Make Room

Last night at the Living Nativity, the innkeeper's words lodged in my heart. He said, "Always make room." At this time of year, with crowded schedules and crowded stores and crowded thoughts, who doesn't long for some "room" - room to think, breathe, rest?

There is miracle and mystery to the Christmas Story... A virgin birth. All powerful God, taking human form as a powerless infant. Angelic choirs singing Gloria to shepherds in a midnight field. A bright star guiding wise men on a two-year journey to find this miraculous child.

In this story -
We see God reaching out to the willing - a teenage girl who said, “Lord may it be done as You have said.” A young mother who pondered the very words of God spoken over her divine child.

We see God reaching out to the ordinary. Shepherds were in a lowly, lonely vocation. (Yet Jesus described Himself as a shepherd). The shepherds responded - "Let's go see this!"

We see God reaching out to the humble. The wise men were wise, but not too proud to go in search of Jesus, bringing gifts to the child who embodied the King of Kings.

As I look at my very ordinary life - am I willing, am I humble? Is there room in my heart to worship my Savior?

Mary—Elderly Woman (Light of my life, Light of the World)

I’m old now. I find that somewhat surprising; I wasn’t sure I’d survive Jesus’ death. The grief bent me double, and I thought I would never stop crying. “How does a body create so many tears?” I wondered. It just seemed like I’d shrivel up and blow away.

Since Jesus died, John has taken such good care of me; he has been like a true son to me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Jesus, my firstborn. He was and still is the light of my life. My vision has dimmed over the years, but He gives light to my heart and thoughts. He is, after all, as He said, the Light of the World.

He was the light of my life even before He was born. The Angel that told me about Him was so bright, completely illuminating my room. During the days of my pregnancy—and my concern that Joseph would divorce me—I thought back on that light and it reassured me that everything happening to me was from God.

On the night Jesus was born, there was a star, the brightest star I’d ever seen. It was like a pure beam that told me God was watching over us.

That star was a symbol of Jesus, the Light of the World. He would draw so many people to Himself during His life. First, the shepherds. The brightness of God’s glory had shone on them out in the field when God sent an angel to tell them about Jesus. The star guided the shepherds from the field to the dark and smelly stable. They told us the message of peace and goodwill toward men; the message that was wrapped up in Jesus.

The star directed the wise men on their long journey to visit us. Jesus was two or three years old by the time they actually found us. They brought gifts that seemed strange for a child; gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Spices used for burial? It was as if a shadow dimmed the light for a moment. I stored the memory, for that was my habit.

It was years later when Jesus said to the crowd, “I am the Light of the World. He who follows Me will not be walking in the dark, but will have the Light which is Life.” I’m not sure everyone understood it; the Pharisees told Him that His testimony of being Light was worthless! That it wasn’t valid!

I knew it was true that Jesus was the Light of the World because I saw it. He gave light to people who needed physical healing. He restored sight to the blind. He healed paralytics and lepers. He raised people from death itself. I remember the look of wonder on the faces of the people who saw for the very first time. I picture the jumping—dancing—whirling—and running of those who hadn’t been able to move. And unless you’ve seen it yourself, you can’t imagine the color and breath returning to those who lay still in death; or know the sound of joyous shouts replacing wails of mourning.

Jesus didn’t only give physical light. He gave it spiritually. He lit the way to the Father by the way He lived. People who looked at Him could see God—their blinders were removed! He illuminated truth, forgave sins, and removed spiritual chains.

Jesus. Light of my life. Light of the World. My Jesus.

Egypt

Sometimes we long for Egypt. Finding ourselves in a dry and desolate wilderness, we want to return to the familiar. 

It really wasn't so bad, we say. We had jobs and houses and food. Sure, we built bricks without straw and were beaten regularly, and there was that time when Pharaoh commanded all the male children to be killed, but it really wasn't so bad. 

Egypt really wasn't so bad, we say. Not in comparison to this rocky wasteland where we don't know our next step - and must depend completely on God to rain manna from heaven to feed us or bring water from a rock to quench our thirst. 

Thoughts of Egypt are death. We look back, and miss today. If we look ahead, it is in fear. Despite day after day after day of God's faithful provision, we question.  What if He stops? What if He forgets us? What if it is not enough?

The fact is - in Egypt, we wore chains. Heavy, unbearable, unbreakable chains. We have forgotten our hopelessness and cries of despair. We forget so easily that we asked God to deliver us from evil. We forget that He answered our prayer. 

Just over a year ago, I returned to Egypt. It was the only thing that made sense to me at the time. I prayed and sought godly counsel, and God opened the door.

I was not fully aware that it was a return to Egypt. It felt more like coming home. 

Building bricks without straw felt fine in the beginning because it was so good to be home. The stern taskmaster was glad to have me back, but the honeymoon ended quickly.  I rapidly tired from hauling heavy expectations (some his, some mine). I was frustrated by last-minute increases to quota (didn't he see that we had no straw, and that it took time to get the straw AND build the bricks? It takes a certain amount of straw to build a good and lasting brick.)

After a year, the taskmaster told me I wasn't doing a good job. He gave me a plan to improve my performance, adding tasks and increasing my responsibilities. He said it would help me focus. If I didn't get it all done, I would be killed. 

His perspective was the only one I saw, the only one that mattered. Others tried to tell me that it wasn't true. Pleasing the taskmaster, no matter how impossible, seemed like the only way to move on. 

God had a different plan. My mind was so scarred that I couldn't see how to start again. All I had was a mental picture, like a Coast Guard helicopter rescue, of myself harnessed to a long cable and lifted from a raging Lake Michigan. I accepted an offer to leave Egypt.

I find myself in the in-between, a wilderness of sorts. Will I stay there? Will I move into the land of Canaan? Will I, like Hagar, have my eyes opened to see the well next to me? Will I trust Him as The-God-Who-Sees-Me?

All I know is that God spoke to my heart and said, "Start from where you are." He is the God of Beginning-Again. He is the God of Unlimited Do-Overs.

And that is joy. 

wanted

Source: Uploaded by user via Susan on Pinterest

I'm finding that my mom's saying, "Like using a hammer to crack an egg", has many applications.

Someone used a hammer when a gentle tap would have been entirely sufficient.

On February 18 the word came alive to me, clearly, as if spoken aloud:

You will go out with joy and be led forth with peace. (Isaiah 55:12)

I didn't see how. I was in deep water, drowning in the desire to win.

It's not mine to win, not mine to fight. The battle is the Lord's.


Fighting the inevitable exhausts. Living in tolerance drains.

And today, my step is lighter for I know.

I will go out with joy.

courage

""May your weekend be filled with courage. May you choose to honestly confront the competing voices in your head, and may you decide today to listen only to the true ones. Go ahead a take time off from your self-doubt for the weekend. May the break be so freeing that you decide to make it permanent."

It's embarrassing at age 55, being unable to please boss' boss and expecting a sub-par review.

Never mind that boss' boss does not communicate.

Husband posits that I should pursue teaching - I'm passionate about it, good at it, and teaching energizes me. Hey, students are starting to recommend me!

Competing voices. Boss' boss voice - "You are a failure. You cannot please me."

Voice of Truth - "I created you, fearfully and wonderfully. I filled you with skills and talents. I am pleased with you."

It all comes down to the "T" word - Who am I going to trust?

his.hands

These are the hands that held me, newborn.

These are the hands that steadied me until I was riding the bike on my own.

These are the hands that tucked me safely into bed at night.

These are the hands I held this morning.

the.mens.room

The man in the wheelchair - the man in the tan corduroy ball cap wearing the too-large cranberry jacket, that's my dad. I see him down the hallway at the VA outpatient clinic, sitting across from my mom.

He's smaller than me now, this man that always stood tall in character and personality. Some days I wish we could go back to a simpler time, when I was his little girl and he was my daddy. Now we walk in role reversal - I am the caregiver, he is the one cared for. It's the least I can do. But. Sometimes. It is damn hard.

Like today when I went to pick them up for the appointment and found him, pants around his ankles, sitting on the chair buttoning his shirt with awkward hands. We were supposed to be walking out the door that moment. Mom and I orchestrated a finely-tuned dance where I got the car and she kept him focused on getting dressed and then I took over, threading his belt and combing his hair, getting his cap and coat on.

Ah. What happened to my dad, the dapper man? It takes us all to make him dapper.

We got to our appointment, nearly on time, and were waiting for the doctor to call us in.

And then it happened.

I have to go to the bathroom, he said.

A complex set of emotions pummeled me. Empathy wrestled with frustration, impatience with responsibility. What to do?

I did what he probably would have done had the tables been turned.

I pushed his wheelchair into the men's room, got him established in the handicapped stall, and went back into the hall to wait.

And wait.

Checking in. No, he wasn't ready for me to retrieve him.

The doctor's LPN came to call us in.

I explained. She said she'd come back.

A young man offered to help.

I checked again. Not ready. You can't hurry this, he said, or words to that effect.

I had a stranger, a kind African American man, check. Not ready.

LPN came again. Five minutes, she said.

Traffic in the men's room increased, along with my blood pressure.

A man nearer my age said not to worry, to come in anyway.

Dad was ready. I have to wash my hands, he said. I pulled the wheelchair out of the stall and pushed pushed Dad to the sink, then turned the faucets on. Washing his hands consisted of holding his right hand under the water. I put soap on my hands and offered it to him. No.

And the man near my age said how it sucks to get old, and I said what my dad always said, "Consider the alternative." And then the man said how our parents took care of us, so I responded that now we get to do this. And I meant it.

It's hard sometimes to count the joy.

The joy in this day is that I am strong and I am able to help.

The joy in this day is that I can help write this chapter, perhaps the last, in my dad's life.

And that I can write this chapter with all the love in my heart as an expression of gratitude for all the times he took care of me.

dreams

I usually don't remember my dreams, but this recent dream has stayed vividly.

It's been a stressful time, nearly beyond endurance. And I dreamed that I slept on my side (I know, dreaming that I was sleeping?!), cupping a silver, star-shaped paperweight in my hands.

The metal was warm and well, weighty.

It looked kind of like this:

As I held it, I felt strangely assured that God was present and I was loved.

I didn't know how this bad-to-worse situation would resolve, but felt peace.

I've been holding to the phrase from Psalm 26:3, "...for I have always been mindful of your unfailing love".

I counted this joy, this sense of God's physical presence. And that I had, finally, good sleep.