{The Return of Peace}

"I'm frightened," she simpered. Little Miss wiggled on my lap as we waited for the Christmas program to begin. It had been a hard day for her. Contrary. Belligerent. Defiant.

I tried not to let her see the exasperation in my face. Always so dramatic. Frightened? Good grief.

She said it again, but this time she gave the reason. "I'm frightened that I won't be able to see the nativity."

The sea of heads in front of us blocked the stage, and she didn't want to miss the manger. I took a deep breath as I pondered her response. I didn't want to miss the manger either. I didn't want to let my frustration, my impatience, my selfishness prevent me from seeing Jesus in that moment.

The program began, and for most of the evening the action was visible from where my Little Miss sat. But as the manger scene drew near, I realized that I'd have to move in order for her to fully see the baby. The lights dimmed and I quietly ushered my daughter to the aisle. I checked to make sure we weren't standing in front of anyone, and then we positioned ourselves in full view of the manger. She was satisfied. 

Too often I make comfort my objective. I want to stay seated, comfortably watching the show. But the squirming one on my lap reminds me that sacrifice is often necessary in order to show Jesus to others.

The next morning these thoughts were still on my mind as I opened my Bible. Nehemiah encouraged his fearful people, "Don't be afraid of [our enemies]. Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons and your daughters, your wives and your homes." (Nehemiah 4:14)

Remember the Lord. Fight for your children.

These words are even more sobering a week later as I look at them in light of the recent tragedy in Connecticut. Our nation is rocked. We are fearful. We hold our children closely and we cry, "Why?"

Shortly after I read Nehemiah that day, I found Spurgeon's evening devotion to be a source of great comfort and hope. The timing was uncanny. It was five days before the shooting, and I was quietly wondering how to minister to my own child in her own need, how to cultivate peace and joy in our own home.

The Scripture he drew upon was Isaiah 32:18.

My people shall dwell in quiet resting places.

This, friends, is a promise. My people shall. Do you hear the confidence of the Shepherd? His protection? His hope? His loyalty? There is so much packed into this one line. And we need every word of it.

Spurgeon responds with the solution: "The person of Jesus is the quiet resting-place of His people, and when we draw near to Him in the breaking of bread, in the hearing of the word, the searching of the Scriptures, prayer, or praise, we find any form of approach to Him to be the return of peace to our spirits."

A week later, my own domestic struggles seem so petty. But in my own small way, I long for peace. In a much greater way, our nation longs for peace. And the answer to both is found in the nativity.

The thing is, we can't stay seated. We might miss it. This is frightening. We must stand. We must take our children by the hands, and we must take them to the manger. We must show them the beauty of Love. We must show them how attractive it is to serve, to sacrifice, to give. And there, as we fall down in worship, we will indeed find the return of peace to our spirits.

Dear ones, let us linger long before our Prince of Peace, today and always.

{A Time to Speak}

There are times when I have nothing to say. Not because there's nothing on my mind, but because I'm too overwhelmed by the weight of it all. So I don't write. (Or, when I do, it's a glib little anecdote that barely passes as a tolerable read.)

But if I could speak, these would be my honest words:


My kids have been bickering. For weeks. I'm tired.

We haven't had a "normal" school day for . . . I'm not sure how long.

I haven't been able to motivate myself to follow my exercise routine.

It's become a habit to ignore the alarm in the morning.

The meal planning? Not going so well.

And, of course, the laundry. (Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.)


My honest words. So why do I feel as though I can't speak? Because I don't have the answers. I'm out of "bickering kid" solutions. I'm not sure how to liven up the school day. (Instead I've considered enrolling them a number of times.) The exercising, the nutritious meals, the eight hours of sleep. It's all lacking. And I don't have any answers.

You see, I'm the kind of girl who likes to have the answers. I like to offer solutions to peoples' problems. I like to put in my two cents' worth pretty much whenever I have the opportunity.

And I can't do that right now. Because I can't even handle a shrieking six-year-old. (Although can anyone, really?)

But what if -- now humor me for a moment -- what if this is actually a good time to speak?

A time to speak and let you know that I don't have all the answers. A time to speak and let you know that you're not the only one who struggles. A time to speak and let you know that it's okay to feel like you don't have it all together.

Because no one really has it all together. At least, not on their own strength.

Which is why I'm so very grateful that I can speak with certainty on this point:

I'm surrounded by grace, and I'm filled with hope.

Because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God is good. I know that He'll faithfully redeem these "lost days," just as He's done many times before. And that's definitely something worth speaking about.

Like a crocus in the snow
I stand, knee-deep in winter
Holding springtime in my heart.

Joan Walsh Anglund

Woman Writing at a Table by Thomas Anchutz

The Hills are Alive

Jamie got me The Sound of Music for Christmas. He's a good man. I'm not sure how many times I've let the kids play the "songs only" version of the DVD. The movie skips from one song to the next with the option of sing-a-long subtitles. Their favorite is "The Lonely Goatherd." It makes me laugh to think that my children already know the words to "Sixteen Going on Seventeen," when it took me years to understand what Rolfe was saying to that enviable, soft-focus Liesl (roues, cads and all).

Do you remember when The Sound of Music aired regularly on television? It was edited to fit in the allotted time space, so when my family got the much desired VCR and copied the much desired movie, the version we ended up with had a few plot holes. My sister and I didn't mind, though. We watched it over and over and over until we had it memorized. Our enthusiasm even went beyond the film. Every time our family went for a drive, she and I were on the lookout for the perfect "Maria hill" -- you know, the hill that would be perfectly suited to accommodate rapturous, melodious twirling.

Just a few years ago I watched the full-length, unedited movie with no commercial breaks. I was astonished. I was thrilled. It was like seeing my favorite movie for the very first time. I felt complete and whole. (And it finally made sense to me why Kurt's response to Maria after her long-awaited return from the abbey was, "Hungry!")

Now, I had seen the original before -- at a movie theater, in fact (red curtain intermission and all!). The details are a bit hazy in my mind, but I do recall singing along at the top of my lungs with everyone in my party (you people know who you are), much to the consternation of fellow theater goers. It was a glorious moment, somewhere in my youth . . . or childhood. But time wore on, and I eventually forgot the missing scenes. I was content to live with the edited version.

Maybe this is a bit like the waiting we experience each day. The waiting for our Lord to return and create a new heaven and a new earth. We see hints of it now, and we already love much of what we see. We rewind and go to our favorite parts again and again. Some of us even have the scenes memorized: the etched slope of Mt. Hood against an eastern sky, the gray twist of the Columbia River through towering basalt, the thunderous crash of the mighty Pacific against sandy shores.

But this -- what we have now -- this is only the incomplete, commercial-broken, flawed story. There are plot holes and mistakes, and at times we just don't get it. Even worse, we sometimes forget that something is missing and content ourselves with mediocrity.

But then, we are reminded. We dream once more of seeing the whole picture as it was meant to be. We imagine the story growing to fruition: the red curtain rising, the hazy details coming into sharp focus, the Male Lead sweeping us off of our feet.

Some day, we'll have front row seats in the theater. The dreams and imaginings will be fully alive. The story will astonish and maybe even surprise us. But it will be thrilling, achingly beautiful, and it will make us complete.

Some day, those hills are really going to be alive. Personally, I intend to spend many a day on the perfect Maria hill, absorbed in rapturous, melodious twirling. Who's with me?

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
I Corinthians 13:12