside, enveloped by the safety of the mountains in a canyon.

It was so still.

And so dark.

And yet the moon shone so bright.

The trees all beautifully bare stretched their arms up, like a child reaching out to catch snow fall.

As I paused along the trail, I looked up at the stars dotting the horizon, I could hear the trickle of a creek echoing down below.

It was a perfect night.

I was young then and yet, I understood what it meant to feel lonely.

Alone.

Everything Beautiful and Quiet
Something about that moment, surrounded by everything beautiful and quiet, spoke to me.

I found my voice crying.

Because beauty reminded me I wanted comfort.

I needed peace.

I wanted to be held.

I was tired.

I desperately wanted to rest.

But, I cried bitterly not knowing how. I wondered where God was in all this, and I felt so small and lost.

As I looked up at the stars through the blur of tears, they seemed to shimmer, dancing like water sparkling over pebbles running in the creek early spring.

Somewhere in my burning heart, that first star of Christmas that the wise men glimpsed one night and followed for oh-so-long — across so many deserts — moved in me that lonely night.

That Traveling Star
I thought about that traveling star.

How bright it spoke.

How that light brought them comfort.

How that light carried them one night at a time. One hour at a time.

Until it brought them to Jesus.

Until it brought the search for hope to end in joy.

All the many trials, found along their search, yet the wise men did not stop.

Through Our Many Winters
Through our many winters, God will never stop carrying us on our journeys.

We can keep following.

As dark as the night gets, God's light will never disappear.

Even when our courage and strength fails us, God will give us the grace — even if just for a moment — to search for the light.

And He'll give us more grace to follow where it leads us, no matter where life's journeys take us.

Because one night, thousands of years ago, before you and I were born, Jesus knew we would need Someone, to help us make it through the night.

Jesus stepped into the darkness, to live every day and every night we have cherished and feared to embrace.

Jesus lived the hard life every day with purpose.

Because He wanted to become the Light that would make His home in us.

Forever and always.

A Sign
In the darkest of nights, God placed a star in the sky.

This star was a sign.

That I can keep journeying no matter how far I needed to travel.

Because Jesus is with me.

Jesus is my light.

As we journey into the last few days before Christmas, you may find yourself wondering what the new year holds for you. Your loved ones. Your friends. Or your dreams.

Find some alone time. For quiet. Journal some words. Read the Christmas Story when the lights have been turned down low. Enter a different space listening to music with the Christmas tree lit after everyone has gone to bed.

Give yourself permission to steal a moment to be alone with God.

Reflect on the signs God has placed on your path.

And if the aloneness feels too hopeless like it did for me, dare to let someone in. Call someone. Tell them your story. Dare to be vulnerable. Even at Christmas.

Everyone, after all is in the middle of a journey. Everyone wants someone to come alongside them in the waiting, searching for God's light in new ways. Jesus Himself chose to take the long journey home from a manger to a cross, so we don't have to travel alone anymore today.

God's Winter Song
Let beauty remind you.

We all need comfort.

We all long for peace.

You were made to be loved.

You were made to be held.

You were never made to be alone.

You were made to find rest.

Put on a warm coat. Wrap a scarf around yourself, slip your hands in some gloves, and quietly put on your hat. Step outside, if just for a moment.

Look up as you watch your breath warm the winter air.

See the stars.

And listen.

Like snow falling through winter, hear God's winter song echoing –

I came for you then.

I'm here for you now.

You don't have to be alone anymore.

In the moonlight.

I see you.

I am with you.

I love you.

You can have peace, hope, joy and love with me.

Hear God's winter song in you.

You are His.

"Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you."
~ Psalm 139:12

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How is God using beauty to touch your heart this Christmas?

How are you following the Star God's placed on your journey of faith?

Pull up a chair. Pause for a moment. Share your voice here. Click to comment.

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Written by Bonnie Gray, the Faith Barista, serving up shots of faith for everyday life.

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