Christmas Calls Out Our Courage

Naked trees etch the darkness. Cold air seeps in, chilling my bare feet and hands, despite the heat on.

Courage falls flat some nights, and I pray hard, reading and re-reading every word typed or scrawled, weighing the terms, the message, the need, and hoping it shows my heart and nothing else.

In a blinking online text box, I hesitate and then respond, choosing each word carefully, prayerfully deleting and re-typing until it feels right. Is it? I can only speak to what I've seen, learned, experienced. I type tremulously, confessing my own brokenness, gushing wild about God's pursuing patient love, his tender transformations in my heart and life, and then hang quiet in the wonder of him. After anguished reading and re-reading it, I click "Enter."

Photo credit: Anders Klint

Naked trees etched the darkness. Cold air seeped in, chilling their bare feet and hands, despite the fire crackling beside them.

Courage fell flat some nights for them too, I imagine. Wrapped up for a chilly overnight, the men guarding the sheep that night in biblical Bethlehem probably started their night like any other night. After a terrifying encounter with angel army choirs, though, everything changed. They changed.

Nobody else in the Christmas story sees angels or miracles that night. Mary and Joesph had angel conversations in the past, but that was eight or nine months ago. In the quiet sleeping town of Bethlehem tonight, only the shepherds see angels.

Everyone else... they don't hear angel choruses, they don't cower from bright lights bouncing off Middle Eastern hills; they don't see miracles that night. Everyone else just gets to hear the shepherds talk, see the shepherds' responses.

Imagine the courage it took those sheep-wrangling men to wake up people at the inn, to peek in on sleeping guests, and then to spill the story to their hometown family and friends. 

"You'll never believe what we saw and heard tonight..."

It took courage to speak of wild otherworldly encounters; to share how they saw the Creator at work; and to risk ridicule, rejection, and rumors.

"And all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them."

I have a brand new gift Bible that I have been writing in and working on since October to give to a dear one. I'm not sure how he'll respond, but I am convinced I need to do this. And yet, friends, I confess, my courage falls flat some days. But this? This is life! And so, with tremulous hope and praying, I'm going to write a note, and send it off.

Speaking only to what I've seen, learned, and experienced about God, I will share my brokenness, cry out joyfully about God's pursuing, patient love, and his tender transformations still at work. Hanging quiet in the wonder of him, I'll click "Print."

Join me this Christmas? Race away from the crackling fire and heated home, and bravely tell someone what you have seen and heard from the Creator of the world. Humbly, respectfully, tell your story. 

(Photo Credit: Anders Klint)

Not Lost In Translation

Latin samba drums thunder from my computer speakers, and we dance, jumping around the living room. My five year old Daniel leaps joyfully beside me, tiny shoulders bouncing rhythmically, legs stomping the beat. We grab hands, shimmy to the beat, and swirl.

Jetlag whirls off, this third day back from our missions trip, and it's time to move. We dance, laughter spiraling off us, as we swoop up dirty laundry, and carry used dishes to the kitchen. Steaming sudsy water pours into the sink, frothing high to hide the old.

Returning from a short-term senior high missions trip to northern France, joy and nostalgia spill from us. In a former textile industry city, those factories stand tall and empty now, and high rise apartments tower beside them. In a city brimming with North African and Arab immigrants, beautiful Nubian cheekbones, dark eyes, and curly hair mark a city that is nearly eighty percent Muslim. Muslim calls to prayer, hallah butchers, and robed men on their way to prayers swirled around us. And during this month of Ramadan, devout men and women avoid food and water in daylight hours, and state that their normal five daily prayers are solely for God in this month. "All the rest of the months, our prayers count for us" (to have the good outweigh the bad), "but this month, our prayers are just for God himself as worship." We smiled, he and I, this papa at a soccer field, and our conversation flowed.

Muslims can pray for dreams of God and for him to reveal himself to them during this time of Ramadan. Respectfully not eating or drinking outside near Muslims, we greeted the people around us, and entered into conversations, wishing them "Bonne Ramadan," and I prayed for dreams of God, prayed for revelations of himself.

The normal French reserve melted away at each conversation and encounter, and the questions came, "Why are you here?"

"We're here with some French and Algerian friends, working beside them at their church at 140 Boulevard de Rheims. We're here because we love God and want to tell you that God loves you deeply. Jesus loves you."

Respectful conversations followed then, about Submission to God (the definition of Muslim), and we spoke of lives submitted to God and worshiping him, and about Isa (Jesus) who saves us, and the People of the Book, what the Koran calls Christians.

"I've never met Christians like you," several of them said, in surprise. On plastic green turf fields, we told stories of changed lives, of joy, hope, softened hearts, marriages and lives, and it's all about Him, and their eyes looked different, as they listened and asked questions, falling quiet at times. We listened and asked questions too, and spoke again of our God who says, "If you seek me with all of your heart, you will find me." This God who offered a sacrifice for us to know him, and of a Papa God who waits at the side of the road for a glimpse of us--his wandering kids-- and then dashes into the street to embrace us. And the delight spills out.

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.