The Beauty of Uncertainty

As spring blooms in the meadows and woods and hillsides of my beloved East Tennessee, I find myself awakening to a fresh, new season in my own winter-wearied soul. It is a season of growth, much like the tender green shoots pushing through the dark, rich soil in my Kirkhaven garden. New life. New hope. New dreams.


And like all growth that brings fresh strength, beauty, and insight, this growth comes from a place of deep fellowship with the Lord. Not a place of fanfare and bravado. Not a place of human consolation. Not a place where the definition of who I am and what I do has any dependence upon the opinions or the needs or the denigrations . . . especially the manipulations and control . . . of other people. This has been a place of drawing aside to be with the Lord and to glory in His fellowship alone.

It is impossible to live in community with others if you have not learned to live alone with the Lord. All life flows from Him. All truth abides in Him.

To believe that you can plumb the depths and comprehend the breadth and live in full, vital relationship with the Lord of the Universe in a few minutes . . . or a few days . . . or even a few years of distracted study and abbreviated prayer is a most grievous mistake. It is sometimes necessary to have protracted times of aloneness . . . long walks in the Lord’s companionship through the meadows and the deserts and the mountains and the valleys of life’s journey . . . until the essence of God Himself can begin to impact your frail character and mold your stubborn will.

And to believe that you can rightly relate, with true Christian graces, to both the unsaved world and God’s community of believers without a rich, deep, enduring, secret life alone with the Lord is worse than grievous . . . it is devastating. Vain philosophies, misguided doctrines, and co-dependant relationships are the fruits of deep, personal, intimate relationships that are shallow in the Lord.

God is more. He is always more than I can possibly take in. And more than I could ever relate or share. So I find myself, at this juncture of my life, beginning to relish things that, in earlier times, caused me youthful consternation. I am finding . . . in the more-ness of God . . . that I have settled for far too little . . . for far too long.

One of the biggest things that I am beginning to cherish . . . that I once deemed a frustration and a stress . . . is uncertainty. Oswald Chambers, in his book My Utmost for His Highest, eloquently expresses how uncertainty is a blessing in the life of a dependant child of God:

Certainty is the mark of the common-sense life: gracious uncertainty is the mark of the spiritual life. To be certain of God means that we are uncertain in all our ways, we do not know what a day may bring forth. This is generally said with a sigh of sadness; it should be rather an expression of breathless expectation. We are uncertain of the next step, but we are certain of God.

Then he goes further to press the importance of this uncertainty in the formation of a humble, teachable, growing heart:

When we become advocates of a creed, something dies; we do not believe God, we only believe our belief about Him. Jesus said, “Except ye . . . become as little children.” Spiritual life is the life of a child. We are not uncertain of God, but uncertain of what He is going to do next. If we are only certain in our beliefs, we get dignified and severe and have the ban of finality about our views; but when we are rightly related to God, life is full of spontaneous, joyful uncertainty and expectancy.

To live in gracious uncertainty means that we don’t have to understand it all. We don’t have to explain it all. We don’t have to be it all. There is a simplicity and humility and sincerity in this kind of spiritual posture. There is an enormous ability to appreciate different people with different perspectives. There is a freedom to accept our own frailty and to depend upon God’s faithful strength. Gracious uncertainty allows us to release others to pursue genuine godliness. And it allows us to release ourselves from the yardsticks that measure our worth and our status.

Try to define love?
Try to understand grace?
Try to explain righteousness?
Try to build a profound teaching
or acquire a special revelation
or develop a faultless doctrine
that is immutable and global and imperative?

Nope.

None of those occupations can change a human heart.
They can’t turn water to wine
or stone to flesh
or mourning to dancing
or fear to hope.

Only God can do that.
And His Ways can be the most surprising, amazing, unexpected things.

I am thinking that a life of gracious uncertainty is a lovely life.
Who knows where it will take me??
I am thinking that is the whole point.

:)

Time to Dig

Then Isaac dug again the wells of water which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham, for the Philistines had stopped them up after the death of Abraham; and he gave them the same names which his father had given them.
Genesis 26:18


I have been thinking about wells lately. We are finishing a well-drilling project here at Kirkhaven, and my heart has been captured by both the practical blessings and the spiritual symbolism of wells. We have “city water” here on our farm, so a well certainly wasn’t a Kirkhaven necessity. But as our farming ventures have begun to grow, my husband and I began to see the value of having our own underground water source . . . especially since we will soon have an acre pond that needs filling.

Deciding where to drill the well turned out to be simple . . . in a surreal kind of way. No one could give us any scientific formula for choosing the right drilling spot. My husband and I had discussed possible locations, but we both felt completely inadequate to make such a sweeping decision. We had already prayed for favor and blessing on the project. So we did what we have always done in projects that seemed to test the limits of our abilities and our faith. We just trusted God. We shrugged our shoulders. We made a decision. “Put the well wherever my wife wants it,” my husband joked, grinning. “I don’t want it to be my fault if this well ends up dry.” So John, the drill-rig assistant, ceremoniously handed me his empty Mountain Dew bottle and said, “Drop this where you want your well. That’s where we’ll drill.”

I dropped the bottle, with as much flare as I could muster, right at my feet. The rig commenced drilling. Only God knew what we would find.

I watched as the McCall Well Drilling and Pump Service turned up topsoil, then red clay, then Tennessee limestone. “You’ll hit water eventually,” Mr. McCall had said, “just no tellin’ how deep you’ll have to go or what kind of flow you’ll find when you get there.” Since the depth of the well determined its cost, we hoped that we wouldn’t have to drill any deeper than 300 feet.

From my research, I learned that our official state rock -  limestone - was often a great source of groundwater, so I bent down and scooped up a handful of the drilling debris at the edge of the deepening shaft. It looked like finely crushed gravel. But it was dry. Bone dry. I stood there beside the loud droning of the powerful drill . . . holding my dry, dusty limestone pieces . . . and I prayed for water.

That was a powerfully symbolic moment for me. Praying for water . . . cool, pure, life-giving water . . . drawn from a well dug by our own efforts . . . standing in utter faith that God would bless this work . . . knowing that when we found water . . . if we found water . . . the enduring testimony we would pass on to our children and our grand-children would be simply this:

El Shaddai is faithful.

When I look at my country today . . . and especially at the American church . . . I see dry, dusty limestone. Rock that is associated with water. Rock that often has fossils of marine animals embedded in it. Rock that signifies great potential for well drilling. But it is dry. Bone dry.

I remember how, in my twenties, we would sing in church about the “rain of God” as we enthusiastically prayed and believed and expected great outpourings of revival in our land. Sometimes we saw miracles. Sometimes we saw hearts gloriously converted to faith in Jesus Christ. But it was always about “the rain.” God would “come down” and we would glory in it all.

I believe the time for dancing in the rain has passed. There will, as sure as God is faithful, be outpourings of God’s love and mercy on this land and on His people. But our hands have grown soft . . . our wills have become lazy . . . our theology has shriveled into dry, psychological, socialistic graceology. “God does it all. Salvation is free. No worries . . . no fretting . . . no working . . . we’re all okay. Get a revelation of the grace message and you’ll never thirst again.”  Like in the days of Isaac in Genesis, the Philistines have stopped up the ancient wells. Who is left to dig them again?

Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have obtained our introduction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we exult in hope of the glory of God. And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us. Romans 5:1-5

What has happened to this kind of virtue? Where are our heroes of perseverance and proven character? Is there anyone left who believes that repentance is necessary, virtue is mandated, and good works are necessary in the Kingdom of God?

Our well-drilling at Kirkhaven turned into an expensive project. We had to drill much deeper than our hoped-for 300 feet. At one point we dug through two caves and had to pull up the drill bits, undo what had already been done, and double the amount of wall casing that was installed. We drilled all week and only found a minimum of water . . . 5 gallons –per-minute flow rate. By Monday morning, our 6th day of drilling, we were faced with a simple question: how deep is deep enough?

We passed 600 feet . . . then 700 feet . . . and the drill foreman asked us the same question each time we passed another 100 feet: “Are you ready to quit or do you want to go deeper?”

“If we go deeper, will that increase our flow rate?” I asked Chris. “Maybe not. Probably not. There’s really no way of knowing,” he answered as he shrugged his shoulders.

At the 700 foot mark, we finally gave Chris a definitive answer to his “how deep” question: “Go 800 feet.” That was it. 800 feet and no more. We would be grateful for whatever flow rate we found at that depth. Then we prayed one final, simple prayer:

“Father, bless this well. Send us a gusher. Oh Lord, let there be a gusher at Kirkhaven!”

As the sun was sinking low on Kirkhaven’s western horizon Monday afternoon, I saw the McCall Well Drilling truck amble up our gravel drive toward the exit to our property. I assumed the guys were headed home for the day and I waved to them, smiling. My husband and I were at the barn finishing our chicken coop. But instead of continuing up the drive, they turned onto the access driveway and pulled up to the barn . . . arms raised in victory: “It’s a gusher!”

Our well is sunk into an underground river at 760 feet. The current of the water is so powerful it prevented the drill from progressing any deeper. The water was gushing out of our shaft so fast that an accurate flow rate couldn’t be determined. Chris estimated it at “40 or 60 or probably greater than 60 gallons per minute.” After the bit was removed and the well was capped, the water level rose 555 feet up the shaft . . . now resting at an easily accessible 205 feet.

Digging this well was time-consuming. It was a test of our hope and faith. It was expensive. But it is an underground gusher . . . rain or shine . . . flood or drought . . . for generations to come. A testimony of God’s all-sufficient faithfulness.

Here is what Dietrich Bonhoeffer in his book The Cost of Discipleship says about the treasure of God’s grace in His church. In the 1940’s, Bonhoeffer actively and openly opposed both Hitler's National Socialism and the infiltration of Nazi philosophy and control into Germany’s churches. Bonhoffer was arrested for helping Jews escape to Switzerland, and was then executed by hanging at Flossenbürg concentration camp on April 9, 1945. He is a hero of the Christian faith and I believe that his words have great counsel for Christians today:

Cheap grace is the deadly enemy of our Church. We are fighting today for costly grace. Cheap grace means grace sold on the market like cheapjacks’ wares. The sacraments, the forgiveness of sin, and the consolations of religion are thrown away at cut prices. Grace is represented as the Church’s inexhaustible treasury, from which she showers blessings with generous hands, without asking questions or fixing limits. Grace without price; grace without cost! The essence of grace, we suppose, is that the account has been paid in advance; and, because it has been paid, everything can be had for nothing.... Cheap grace means grace as a doctrine, a principle, a system. It means forgiveness of sins proclaimed as a general truth, the love of God taught as the Christian 'conception' of God. An intellectual assent to that idea is held to be of itself sufficient to secure remission of sins.... In such a Church the world finds a cheap covering for its sins; no contrition is required, still less any real desire to be delivered from sin. Cheap grace therefore amounts to a denial of the living Word of God, in fact, a denial of the Incarnation of the Word of God . . .


Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock. Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: “ye were bought at a price,” and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon his Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God.

America . . .
Church . . .
We need a gusher . . . a pure, clean, river of living water flowing up from deep within the very heart of God.

It is time for virtue and hope.
It is time for the kind of faith that produces the character of God in His people.
It is time to stop our hedonistic, “bless-me-again-Lord” rain dances . . .
       to abandon our cheap grace . . .
       to don our work boots . . .
       to change into some clothes that might get dirty . . .
       and to start digging.

For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all men, instructing us to deny ungodliness and worldly desires and to live sensibly, righteously and godly in the present age, looking for the blessed hope and the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Christ Jesus, who gave Himself for us to redeem us from every lawless deed, and to purify for Himself a people for His own possession, zealous for good deeds. These things speak and exhort and reprove with all authority. Let no one disregard you.
Titus 2:11-15

We need to dig until we find theTruth,
the faith,
the repentance,
and the resolve
to become the church God desires.

It might be hard.
It might be long.
It will never be cheap.

But we can trust God.
He is faithful.

Somewhere below the very ground on which we stand in faith. . .
is a real gusher
waiting for us.

Grace Has Come

I watched a storm dissipate a few days ago. It was an awe-inspiring thing. And since the storm was breaking apart just as the sun began setting, the colors were spectacular.


Skies that had been heavy and brooding from a dark, rain-filled day feathered softly and spread into a thinning veil of breeze-driven wisps. The charcoal canopy warmed to purple, peach, and pink as a warm, yellow glow softly lit the western horizon. I watched it all through the black silhouette of winter tree branches in my front yard. And when a tiny patch of blue sky began to slowly spread across this beautiful pastel canvas, I felt like a blind man seeing the wonder of God’s glory for the first time.

“This,” I thought, as the sun finally sank behind my Kirkhaven ridge, “is a photograph of grace.”

The grace of God is miraculous and glorious and absolutely unmistakable. For those who experience God’s handiwork in their own lives . . . and see it in the lives of others . . . grace is stunningly beautiful.

Purity.
Steadfastness.
Honesty.
Forbearance.
Dignity.
Peace.

After the storm of trial and the heaviness of repentance and the cleansing rain of Truth have brooded over our hearts for a time, God’s mercy comes . . . through the blood of His precious Son . . . and the sunset of His ever-present grace brings hope that tomorrow will be different.

That we will be different.

My heart knows what it feels like to gaze out onto heavy, stormy skies. There have been days and weeks and even months when light and color and hope were lost in the monochromatic landscape of sorrow and pain. Like an old black and white movie, I could only imagine the colors that actually thrived beyond the camera lens. I couldn’t see them outside the window of my soul; I could only see shades of gray.

But God’s grace has come.
The heavenly revelation is full and complete.
From the manger,
to the long, dusty roads of Palestine,
to the cross,
to the grave,
to the resurrection,
to the heart that will repent and believe.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see!

For the grace of God has appeared,
bringing salvation to all men,
instructing us to deny ungodliness and worldly desires
and to live sensibly, righteously and godly in the present age,
looking for the blessed hope
and the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Christ Jesus,
who gave Himself for us
to redeem us from every lawless deed,
and to purify for Himself a people for His own possession,
zealous for good deeds.

Exquisitely simple.
Profoundly amazing.
The Gospel of Jesus of Christ.
The grace of God.

These things speak and exhort and reprove with all authority.
Let no one disregard you.
Titus 2:11-15)

Grace and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Savior be unto you.
Happy Resurrection Day!

Dreaming

Sometimes you just have to shrug your shoulders, dust off your shelf of dreams, pick one, and lace up your work boots. There will always be reasons for NOT doing something. There will always be people to tell you that you shouldn’t. But when the Lord gives His nod of approval . . . and your heart begins to bloom with hope that you might actually be able to do this thing . . . then do it.

I have always been a dreamer. And I am married to a dreamer. It is just the way we are wired. It isn’t that we are afraid of the real world and prefer to live in an imaginary one. We are not those kinds of dreamers. It’s just that we love to see things as they are . . .find the beauty in them . . . and then wonder what they might become.

For me, dreaming is a type of prayer. It is a conversation between the Lord and I that plumbs the depths of my feelings and challenges the truth of what I think. It helps me to find complete contentment in the goodness God has poured into my life while still nudging me to step boldly into what He is doing next. For example, I can enjoy, with gratitude, the deliciously tart blackberries that grow wildly in my Kirkhaven woods . . . and still wonder, as I meander down familiar paths, if I might also grow juicy blueberries up on the hill.

Dreaming is a lot of work. I study when I dream. I read lots of books. I ponder the Word of God for guidance. I seek the counsel of knowledgeable, wise people. I ask a lot of questions and search out a lot of answers. It is important to have an honest grasp of what you DO know and what you DON’T know and what you NEED to learn when you are dreaming. Not-willing-to-work-at-it-laziness will kill a dream. Know-it-all-arrogance will kill the dreamer.

So today, at the threshold of another gorgeous Kirkhaven spring, we have begun earnest work on a brand-new dream. Kirkhaven is becoming a working farm. We will grow heirloom fruits, vegetables, and herbs for cooking, canning, and drying. We will raise Black Australorp chickens for beautiful, brown eggs and healthy, organic meat . And we will build a bass pond on the west side of our 54 ridge-top acres for fishing, thinking, and . . . . probably . . . more dreaming.

I am a teacher.
My husband is an architect.

If you are tempted to ask, “Why would THEY try to tackle such a project?” . . .
I have a simple answer.

No reason at all . . .
except that we dreamed it . . .
and we could hear God smiling.

Here is the site of our future garden overlooking McNallie ridge . . . with the Smoky Mountains in the distance.
 

 
Looking across the garden, you can see our red barn.  That's where we will build the chicken coop.
 

 
And this is the sun setting over the site for our future pond.

Jeremiah 29:11-14


"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the LORD, "and will bring you back from captivity . . .”

God’s plans are truly lovely.
Join me in dreaming?

Footsteps

I took a walk yesterday in the fresh, clean snow that had settled onto our east Tennessee ridge. We don’t see snow like this very often. I wanted to meander across Kirkhaven’s meadows and trek through familiar wooded trails . . . enjoying the beauty of this blanketed landscape before it all melted away. The sky had cleared, the sun was out, and it looked like a perfect day for a winter stroll.

It was a treasure-hunt of sorts. I was looking for footprints. I often see wildlife scampering across our property or lingering along the wood’s edge. I wondered if I could track rabbits, deer, turkeys, or coyotes along my favorite walking route.

I didn’t take my ipod with me. Music is usually standard protocol when I go trekking, but there was something about the pristine look of snow on rolling hills that made me just want to listen to the silence this time.

The first footprints I found were the delicate, wispy tracings of a single, tiny bird. If I hadn’t been looking, I would have traipsed right through them.

Then there was a curious imprint at the edge of the path where a rabbit had been sitting

. . . and a double set of bunny tracks . . .

that merged with deer tracks and hopped up the path into the snowy brush.

It was so peaceful to walk in the winter woods alone. The only sound was the smooshing scrunch of my muffled boot-steps. Blues and whites of the snowy forest floor melted into pastel browns and grays as the bare-limbed canopy filtered the sun’s warming rays onto muted patches of shade and shadow. Everything felt calm. Uncomplicated. There was such unembellished elegance to the stark beauty there.

Then something the Lord said in His famous Sermon on the Mount drifted into my mind:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Pure.
Like the clean, white snow.
Fresh.
Like a cold winter day.

I looked down and saw my own footprint in the snow.

I had walked these wooded trails many times, in every season.
The smell of honesuckle and wildflower blooms is nearly intoxicating in the spring.
The blackberries picked on humid summer afternoons are juicy and tart.
The brilliant orange-golds of autumn oaks and maples paint a stunning fall canvas.
And the brown, leaf-scattered path of winter’s simplicity makes a rich, musty carpet for brisk winter hikes.
Every season is beautiful in my Kirkhaven woods.

But only a snowy pathway clearly shows footprints.

Blessed are the pure in heart . . .
like fresh, white snow . . .
so that His every footfall,
His every touch,
His every Word,
even His every whisper and sigh
leaves it’s perfect imprint there.

I thought about my own heart and all the different states it had been in:
Proud.
Angry.
Critical.
Doubting.
Fearful.

Broken.

Far too noisy to hear God’s gentle footfalls.
Far too cluttered to see the prints He had left.

I knew that God loved me just the way I was..
And I knew that He often met me at the place of my greatest weakness.
I remembered how He even used an imperfect vessel to accomplish His perfect plans.

But blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

So I prayed.

Lord, take my hurting heart . . .
I give it to you again.
I repent of the sin that muddles your perfect Truth.
I want to be changed.
Touch me . . .
and leave your handprint there.

A pure heart is less than a perfect heart.
But it is more than fully forgiven.

A pure heart is cleaned . . .
and quieted . . .
and waiting . . .
for the footstep
and the touch
and the voice
of God.

Because to see Him
and to bear His likeness
is what really matters.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Matt 5:8

Simple Faith

 

 

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.

His oath, His covenant, His blood,
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Dressed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne.

On Christ the solid Rock I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

Lyrics by Edward Mote

Music by William Bradbury.

The Cokesbury Worship Hymnal

Copyright 1938

I often find myself humming this faithful, old hymn during the day. 

Sometimes the humming is conversational . . .

a warmly familiar act of fellowship with the Carpenter of my days. 

Sometimes it is prayerful . . . 

a deliberate step of faith in trials that test both meddle and faith. 

Sometimes it is unconscious  . . .

echoing from memory’s musty halls like a timeworn photograph. 

It is a life song for me.   A hymn of many seasons.   The theme of a life lived in the Gospel.

If there is any mystery in Christianity,

it is the mysterious penchant of Christians to muddle-up elegant, simple Truth. 

Why do we do that? 

To try to be “deep?” 

To try to impress people? 

To try to convince others that our more mysterious revelation . . .

since it is greater than their more simple one . . .

earns us loftier notoriety or higher authority or greater specialness?

My faith is simple and my God is profound.

This is the 51^st year of my life . . .

my 45^th year of walking with the Lord . . .

the year 2010.

This year my resolution, my life-vision, is very simple: 

to be a bond-servant of Christ Jesus.

A bond-servant. 

In Greek, a doulous. 

A slave. 

A person owned by another,

devoted to another to the disregard of one’s own interest.

It is a life of "grace plus everything."  That's what my husband calls it. 

The grace of God bestowed and wrought in a life

through faith

that results in obedience.

Grace.

Faith.

Obedience.

So very simple.

This year,

I expect to experience forgiveness . . . as I repent.

I expect to experience freedom . . . as I turn away from the things that oppose God.

I expect to experience peace . . . as I choose trust instead of fear.

I expect to experience abundant blessing . . . as I share what I have been given.

I expect to work hard and to rest deeply.

I expect the Gospel of Jesus Christ to only and amazingly be

The Gospel.

Simply.

Profoundly.

Sovereignly.

For me, that’s the good life.

It is more than enough.

It always has been.

And always will be.

- Lesa K. Reid

“The Christian profession does not consist in a notional knowledge or a bare assent, 

much less in perverse disputings, 

but in obedience.” —Matthew Henry

My Favorite Christmas Memory . . .

 

There is a quiet lull at Kirkhaven right now.  The turkey is in the oven,  casseroles and salads are assembled, and a mountain of potatoes have been peeled and diced for their traditional garlic mashing.  My husband is outside splitting wood so our Christmas Eve fireplace will crackle warmly all evening.

Later it will be busy and loud. 

Later friends and family will be laughing and fellowshipping around a greenery-bedecked table. 

Later three poodles and one frisky bird-dog-puppy will be dutifully keeping watch for any dropped morsel (or any secreted tidbit) of deliciously aromatic Christmas Eve feast.  

But right now Kirkhaven is quiet, so I have a moment to fulfill a promise I made to my dear friend Janice Lewis before the weekend celebration begins.

Janice posted a suggestion on facebook and I promised to reply.  She asked people to share a special Christmas memory they had.  I answered that I was working on a reply and would post it soon.  So here is my answer, dearest Janice.  Here is my favorite Christmas memory:

Now in those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, that a census be taken of all the inhabited earth.  This was the first census taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria.  And everyone was on his way to register for the census, each to his own city. 

Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, in order to register along with Mary, who was engaged to him, and was with child.  While they were there, the days were completed for her to give birth.  And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

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.  This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."

And suddenly there appeared with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, 

"Glory to God in the highest,

And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased."

When the angels had gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds began saying to one another, "Let us go straight to Bethlehem then, and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us."  So they came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger.  When they had seen this, they made known the statement which had been told them about this Child.  And all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds.

But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart. 

The shepherds went back, glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen, just as had been told them.   Luke 2:1-20

The Christmas story is so simple. 

So elegant. 

So plain. 

It is the story of the King of the Universe . . . the Perfect Lamb of God . . . being born in a lowly stable. 

Sleeping in a feeding trough. 

Visited and venerated by rough, earthy shepherds.

It wasn’t what people were expecting, however.

It wasn’t exactly how people would have planned it. 

There were things missing from the picture

. . . a warm, snuggly cradle

. . . a fire at the hearth

. . . family and friends gathered to celebrate

. . . the smell of savory meat roasting on the fire

. . . the rich, comfortable sound of bread being kneaded and baked. 

The prophets had spoken of an unusual birth and an unusual life and an unusual death for the coming messiah. . . but somehow people had expected something different. 

Something more familiar. 

Something deserving of a king.

I always decorate my Christmas tree with gold and red and white.  We have lots of lights and snowmen and greenery scattered about the house.  We always have a pile of gifts under the tree.  And we always eat a Christmas feast.  There are tons of wonderful memories I have collected from all of my lovely Christmases.

But the thing I remember most is the brown of the stable. 

And the rough wood of the manger. 

The shepherds who saw angels. 

And the quiet, pensive expression of a young mother holding a tiny, swaddled King. 

My King.

Because sometimes Christmas isn’t always perfect. 

Perhaps some people we love will be absent from our Christmas table.

Perhaps harsh words still echo in our minds. 

Perhaps our Christmas greetings and our heartfelt words of blessings are not welcome messages to some friends and family we love. 

Perhaps there are things missing from the picture this year.

Some households don’t always look like a Normal Rockwell painting.

But the King is there.

The One born in a manger.

The One who lived much heartache.

The One who died on a cross.

Who has believed our message?

And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?

For He grew up before Him like a tender shoot,

And like a root out of parched ground;

He has no stately form or majesty

That we should look upon Him,

Nor appearance that we should be attracted to Him.

He was despised and forsaken of men,

A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief;

And like one from whom men hide their face He was despised,

and we did not esteem Him.
Surely our griefs He Himself bore,

And our sorrows He carried;

Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,

Smitten of God, and afflicted.

But He was pierced through for our transgressions,

He was crushed for our iniquities;

The chastening for our well -being fell upon Him,

And by His scourging we are healed.

All of us like sheep have gone astray,

Each of us has turned to his own way;

But the Lord has caused the iniquity of us all

To fall on Him.
He was oppressed and He was afflicted,

Yet He did not open His mouth;

Like a lamb that is led to slaughter,

And like a sheep that is silent before its shearers,

So He did not open His mouth . . .

Yet He Himself bore the sin of many,

And interceded for the transgressors.   Isaiah 53

My favorite Christmas memory, dearest Janice, is Him.

The King of the Universe come to earth as a tiny babe

. . . born in a manger

. . . destined to die on a cross. 

He is always there as I decorate my home for this joyous season. 

He is always there as I buy and wrap the gifts. 

He is always there as I prepare the meal and light the Christmas candles.

He is always there when my home fills with family and friends.

And He is always there when things are missing.

Him.

It's Him I remember most.

And I treasure the memory.

When there is beauty and love and celebrating,

I can feel Him laughing.

And when there is heartache and sorrow and pain,

I can feel His tender Love.

In all of it He is there.

Glory to God in the Highest!

On earth peace . . . goodwill . . . to all!

Can you see Him too?