Will Your Risk Pushing Through Your Fear and Sorrow?  0

 

My dad got me a cast iron skillet for Christmas and along with a BINDER he’d printed on how to properly use and care for it. For several months, it sat on my stove, unused because I was so nervous to use it (Ridiculous, I know, but if you’d read the binder…).

 

Finally, one day I decided enough was enough. I chopped up an onion, preheated the cast iron and let it sizzle up. Guess what? It smelled amazing and it WORKED. I even got brave enough to put a pound of hamburger in it and make some tacos.

 

(And then I washed it, dried it in the oven and oiled it before I put it away. Because The Binder made me do it.)

 

I’ve been thinking about my cast iron skillet and the silly fear that held me captive.

 

Sometimes when we live with sorrow, it takes a push to do something new. Though it can feel like we’re moving past our grief and severing ties with what we’ve lost, it may be just what we need to pull us into the next right thing. Yes, it’s scary to stare straight at the thing that’s on the periphery. But small steps give us courage to take bigger ones.

 

This is what it means to live in the intersection of hope and sorrow.

 

In this strange tension of life and loss, we don’t want to move on. If you’re like me, you just want to nestle in and protect yourself from anything else that may happen.

 

Surviving is a natural response to our grief, and it’s necessary. But I certainly don’t want to spend the rest of my life simply surviving each day.I know that’s not what Jesus desires for us.I don’t want fear to keep me captive.

 

Psalm 84 says this: “When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs, where pools of blessing collect after the rains.” God’s people knew suffering. They fought and failed, stumbled and grieved. Yet His message to them did not change— He is a God of redemption and rebuilding. He took their tears and made them into pools of blessing.

 

But first, they had to walk. They didn’t sit in the valley of weeping… they walked through it, in all the rain and mess and muck. After they survived it, they saw pools of blessing. Somewhere along the way, surviving turned into thriving.

 

I won’t pretend to know where you are on this journey today. But can I gently whisper to you that I believe God has more in store for you than to just simply survive your sorrow? The fear is real, the grief is real, but you have a Savior who promises to give you exactly what you need to make it through each day. One shaky step at a time, He will lead you.

 

Maybe it’s something small, maybe it’s something big. Whatever it is, grab on to it when you see it beginning. Let Christ do His work in you, and watch His glory be revealed. It’s impossible to get stuck in your grief if you’re doing something new. This is where hope and joy are found.

 

I’m with you, cheering you on.

 

[Photo by Todd Quackenbush on Unsplash]

This is how I know beauty can come from your pain  2

 

Our daughter, Annie, died suddenly when she was six month old. What doctors had assured us was just an acute case of the flu turned out to be a massive brain tumor that took her life just three days after her diagnosis. The morning after we came home from the hospital without her, Peter and I sat in bed, shocked to be making funeral plans.

 

I don’t remember how we pulled it together, but I do remember the beauty. It was in those who grieved with us, those who came from far away, in those who missed school and work to be there. It was in the gorgeous blue sky. It was in my son, who sat alone in the front row and my daughter who wiggled for our attention all day. Our hearts were utterly broken, but somehow it was still beautiful.

 

During the Bosnian War, a stray mortar shell killed twenty-two innocent people waiting in line for bread. Food supplies were dwindling and while many were afraid to be out in the open, hunger had driven them to the streets.

 

The square in Sarajevo was destroyed, people were terrified and it was only getting worse. The year was 1992. For forty-four months, the city was under siege, the longest of any capital city in the history of modern warfare. Even a trip out to gather water could be deadly.

 

In the middle of the rubble and bloodshed, pain and terror, a man named Vedran Smailović did the only thing he could think of. As the bombing rained down, he risked his life by playing his cello in the city square. Family and friends were killed, buildings around him were being destroyed, but still he played. For twenty-two days he played Adagio in G Minor, allowing the music to touch the souls of the survivors as only music can do. “Smailović became a symbol of how beauty stands in resistance to the madness of war,” James Bryan Smith wrote.

 

The people gathered around him, grieving and starving. In the end, over 100,00 people were killed and 2.2 million were forced to leave. The atrocities of those years are too many to name. But even in the midst of such grief, there were people like Samilović to remind people of the beauty that can flow out of pain.

 

I believe there’s something about the story that we long for. We desire beauty in the midst of tragedy, to see the good in something so horrific. We are made for redemption.

 

It’s what Nicholas Wolterstorff wrote in his book Lament for a Son: “And sometimes, when the cry is intense, there emerges a radiance which elsewhere seldom appears: a glow of courage, of love, of insight, of selflessness, of faith. In that radiance we see best what humanity was meant to be… In the valley of suffering, despair and bitterness are brewed. But there also character is made. The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making.”

 

Beauty manifests itself in countless ways, however some of the rarest forms of beauty emerge in our pain and suffering. Beauty does not cease in those pivotal moments when everything crumbles around us. In fact, it’s in those moments we are forced to calculate the cost of beauty. In our fight for hope, in the heartache of suffering, beauty becomes radiant as we look to Christ.

 

The Bible goes to great lengths to communicate the beauty of brokenness: Rahab risked her life for it. Naomi’s bitterness is transformed by it. Isaac’s life is saved. David’s sin with Bathsheba is redeemed. Queen Esther’s bravery saves her people. Job refuses to quit believing, even as he laments. Lazarus returns to life.

 

In the book of Genesis, Joseph struggled and grieved the loss of everything he knew. Yet years later when he was reunited with his family, as his brothers wept in remorse, he tells them, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” (Genesis 50:20) His response could be tucked into any of those Bible stories.

 

Also? It can be inserted into our stories. Joseph’s response is an example to us, a promise we can hold on to when everything crumbles around us.

 

No matter how atrocious, there is always hope. Vedran Smailović didn’t singlehandedly end the war, but he brought a glow of hope to the people around him. Our daughter’s life ended tragically, but it holds significant meaning. In all of our heartache, Jesus is here, bringing beauty out of our ashes. There is nothing beyond His reach, nothing beyond His redemption. “And in that radiance, we see best what humanity was supposed to be.” Nicholas was right.

 

Isaiah wrote that “people in walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned… For to us a child is born, to us a Son is given” (9:2,6). It’s the greatest promise of all time. A Savior who draws us out of the darkness, who redeems us and meets us here, in the intersection of our hope and sorrow.

 

May you walk bravely, my friend, refusing to give up hope. May you seek beauty each day in the valley of your suffering. And may Christ, who upholds you and sustains you, reveal His goodness and hope to you today. 

 

*I’ve done my best to honor the story of Smailović, but if you do your own research you’ll find there are several discrepancies to the story.

Three ways to cultivate a heart for others  0

When I’m in Haiti, I’m constantly faced with deep poverty. It’s impossible to ignore. It can feel consuming. Anything I do feels like a drop in an ocean of hopelessness.

 

But God is writing a bigger story. He doesn’t see things the way I see them. There is hope because there is Jesus.

 

I return home and I see with new eyes. America may look different than Haiti, but there is poverty here, too. Everywhere I look, I’m reminded not to forget.

 

He is there.
He is here.
He is at work.
He loves deeply.

 

How can we cultivate a heart to see the marginalized right here in our little corner of the world?

—-> Join me over at Ruthiegray.mom to read my story of mud cookies and discover three ways God can use your unique position in life to bring hope to someone else today. <—-

She shyly brushes up against me, touching my freckled arms. My light skin intrigues her. I pull her close into a hug, welcoming her with a “bonjou”, the Creole way of saying “Good morning”. But it’s afternoon, so she giggles and corrects me with a, “Bon Swa”. The ends of her hair are red, which tells me that she is severely malnourished and doesn’t get nearly enough to eat.

 

There are lots of red haired children in the village of Nanbayan, Haiti. They run barefoot, the babies without any clothing at all. The doors to the houses flap in the wind and dogs ravage through piles of trash for a little food.

 

We watch an old man struggle under the weight of his wheelbarrow, loaded with jerrycans full of water. He takes a few steps, stops to rest, then starts again. Every day he makes trips back and forth from the river, delivering dirty water to customers. All day long. I’ve never seen ankles as skinny as his.

 

Thirteen year old Joanna hears we are in town, so she walks two hours in the blistering heat to see us. We give her a granola bar and a glass of water, which she devours in record time, licking the wrapper. We know she is hungry because typically Haitians politely put the snacks in their pockets until after they leave. We spend $10 to feed her family for a week: a bag of rice, some beans, a jug of oil. We have a little money left over so we throw in 3 cans of sardines. She freaks out when she pulls those cans of sardines out of the bag.

When I’m in Haiti, I’m constantly faced with deep poverty. It’s impossible to ignore. It can feel consuming. Anything I do feels like a drop in an ocean of hopelessness.

 

But God is writing a bigger story. He doesn’t see things the way I see them. There is hope because there is Jesus.

 

I return home and I see with new eyes. America may look different than Haiti, but there is poverty here, too. Everywhere I look, I’m reminded not to forget.

 

He is there.
He is here.
He is at work.
He loves deeply.

 

How can we cultivate a heart to see the marginalized right here in our little corner of the world?

—-> Join me over at Ruthiegray.mom to read my story of mud cookies and discover three ways God can use your unique position in life to bring hope to someone else today. <—-

The art of balancing expectation and reality  0

 

Fall, and particularly September, is a hard time for me.  Each year I think it will be better, but the truth is, it’s just different.  I process my sorrow in new ways.  This year it’s seeping in several ways: a friend who is desperately sick, songs I haven’t heard in years come on the radio (I don’t even listen to the radio), tears about little things (I’m not typically a crier).  I’m paying close attention and listening deeply this month.

 

September 22 will mark nine years since I last held my daughter, Annie.  Some of you have been around since then, when I used this blog to process those first gut-wrenching years of grief.  But many of you are new… and many of you are here because you’re processing your own sorrow.  Let me pull you in close and tell you what my dearest friend said to me in those early days: You can do this. There will be so many moments you don’t think you can, but you will.  Jesus promises His presence, He promises to gently lead us and to be near to our broken hearts.

 

And yet.  Yet there are days when we can only sit in silence because what we expected these years to look like are so very different from what they actually are.  Somewhere along the line, our expectations and our reality took very different paths and it has left us reeling in the wake.

 

I was sitting with a friend who is going through some very dark days and clinging desperately to Jesus.  She pointed out 2 Corinthians 10:5 to me and said, Do you know how hard it is to take every single thought captive and make it obedient to Christ? 

 

When we live in this intersection of hope and sorrow, we see so clearly that even in the midst of our questions and longings, Jesus gives us hope.  There is grace on the hard days and always compassion from a God who intercedes for us when we don’t have the words to pray. It’s only because of His strength in us that we can take every thought captive.

 

And that’s part of my message on a blog post I wrote for a new friend, Ruthie.  She’s asked me to hop on her blog every few months to share a few words.  Can I shyly ask you to visit her and read my first post?  It’s called, “The Reality of Motherhood when it’s Not What You Expected”.  Amen. If anything, the story I lead with is one that I’ve been sitting on for several years, waiting for the perfect opportunity.  It makes me laugh every time.

 

I’m praying for you today, my friend.  May you find the courage to nestle yourself into the gap between your expectation and your reality, clinging closely to Jesus who promises to lead you each step of the way.

 


{Hello.} I get it.  It’s easy to be overwhelmed with the grief of life.  But I believe Jesus calls us to live in the intersection of hope & sorrow, redeeming the broken places and calling us to live with hearts of joy.  I’m Sarah and I’d love to invite you along for the journey.  Click here to join my mailing list.

 

How Isaiah teaches us to live in the intersection of joy and grief  4

 

“Take more! Take more!” the wedding planner urged us, pushing the basket of rice and olive leaves closer.  My twelve year old son, dressed in a checkered plaid shirt and a bow-tie, looked at me with a glint in his eye.  I nodded and he took a massive handful of rice and tossed it toward the bride and groom, as the Priest led them three times around the communion table.  The Priest winked as he lifted the large Bible with ornate gold lettering and used it as a shield.  My girls, 11 and 5, their cheeks sunburned from the Greek sun, burst into giggles.

We were on an island in Greece, small enough that in spots you could look to your left and right and see the sparkling sea.  My brother (and the rest of us) had fallen in love with a girl who had deep family roots in the country.  She introduced us to a new culture that seemed too good to be true.  All week as we’d explored we found our bearings by locating the ancient Greek Orthodox Church high on the hill, with a grand zig-zag walkway leading to it.  On the day of the wedding we walked the path with my brother.  Then we waited as the rest of the guests accompanied his bride, who rode up on the back of the donkey.

 

The entire ceremony was deeply meaningful, but the part I need to tell you about is the Dance of Isaiah.  You see, here’s what I know about me and about you: We are people who hold onto grief in one hand and joy in the other.  The life we live each day doesn’t look like the life we imagined for ourselves.  And yet, we’re determined to hold them together, to examine what it means to live in the dichotomy of a life that doesn’t make sense on paper.

 

The Dance of Isaiah is a symbolic dance for the joy of God’s presence.  It doesn’t have any fancy steps or a catchy tune.  The bride and groom circle the altar three times while everyone else tosses (some more gently than others) rice and olive leaves toward them. In the background, a chanter sings in Greek, “Rejoice and dance, O Israel! The Virgin is with child, and shall bear a son Emmanuel, both God and man.”**

 

In that moment of watching two people I loved get married in the most beautiful place I’d ever been, it was easy to laugh and cheer.  But I don’t live my life on an island in Greece and honestly, I’m not always ready to rejoice and dance. I thought of Isaiah, who reminded his people, “But now, this is what the Lord says— He who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.’ I imagine Isaiah lifting his pen at this point and pausing before he wrote the next line, in a different tense: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.  For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” (43:1-3)

 

Isaiah, who spoke truth to a nation who refused to listen to his words.  Isaiah, who prophesied Emmanuel (“God with us”), who would not be born until generations later.  Isaiah, who did not give up proclaiming hope to people, even in their rebellion and unbelief.  He reminded the people of who they were, of the truth that God spoke over them.  Grasping the truth of the past would make it possible to face the reality of the future. He danced in the joy of God’s presence, even if He didn’t necessarily feel like it.  Isaiah lived in the intersection of joy and grief.

 

And so can we. We can dance for joy even as we mourn, because His presence is always with us. We can grow our roots down deep, led by God, finding that in our weakness, His strength sustains us.  We don’t have to live in fear, because there is Jesus, who knows our name and awakens us to freedom.  He does not abandon us, even when we’ve abandoned Him.  He is faithful to us.

 

We can dance in the good and the bad, the hard and the easy, in the middle of the night and the dawn of a new day.  We can dance in the risk and the heartache, in the hope and the sorrow…. because in all these moments, He is here.  Take hold of the truth of the past and let it sustain you today, and in the days to come.

 

May the Son of God who is already formed in you grow in you—

so that for you He will become immeasurable, and that in you He will become

laughter, exultation, the fullness of joy which no one can take from you.

(Isaac of Stella)

** Here’s exactly what my sister-in-law wrote about the Dance of Isaiah in our English translation of the ceremony: “The procession, a symbolic dance for the joy of God’s presence, is conducted in a circular fashion around the altar.  Holding the Holy Gospel, the priest leads the couple who are still united by holding hands.  This highlights the Church’s prayerful desire that the couple will walk through life led by God and inspired by spirituality.  Each of the three walks symbolizes parts of this journey.  (1) The first, the joy in knowing there is a God (awakening and wishing for each other’s liberation). (2) The second recollects the martyrs of the Faith, who received their crowns of glory from God through sacrifice (the couple can learn from the martyrs and together work toward achieving enlightenment). (3) The third exalts the Holy Trinity (the union of the couple with the One, with All).  During this display of great joy, rice and flower petals are traditionally showered upon the couple by the guests so that their happiness may take root (the word for ‘root’ in Greek is the same as ‘rice’) in their married life and that true joy and a deep spiritual life (‘eudemonia’) may bloom in their journey.”

The Tension of Motherhood  2

 

When the great composer Mozart was young, he liked to play a cruel trick on his father, Leopold.  He would come home at night after his father was in bed, go to the piano and begin playing loudly.  Note by note he would play a scale, getting slower and louder as he got higher… and then he would stop, just one note short, and go to bed.

 

Old Leopold would go crazy, tossing and turning as that unfinished scale haunted his dreams. Eventually he would get up, stumble to the piano to plunk out that last note, then return to bed in peace.

 

There’s something extremely satisfying about resolving what’s unfinished, yet when we step back and look at life, much of it is in process.  The years of motherhood are the middle of the story, and if we’re honest, it can be hard to cherish the dissonance that fills the days and years.

 

There’s a constant temptation to focus on the unfinished notes of each day.  The laundry sits, waiting to be folded.  The weeds grow higher than the flowers.  The floor needed vacuuming… yesterday.  The missed appointment. Underneath the surface lies even deeper dissonance as we wrestle with grief as it washes over us like waves in the ocean. We question if we’re raising our children with the right values.  We click through the headlines, overwhelmed by the violence and disunity.  We respond in frustration toward those closest to us when we should reach out for a hug.

 

As Moms, we live in the space between the notes.  Unlike Mozart’s father, we don’t have the luxury of hitting that one last note that resolves it all. So how do we learn to treasure these years raising children, when so much around us seems unsettled? How can we cherish what we have instead of focusing on we don’t?

 

My fourth baby was born just thirteen months after we buried her big sister.  For all the joy and healing she brought to our lives, we were still living in such deep grief.  I remember so well early morning feedings, cradling my newborn close while the tears ran down my cheeks as I longed for the child I had buried.  I had so many unanswered questions.  I was torn between the joy of new life and the sorrow of raising a family who would be forever incomplete.

 

One morning, in the stillness of the pre-dawn, the song of the very first bird caught my attention.  One little trill broke through the darkness, inviting the other birds to join in.  Intrigued, I began to listen each morning and sure enough, each day the quiet would be broken by one brave bird who would lead the others.  I grabbed on to the song of those birds as they reminded me to rejoice in the beginning of each new day.

 

I dug out an old notebook a few days after I first heard the birds.  I numbered the lines and scribbled out a few words.  What could I cherish in such dark days?  I noticed the dimples on my son’s elbows, so I wrote it down.  Our neighbor delivered a fresh pear pie and the smell filled the house.  I wrote that down, too.  Line by line, I filled in that notebook and I realized there was still so much to be cherished.  The hope hadn’t disappeared; it just took a little extra digging to find it.

 

The secret to cherishing motherhood is to find joy in the tension of life.  We don’t sweep the difficulties under the rug.  We can’t wait for the to-do list to be complete or for the unanswered questions to be resolved…. we search for hope in the unfinished scale.  We nestle into the middle of the story, determined to treasure the little and big things that come our way. We live our unresolved lives boldly, appreciating the beauty of Motherhood in all its’ glorious dissonance.

 


{Hello.} I get it.  It’s easy to be overwhelmed with the grief of life.  But I believe Jesus calls us to live in the intersection of hope & sorrow, redeeming the broken places and calling us to live with hearts of joy.  I’m Sarah and I’d love to invite you along for the journey.  Click here to join my mailing list.

 

The Secret to Thriving in the Midst of Sorrow  3

 

 

 

 

Once there was an old woman who loved to name things.
She named the old car she drove “Betsy.”
She named the old chair she sat in “Fred.”
She named the old bed she slept on “Roxanne.”
And she named her old house “Franklin.”

Every morning she would get out of Roxanne, have a cup of cocoa in Fred, lock up Franklin, and drive to the post office in Betsy.  She always hoped for a letter from someone, but all she ever got was bills.

The reason the old woman never got any letters was because she had outlived every single one of her friends.  This worried her.  She didn’t like the idea of being a lonely old woman without any friends, without anyone whom she could call by name. 

So she began to name things.  But she named only those things she knew she could never outlive.  Her car, Betsy, had more get-up-and-go than anything around.  Her chair, Fred, had never sagged a day in his life. Not one creak or moan had she ever heard out of her old bed, Roxanne.  And her house, Franklin, had been standing straight for over a hundred years and still didn’t look a day past twenty.  

The old woman never worried about outliving any of them, and her days were happy.
— From The Old Woman Who Named Things by Cynthia Rylant

 

I sat through two unrelated funerals last week— one on Thursday, one on Friday.  Two women sat alone in the front row of each, newly widowed.  The one from a husband who quickly died of a newly diagnosed cancer; the other just six weeks pregnant with their first child.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned as I watch my pastor-husband speak words over grieving people, it’s that grief doesn’t play favorites.  No one gets a free pass from sorrow.

 

C.S. Lewis wrote, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.  Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.  If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.  Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements.  Lock it up safe in a casket or coffin of your selfishness.  But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless— it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.  To love is to be vulnerable.”

 

I watched those two fresh widows at the funerals of their husbands.  I haven’t buried a husband, but I’ve buried a child.  It’s not the same, but it’s not altogether different.  And while my eight year grief is familiar, I don’t have to look hard to find someone who is just experiencing it fresh. The ache for it all goes too deep for words.

 

We live in a world awash with sorrow.

 

That’s exactly why the Old Woman Who Named Things named only the things she couldn’t outlive.  My kids giggle when I read it to them… but the element of truth is never lost on me.  There’s a message to the book that makes me squirm a bit.

 

Because it’s vulnerable to love someone.  It feels like a risk because it is.  When the sorrow comes, we can be tempted to never fall for that trap again.  The memories that brought joy and laughter turn to tears and sadness.  The days turn into something we just try to survive, one lonely step at a time.

As the story goes on, the old woman was out washing mud off of Betsy (She’s the car if you’re not keeping up) when she sees a shy brown puppy in the distance.

 

“The old woman gave the ham to the hungry puppy and told it to go home.  She told it that Betsy always made puppies sick and Fred never allowed puppies to sit on him and Roxanne wasn’t wide enough for a puppy and an old woman to fit on, and besides all this, Franklin couldn’t tolerate dog hair.”

 

You can see where this is going.  The old woman kept thinking about that puppy, kept telling herself she might not outlive a puppy and therefore couldn’t risk naming it.  The dog kept returning each day and each day she would tell it to go home, stubbornly refusing to name it.

 

She thought she was pretty clever, that her heart was locked up safe… until one day the dog didn’t come to visit her.  And the old woman was shocked to discover that she was sad.

 

“The old woman made a decision.  She locked up Franklin and drove Betsy to the dogcatcher’s kennel.  
She said to the dogcatcher, ‘I’ve come to find my dog.’
 He asked her what color it was.  
‘It’s brown,’ she said.
He asked her how old it was.
‘About a year old,’ she said.
Then he asked her what its name was.

The old woman thought a moment.  She thought of all the old, dear friends with names whom she had outlived.  She saw their smiling faces and remembered their lovely names, and she thought how lucky she had been to have known these friends.  She thought what a lucky old woman she was.

‘My dog’s name is Lucky,’ she told the dogcatcher.”

 

You can guess the ending, because it’s a happy one.  It’s the ending we wish for sweet old women who name things.  But when we’re the one crying tears for the ones we’ve lost, it doesn’t always come so easy.

 

If we are people who live in the intersection of sorrow and hope, how can we continue to love and also allow room for our hearts to be broken? How do we let others see our heartache, without isolating ourselves from those who want to help?  How do we give ourselves the grace to enter into our sorrow without being afraid of the future? How do allow Jesus to redeem our sadness?

 

James writes to us,

“Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides.

You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors.

So don’t try to get out of anything prematurely.

Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way.”

(James 1:2-4)

 

I won’t even pretend to assume anything about where you are in the journey today.  But can I gently whisper to you a challenge to find a way to do more than survive in your sorrow?  I believe Jesus wants us to thrive, no matter what circumstances we’ve faced.  I believe He gives us just what we need to make it through each day.  When we live in the intersection of hope & sorrow, we don’t move on from our grief, but we do move forward in life.  Let Christ do His work in you.

 

Today, may you find a way to thrive.  May you see the slightest glimmer of light in a world that seems very black and white.  May you have the bravery to look up and out, to take a deep breath and feel the sun on your face.  May you be reminded of what you can be thankful for and the others in your path who are hurting also.

 

May you have courage to allow your heart to stay breakable.

 


{Hello.} I get it.  It’s easy to be overwhelmed at the grief of life.  But I believe Jesus calls us to live in the intersection of hope & sorrow, redeeming the broken places and calling us to live with hearts of joy.  I’m Sarah and I’d love to invite you along for the journey.  Click here if you’d like to join me.

 

The Love of Jesus  0

While he was trying to figure a way out, he had a dream.  God’s angel spoke in the dream: “Joseph, son of David, don’t hesitate to get married.  Mary’s pregnancy is Spirit-conceived.  God’s Holy Spirit has made her pregnant.  She will bring a son to birth, and when she does, you, Joseph, will name him Jesus— ‘God saves’— because he will save his people from their sins.”  This would bring the prophet’s embryonic sermon to full term:
Watch for this— a virgin will get pregnant and bear a son; 
They will name him Immanuel (Hebrew for “God is with us”).

Matthew 1:20-23

 

Christmas is tomorrow and I am finishing up the lists that I thought would never get finished.  The gifts are wrapped, everything smells so good and the kids are so excited.  There’s just nothing like Christmas!

 

In the middle of the ham and potatoes, the gifts and the lights of the tree, there is Jesus.

 

“Only He who has experienced it can believe what the love of Jesus Christ is,” wrote Bernard of Clairvaux.

 

If I were to take all the stories of the family of Jesus, I could plop them on a timeline.  Abraham, Joseph, Ruth, Jonah, Habakkuk, Mary.  Of course there are hundreds in between that I missed, but eventually we would come to Jesus.  The Messiah.  The one who had been promised and who they had been searching for all these years.  He came from a line of cheaters and liars, of prostitutes and rebels.  There was sorrow, bitterness, grief and stubborn hope in the lives of those whose blood ran in His veins.

 

His life and death and resurrection changed the course of History forever.  Not just because He came, but because He came for you.

 

On that very first Christmas, there were shepherds watching the very sheep that would be sacrificed for the sins of the people.  But a new way was coming, and He had arrived!  It’s recorded that the shepherds hurried to see Jesus, then they spread the news as fast as they could. Their hearts were kindled. Years later, after Jesus had died and was resurrected, He appeared to a few of His disciples as they were walking from one town to another, only they didn’t recognize Him for a very long time.  When their eyes were opened, they looked at each other and exclaimed, “Were not our hearts burning within us?” (Luke 24:32).

 

Lean in, my friend.  This story is for you, in your emptiness and fear.  In your broken promises and tension of the season.  The family tree of Jesus didn’t end with Him.  He has grafted you in.  There’s a place for you.

 

Just like Habakkuk, when we resolve in our hearts to praise Him, even in the midst of our hard places, He promises to hear our cries.

 

Just like Jonah, when we run from God, He calls us to Him in ways we cannot expect.

 

Just like Naomi, He takes our broken hearts and our deep bitterness and He gives Himself as our Kinsman-Redeemer, handing us new life and healing.

 

Just like Joseph, He gives us the strength to choose forgiveness and what was intended to harm us turns to good.

 

And just like Abraham, when we open our eyes to the hurt of the world, we suddenly see that our lives can be a blessing to others, even in our grief.

 

This is the story of Jesus.  Feel your heart burning within you and grab ahold of it.  The tree will soon come down, the lights will return to the tote in the basement. But because of Jesus, you have been given the True Light.

 

Jesus, the hope of the world, has come.
Merry Christmas.
 

The Repentance of Jonah  0

“Then Jonah paid the fare and went on board, joining those going to Tarshish— as far away from God as he could get.” Jonah 1:3

 

Sometimes when God calls us, we are terrified. We are broken and unqualified, so we run. Advent can feel like salt in the wound, like all of our sorrows are piling up and mocking us. Everywhere we look, we see happy families and perfect endings. And it just doesn’t seem fair. So we run and hide.

 

Ann Voskamp says, “You aren’t equipped for life until you realize you aren’t equipped for life. You aren’t equipped for life until you’re in need of grace.”

 

Jonah had been called by God to warn the people of Ninevah, but he allowed fear to rule him. So he sailed away in the opposite direction, determined to make his own plans instead of being obedient.

 

Once, when Kate was little, but old enough to know better, I put her in a time out for something I can’t remember now. I instructed her to pray while she was alone in her room and make things right between her and God. I’m not sure what I expected, but if there’s anything I know about Kate, it’s that she never does what I expect.

 

I ventured into her room a few minutes later and sat with her on the floor, face-to-face. We were going to have a holy moment together, whether she wanted it or not. “Tell me what you prayed,” I said. She looked at me with a scowl and replied, “I just told him bad words.”

 

Running from God. No one has to teach it… it’s just in us.

 

But God has a way of calling us back to him, in ways we cannot anticipate. It’s why Jonah tried to go to sleep in the bottom of the boat while the storm raged. It’s why he found himself in the belly of a whale for three days. We think the whale was a punishment, but have you ever considered that perhaps it also rescued him? He would have drowned if if it weren’t for the belly of that whale— a place for Jonah to work some things out before he was vomited out onto shore.

 

It’s because of those dark, dank days in the belly that he turned in repentance. He turned back to God, back to obedience. Then he promptly sailed to Ninevah to relay the message God had asked him to deliver. He pled with Ninevah to turn back to God before it was too late.

 

Because it’s never too late for repentance.

 

Almost 800 years later, there would be another storm and another man in the bottom of the boat sleeping. His name was Jesus. The disciples were terrified, and they rushed to wake Jesus. “Master! Master, we’re going to drown!” they yelled above the crash of the waves.

 

Jesus responded with a rebuke to the raging waters and suddenly all was calm. He calmed that storm and He calms the storms in our lives. Jonah was in the belly of the whale for three days and three nights… just as Jesus was on the cross and rose again in three days, to pay the penalty for our sins.

 

Jesus does not abandon you in your storm, both the one that you are in right now and the ultimate battle for your soul.

 

I don’t know what’s raging around you. I don’t know what wakes you up at night and what holds you captive. But I know Jesus longs to calm the storm of your soul. He is not afraid of what rages around you, He sees what you are so afraid to reveal.

 

He binds the broken and raises the dead. He feeds the hungry and touches the sick.

 

Just this moment as I type these words, Eliza is on the computer. Her headphones are in and she’s singing at the top of her lungs, “It’s the most wonderful time of the yearrrrr!” But you know how it sounds when kids have the headphones on. It’s always slightly off key.

 

I’m smiling because it seems so appropriate. The most wonderful time of the year can be overshadowed by our own sorrow and the sorrow we carry for others. The storm rages around us and we are afraid. It’s all slightly off key.

 

Listen to Jesus whisper, “One greater than Jonah is here.” His words bring light to our weary souls.

 

In those times of waiting, claim these verses in Romans 8:22-28:
“All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it’s not only around us; it’s within us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We’re also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become and the more joyful our expectancy.

Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.”

 

Hear Him call you by name. He is near to you this very moment. Peace, be still.

 

 

{Hello.}

Don’t miss the other posts in this series: The Blessing of Abraham, The Brokenness of Joseph and The Redemption of Naomi. Want to get these posts delivered right into your inbox?  Go here to subscribe.

 

 

The Redemption of Naomi  0

“When they arrived in Bethlehem the whole town was soon buzzing: ‘Is this really our Naomi? And after all this time!’
But she said, ‘Don’t call me Naomi; call me Bitter.  The Strong One has dealt me a bitter blow.  I left her full of life, and God has brought me back with nothing but the clothes on my back.  Why would you call me Naomi?  God certainly doesn’t.  The Strong One ruined me.’
And so Naomi was back, and Ruth the foreigner with her, back from the country of Moab.  They arrived in Bethlehem at the beginning of the barley harvest.” Ruth 1:20-22

 

There’s a temptation to succumb to the bitterness when we’ve done all the right things, followed the right plan, think we deserve better. The wind is howling outside as I type these words, and I’m watching the snowflakes blow in waves across the hardened crust of snow.  When life gets hard, I just want to harden.  I fight getting stuck in my sorrow.

 

Naomi had left with her husband to escape a famine.  They had settled away from home, their sons got married and life was good.  But tragedy struck and within a short amount of time, both her husband and sons died.  She was left alone, with two daughters-in-law and no where to go.  And so she went home.  She convinced her one daughter-in-law not to come with her, but Ruth, well, Ruth was stubborn.  She refused to leave Naomi.

 

Naomi had left full of hopes and dreams of a better life.  But she returned empty, defeated, and sad.

 

Frederick Buechner says, “The sad things that happened long ago will always remain part of who we are just as the glad and gracious things will too, but instead of being a burden of guilt, recrimination, and regret that make us constantly stumble as we go, even the saddest things can become, once we have made peace with them, a source of wisdom and strength for the journey that still lies ahead.  It is through memory that we are able to reclaim much of our lives that we have long since written off by finding that in everything that has happened to us over the years, God was offering us possibilities of new life and healing which, though we may have missed them at the time, we can still choose and be brought to life by and healed by all these years later. “ (from his book Telling Secrets)

 

We can be so empty, but that doesn’t have to be the end of the story.  If Jesus says, “I have come that they may have life and have it to the full” (John 10:10), well, he’s not just talking about the few who make it through life unscathed.  He’s talking about us all.

 

Ruth returned with Naomi to Bethlehem at the time of the barley harvest— a time when the land was full again.  They had left at a time of emptiness, during a famine, and so happened to come back when it returned to fullness.  Landowners would leave the grain the harvesters had missed, for the poor, the alien, the widow and the fatherless to gather.  And that’s how Ruth ended up picking grain from the field of Boaz.  And that’s how Boaz learned about Ruth and how Naomi discovered hope again.

 

Boaz, actually a relative of Naomi, was their Kinsman-Redeemer.  He was responsible for protecting family in need.  Kinsman-Redeemers would provide an heir for a brother who died or redeem a relative who had been sold into slavery, they would protect those in their family who were needy.   Boaz was Naomi’s kinsman-Redeemer, able to rescue them from poverty by marrying Ruth.  Later he and Ruth would have a son named Obed, who would one day be the great-grandfather of King David… and eventually a man named Jesus would be part of their family line.

 

The entire book of Ruth is a testimony of redemption and transformation.   It’s the story from emptiness to fullness, from destitution to security, from desperation to peace.

 

There’s a clear turning point in the story of Ruth when Naomi is awakened to the hope that her life could be restored.

 

“Naomi said to her daughter-in-law, ‘Why, God bless that man! God hasn’t quite walked out on us after all!  He still loves us, in bad times as well as good!’” (Ruth 2:20)  That’s the moment she realized she didn’t have to be known as Bitter and her story didn’t have to end in heartache.

 

Don’t ever believe that God will leave you for empty.  He is a God of restoration and redemption. He will not walk out on you.

 

Jesus looks at your life and He has compassion for you.  He longs to take you in His arms and heal your heart.  Without Him, we are so broken.  But He whispers words of joy to our weary souls. He can take what brings us the most pain and sorrow and transform it into something beautiful.  He redeems us.  He wraps us up in His love and suddenly we see His pain for a broken world.

 

When we read the book of Ruth, we see the foreshadowing of our Kinsman-Redeemer in Jesus, the one who can take us from desperation to peace.  Naomi had every right to be bitter.  She lost it all— her family, her land, her home— but her bitterness was transformed when she trusted in the redeeming work of God. And Ruth, her daughter from another country,  was the one who kept pressing on, unswerving and selfless. She clung to the hope that God could and would use the harsh circumstances of their lives.

 

Jesus heals our broken hearts.
He is healing me.
He is healing you.

 

We may feel the weight of our sorrow daily, but we are changed people because of the way Jesus restores.  Jesus looks at us and He doesn’t shake his head at our hardened, crusty hearts.  He doesn’t see a wasted life. Instead, He hands us love and hope.  He takes our wounded lives and speaks words of truth, like salve on our souls.  And, if we open our eyes, we will see him bring good in ways we would have never imagined.  He is our Kinsman-Redeemer.  Our Rescuer.  Our Redeemer.