Mess

I feel like a child playing in the mud. I feel like a child drawing outside the lines with crayons and colors I'm seeing for the first time. I feel like a child who scraped his knee because he noticed something shiny in the distance, ran at it curiously, but lost his footing and fell. I’m a child who reached for the fire, mesmerized by it, and now there are tears running down my face. I thought I was doing everything right, and somehow by some certain turn of events and naive choices I made, I am a crying, dirty, mess.

He may not catch me when I fall. He'll let me trip over myself just enough to learn from it and be humbled, but He'll never be far enough away to leave me behind.

All that’s desired is a relationship. 

And He comes and picks me up to place me on His shoulders. With a damp towel He washes my face, bandages my knee, and runs my seared hand under cool water. Then He picks up my coloring page and places it on the refrigerator to display it. And somehow, He's proud of it.

All I can offer is the mess that I am — nothing more, nothing less. I bring no benefit to Him, not even my commitment, and yet somehow my heart and well-being are constantly at the forefront of His mind. I am constantly pursued and loved by the One I can offer nothing to in return.

This is true love. And I know I will have lived a full life if I can reflect that kind of love even in the slightest to those around me.

Promises

There’s a lot of vague speech sometimes in the Christian “churchianity” culture that’s been created, and to be frank with you, so many days I get out of bed as the gray daylight pours into my bedroom and I’m wading in discouragement. I am discontent. Many days I don’t know why, or what I can do to fix it.

Sometimes I let the discontentment sit. Sometimes I find the energy to seek some sense of hope, and when I search, sadly I'm often met with vague, empty attempts at encouragement.

You know… the “God keeps His promises; just be happy; just trust in God’s plan (so your feelings don’t matter)” type of encouragement. And while they have good intentions, they often fail in their attempts to do any good… especially in the midst of an isolated, depressive, and trauma-filled season as we’ve had.

I get frustrated at these things and suddenly, but rarely, a day like today comes around where our society pauses for a moment and I can take a step back to realize the significance of the love that the Father has for us.

Christmas is the celebration of Christ Jesus Himself coming to be with us, become one of us, to teach us, to love us, and to be the sacrificial lamb of God to take on the sin of the world so that we may be called blameless and forgiven, washed as pure as the snow falling peacefully outside my bedroom window. 

So yes, we have hope. But it isn’t a vague, cliché, keep-your-head-up aimless kind of hope.

We have hope because we are invited and welcomed into the grand and beautiful story of God where His love for us was actually acted out in the display of love that is Jesus Christ.

He’s the long-awaited lamb of God that would take the sin of the world on His shoulders. The fulfillment of a promise — a promise that a sacrifice would come to restore a broken relationship between God and His people, and a promise that has not expired.

As the timeless hymn humbly declares, “Come, thou long expected Jesus / Born to set thy people free / From our fears and sins release us / Let us find our rest in thee”

Today is about the birth of Jesus Christ and the true hope He is — one that offers grace and healing for the isolated, depressive, and trauma-filled people we are.

May we find rest in that promise.

Winter

It’s gloomy out today in West Michigan. Wet strong winds and dark clouds cover the sky and the smell of the cool autumn air surrounds me as I walk. It’s a usual fall Michigan day, the precursor to the dreaded bitter winter, especially after the beautiful white snow ceases to fall from the same clouds and melts half-heartedly, leaving patches of dirt and grass in its absence.

I can remember always despising that time of winter, when there’s nothing new happening in late January and February, with barely anything to look forward to but springtime in the weeks and weeks ahead. It kind of feels like the year we’ve had — stale, waiting for change, waiting to be excited for something new ahead. Always looking forward, never feeling the weight of the gift of now.

When I lost my good friend Corban in the summer, it took me on an unexpected journey. Memories of our time together were on constant replay in my mind, and they so often continue to interrupt my daily thought. I had come to realize that, of course, it wasn’t what we achieved that I remembered and have looked back on with such adoration, it was doing life together in every moment, especially the heartbreaking and stale seasons. See, that's the fabric of this life.

I have no regrets, yet if I could tell myself something many seasons ago: I wish I had been less distracted by the discomfort or weariness I felt in the moment and had become über-aware of the blessings I had in front of me — the presence of my friend and the quality time of simply being with him.

So today, I don’t mind the rain, the snow, or the wind, nor the discomfort or dull season. I stand in it and welcome it, knowing that I may not understand its importance until I am no longer in it.