When something stinks
What is that smell?
The kids and I climbed in the car for church, five minutes late as usual, and the odor was nauseating. What was that? I’d noticed a little smell the days before, but we don’t drive much, so it’d been a few days and it was most definitely worse. What could it be?
I leaned in to buckle Heid’s seatbelt and glanced over her seat into the back of the car.
No. Oh no.
A two-pound package of ground beef, wrapped in paper not plastic, was wedged in the back of the car next to a bag of giveaway toys. I could see blood had oozed out all over the carpet and soaked the bottom of the bag.
No. I wonder how long …
I thought back. I had got it from my parents’ house since they store my beef supply in their garage freezer — so it must have been …
a week. A WEEK this meat had been rotting, blood oozing down between the folded down seats, soaking the bag of toys.
This was three weeks ago — needless to say we’ve been working on it ever since.
I wish my car was the only thing that smelled. Since we’re heralding honesty around here, I had to say my life has smelled a bit as well. I kept noticing it, a little odor here and there. But this last week I found the rancid meat and could finally see how it seeped into everything around.
Pride.
Perhaps that word has lost its punch — we use it a lot. But it’s the only one that will do because it’s the one God uses and it’s the only one that truly accurately describes the rancid meat I too often discover wedged into some corner of my life, making the whole thing smell.
Yesterday I listened as Jeff counseled someone over the phone. He said this,
“We say someone hurt our “feelings” but the truth is that feelings are just feelings, they can’t be hurt. What we really mean is that someone hurt our ego. Egos can be injured … they are all the time.”
Aha. That was it. Like a glance into the backseat, I’d found my meat.
Ego. It makes everything stink. It repulses others, pushes them away, repels God, keeps at arm’s length. And, the kicker:
It taints our thanks.
Consider the proud Pharisee’s prayer in Luke 18:11:
The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’
I’ve always read this struck by His pride, of course, but never noticed how he begins his prayer:
With thanks.
The Pharisee actually uses thanksgiving as a cloak for pride. He uses words of gratitude but all he’s really doing is boasting.
True thanksgiving is always the product of humility; counterfeit thanksgiving is always the product of pride.
Pride, like rotten meat oozing everywhere, can taint our thanks and turn it into boasting.
Do you see why God hates pride? Why sin ruins everything. Why egos destroy the work of God. Why self stifles our growth and sabotages the Spirit’s labor in us?
I had smelled it for a few weeks but didn’t know exactly what it was.
Now what? Praise be to God that when we name it and ditch it, God is faithful and just to forgive us. The good news is this — this horrible discovery in the back seat of my life, so to speak, has made me soul mates with the tax collector. Without thought or intention, His prayer has been mine this week:
“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’
Have you ever felt that way? Where the tears stream down your face and you bury your head and plead with God, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.”
I hate finding rancid meat but would rather find it and toss it then let stay and continue to stink.
Confession is just like that. See it, pick it up, oozing blood and stinking, toss it out. Spend the next few weeks with the baking soda of God’s Spirit, letting Him deodorize and make us clean and new.
And you know what? This morning I climbed in the car.
It didn’t smell at all.
When we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sin and cleanse us of all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9)
That’s what I’m thankful for.
{Revisiting this story just because I love it and need it! Thank you so much for reading.}
Because you don't need to hide
Where was Heidi?
One afternoon before Christmas the kids were playing when I realized Heidi wasn’t in the room. I peeked in the kitchen, not there, then pushed open our bedroom door. I heard a slight rustle so I silently tiptoed along the side of the bed and peered over the footboard.
She was peeking at a particular pink gift tucked into a gift-bag.
Startled, she looked up at me, eyes-wide, and her face froze. I knew what would happen. I was her 29 years ago. Her lower lip began to quiver and for several moments her face slowly contorted as she tried to hold it in — but it gushed out.
Wail. Sob. Hysterical crying. Caught guilty she melted in a heap of tears. I can remember exactly the same feeling.
I held out my arms to Heidi and she ran into them. Tears streaming down her face, burying her face in my neck, refusing to look up. Jeff, who had followed me in and seen the whole thing, began to talk to her. She hid her face deep in my neck, wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t look at him.
She sobbed, took a breath, “I wan’ go to bed.”
“It’s not bedtime — you want to go to bed now?”
“Yes! Pease I need go to bed!”
“Do you want to go to bed because you know you did naughty?”
She just broke down again, dug her face deeper in my neck, wouldn’t answer. Oh sweet girl I understand.
“Heidi, I know you want to go to bed and hide because you did naughty, but Mommy is not mad. I just want you to tell mommy you’re sorry for looking at things you shouldn’t, and ask mommy to forgive you.”
I thought it would take coaxing but it came quick. I remember that feeling too — tormented by guilt is a terrible place to be.
“Mommy, I suhwey for looking at thing I shouldn’t. You please ‘uhgive me?”
I smiled wide, nuzzled her nose, make sure she sees my smile all the way through my eyes.
“Yes, baby-girl. I forgive you. Thank you for telling me. Mommy loves you.” Then she asks if we can get a blanket and snuggle together. Of course I find the softest one — the one from the foot of our bed — and we snuggle up together. Inhale each other’s breath.
“Mommy, I wan’ keep you forever.”
“I wan’ keep you forever too babygirl.”
–
Oh sweet girl, I remember being you. I remember sneaking into mom’s closet one December day 28 years ago. Seeing the brown stuffed teddybear with the homemade sweater mom had knit for it. I saw it, then was plagued with guilt. Overwhelmed. It ruined all the joy.
It made me want to hide.
Because that’s what sin does. Every time. From humanity’s first sin we’ve done it. What did Adam and Eve do right after eating the fruit? They hid from God.
Humanity’s been hiding ever since. From God and from each other.
But once again I will sing this same song: There is freedom in repentance. As my son says it, “When we say sorry, Jesus forgives.” He does, when we confess our sin He is faithful and just to forgive us our sin and cleanse us of all unrighteousness. He pulls us close, looks us in the eyes, smiles a smile that warms our souls and heals all that’s broken.
Remembering this from a few years back. Is there anything that’s making you hide, dear friend? That shame and guilt need not be yours! Hide no more. Go quick to confession — He’s waiting to hold you near. Thanks for reading.
What a thousand things taught me about love
The journey began November 14th. A number of you joined me here, committing to write 1,000 things I love about you, as a Christmas gift for our husbands. I so loved hearing tales of your commitment to count praise-worthy attributes about your husbands, of making it a daily habit to look for the good.
I did it. For 40 days I listed 25 things each day, and at the end I had a grand idea for how to compile them all into a special presentation.
Suffice it to say: Everything went wrong. I bought the wrong kind of paper. Our printer quit working. The new printer would not install on my computer so the only printing I could do had to be on Jeff’s computer. Which he has with him. All. The. Time. And when he finally left the premises and I tried to sneak into his office to print and everything went wrong, the printer jammed, the computer froze, the paper was wrong, my files wouldn’t convert to his Mac, the ink smeared. Finally, Christmas Eve, after I got it printed and spent one freezing morning out in the barn trying to mod podge the paper onto a small old door we would hang above our bed in our new house, it was too cold and damp and the paper bubbled up in a ridiculous mess making the entire creation look like something a preschooler slapped together.
NOT what I had in mind.
I had anticipated a grand presentation Christmas morning. The reality was me reluctantly handing over an odd, old, dirty door covered in pieces of paper peeling up and bubbling this way and that.
Yeah, not romantic at all.
So, you want me honest opinion? It felt frustrating. I spent hours–HOURS, on this project. Hours every morning writing the list. Hours on the computer typing it out. Hours formatting it. Getting the paper. Printing. Gluing, planning, scheming. And none of it really turned out as planned.
And then, as I stood in the freezing cold barn gluing “that stupid list to that stupid barn for this stupid Christmas present” (my words, in my head) with Heidi next to me in her snow suit, whining about when I would please be done so we could go back inside, it struck me:
This is exactly what real love is like.
Almost 10 years of marriage has shown us this. That it rarely looks like a Hollywood scene. That the craft usually doesn’t work out, the plans never go as planned, child sp-nkings must even happen on Christmas day. We get sick and stuff happens and some days we just don’t feel like praising, don’t feel like loving.
And yesterday my parents celebrated 42 years of marriage and I bet that back on that day when my dad said those vows he didn’t think he’d be caretaker to his hot bride when she’s battling Parkinson’s and he does all the cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, EVERYTHING, and loves her through suffering and sometimes I want to scream–Why is this all so hard?
Why is love so hard?
And Shawna’s husband is grieving this Christmas and love for him meant walking through the cruelty of cancer. Walking all the way to the bitter end. To death.
This is love.
And so when the 1,000 things don’t add up and neither does life and we’re tempted to shout, I didn’t sign up for this! THIS, this isn’t the love that I signed up for!
That’s when we begin to truly love.
That’s where self ends and love begins and until then we’re just practicing for the real thing.
When we just stand there, tears streaming down our cheeks, and open our arms again and say:
“Here I am. Again. For you. All I am and all I have is yours.”
That’s love.
And we do sign up for it, for someone, because Christ signed up for it, for us.
Greater love has no one than this: That he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
{Growing with you. Thank you for reading.}
*You may notice I’m feeling rather broken this week. It’s a good thing. Remember Why brokenness is a blessing? And again I am happy, though, to pour out my brokenness and pray you are blessed by it in the form of another E-book, offered for FREE tomorrow in this place. Let In Light is for EVERYONE, not just moms. 31 days of TRUTH to start your New Year right. I pray you are blessed. Would you mind spreading the word for me? Thank you much!
Why I need to linger at the manger {My black hands}
The kids were playing happily with their new gifts, and I had a hankering to get something done. The “doer” in me dies hard. What to do?
Packing? No thank you! Doing dishes? Not a chance. Cleaning this filthy house? I’d do anything to avoid that. My eye fell on the can of black spray paint sitting on the counter. Yes! I’d spray paint the barstools we’d purchased off Craigslist. I slipped into old clothes, set up shop in the carport, and sprayed until I ran out of paint. When I finished, the chairs looked great, but my hands? Black. Because it was so windy outside, the paint covered my hands with a thin grungy layer of black.
Everytime I looked down that day I was reminded of how I feel sometimes.
This may be an odd after-Christmas question, but: Do you sometimes just despise yourself?
I mean despise. Do you sometimes look around at your life and realize how repulsive it is? How filthy? No, I don’t mean you are some criminal or live some secret despicable life. I mean you live a real life. A “normal” life. Sometimes, I look around and all I can think is, “Who am I kidding?” Who on earth am I kidding? I look down at my hands and they’re a picture of me: Filthy.
Not to be a downer, but it’s the truth. The inclinations of my heart are wicked. I, who truly more than anything want to seek God and follow Him, I read the page in Romans 3 and the only thing missing is my name.
“None is righteous, no not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God. All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.”
I continually unearth pockets of pride in the corners of my life. (Every. Single. Day.)
I look down at my hands again: They’re still filthy.
And sometimes when I feel this way I listen to the slithering serpent’s suggestion: Hide. Run away, hide it all. You think you’re a light to those around you? Ha! There is no “little light of mine” to shine so quit holding your ridiculous arm in the air. Who are you kidding?
And for a moment the offer looks good. Run away. Hide. Quit writing. Delete the blog. Duct-tape up the windows so no one can see in. Get the bushel and crawl underneath.
But then, by some miracle. Christmas comes.
And I remember again that Christ came to a stinking stable.
A stinking stable.
It might as well have been my home.
And if I am hung up on my poor performance I have not understood His perfect performance. I have not understood the gospel. His resumé in place of mine. His beauty for my ashes. His joy for my sorrow. His riches for my poverty. His righteousness for my rags.
I can hang Christmas lights around my home but it still reeks of the sinners who inhabit these rooms. Without His daily grace we are utterly lost. He came into the filthiest places. Most of all mine. I will cling to this. And I will trust this, when I look down, in, deep, at my hands and at my heart, and see the absolute bankruptcy of my soul. I will not get lost in the darkness but turn, look up and hear:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Christmas may be over, but what if we lingered at the manger?
What if, this week, before we looked ahead to 2013, we lingered a little by His side? Like L’Enchante. And when we looked around that stinky stable we might recognize our own home.
Our own lives.
And we might find ourselves bowed low all week in humble thanks that He has entered our filth and is making us new. The tree will come down, the wrapping paper stuffed into trash bags, fir needles vacuumed, stockings stowed for yet another year.
But what if we stayed low, kneeling to adore Him?
What if we kept on receiving our King?
I really just want to stay here and adore Him. To linger at the manger and rejoice that He has entered my filthiest places and made me new. I know my home is a stinking stable and my heart is even worse, but He came into this place and He is here and He is mine and nothing can separate me from the love of God.
Joy to the world.
{Rewrote this from last year, because it applies this year as it did last. Go ahead and linger this week by His side. He is in the middle of your mess. Stop, bow, worship Him there. Thank you for letting me be real in this place. And thanks for reading.}
Oh Come Let Us Adore Him
“There is a beautiful story recounted every Christmas in the forests of the Provence of southern France. It’s about the four shepherds who came to Bethlehem to see the child. One brought eggs, another bread and cheese, the third brought wine. And the fourth brought nothing at all. Peoole called him L’Enchante.
The first three shepherds chatted with Mary and Joseph, commenting on how well Mary looked, how cozy was the cave and how handsomely Joseph had appointed it, what a beautiful starlit night it was. They congratulated the proud parents, presented them with their gifts and assured them that if they needed anything else, they had only to ask.
Finally someone asked, “Where is L’Enchante?” They searched high and low, up and down, inside and out. Finally someone peeked through the blanket hung against the draft, into the creche. There, kneeling at the crib, was L’Enchante – the Enchanted One. Like a flag or a flame taking the direction of the wind, he had taken the direction of love. Through the entire night, he stayed in adoration, whispering, “Jesu, Jesu, Jesus – Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
… The Enchanted One is laid waste by one pure passion. His single-mindedness leads him to a realistic assessment: anything connected with Christmas that is not centered in Christ – tree, ornaments, turkey dinner, exchange of gifts, worship itself – is empty gesturing. Bless are the shipwrecked, for they see God in all the trappings of Christmas and experience a joy that the world does not understand.”
From Brennan Manning, in Watch For The Light.
Oh come let us adore Him. {Merry Christmas and thanks for reading.}
*Today is the last day to get Plenty:31 sips of joy for moms everywhere for $.99 today! If you haven’t gotten your copy yet, head here and check it out. You can also borrow it for FREE on your kindle. (Even if you don’t have an e-reader of any sort, you can just download it on your computer to read.) Thanks!
In case you have any twinkly tongues tomorrow
As you give your family The Gift of Whatever tomorrow, remember that it’s usually the things we don’t plan that make the most special memories. Or, most often, the mishaps. I’m sure we all have our own holiday-mishap stories, but this one takes the cake (and renders it inedible):
I found a recipe for “Dutch Cake”, which I was so excited to make for Dutch’s 4th birthday, right before Christmas. I whipped up the recipe only to realize there was no way on earth that kids would actually eat it–it was hard and dry and only sweetened with molasses. I could just see the kids at Dutch’s birthday party staring down at the hard little rock cupcake and wondering what they’d done wrong to deserve that. No, I would not be the dud mommy, so at the last minute I used the Funfetti cake mix, forced myself not to think about the hydrogenated soybean oil contained therein, and whipped up a batch of cupcakes and homemade frosting.
So far so good. It would be a hit.
But then I thought it’d be fun to make something special for the family party we were having in the evening. I knew Dutch’s little cousins loved Cake Pops, so I found the directions and went for it. Mush cake and frosting, form into balls, easy. But then you’re supposed to dip them in melting chocolate, of which I had none, so I thought it’d be super fun to instead dip them in powdered sugar and serve them as “snowballs”–perfect for a December birthday!
Yes, snowballs! Perfect.
Now, did I have powdered sugar? Hm…wasn’t sure. I dug around and found a clear Winco baggie (I buy everything in bulk), squeezed it with my fingers (it squeaks and has a distinct feel if it is cornstarch), and it didn’t squeak so I knew immediately that it was indeed powdered sugar. I happily powdered up my special snowballs and we were all set.
After dinner the kids gathered around excitedly for their treats. I served the kids then got busy cutting cheesecake for the adults. I overheard my neice exclaim, “This doesn’t taste good!” but was quickly chided by her mom for being rude, so she hushed up and picked at the rest of her snowball. I was vaguely aware that the other kids just sort of picked at theirs as well, but I was busy doing other things. Soon they were off playing again and I thought nothing of it.
Later, doing dishes, apparently my sister-in-law nibbled on one and knew immediately what I had done. My brother came into the dining room, grinning:
“So you coat your snowballs in baking soda, huh?”
My jaw dropped. Of course! I had just for the first time bought baking soda at Winco in the bulk section and forgotten about it.
“No wonder,” My mom said laughing, “Dutch kept saying, ‘This snowball makes my tongue all twinkly.’”
Yes, twinkly tongues for sure! Poor kids, they were awful and made your mouth fizz something terrible.
Thankfully we had no reactions, and no fizzy bubbles came out their noses. It makes for a fun memory. So just in case you have any memorable mishaps tomorrow, I pray you can laugh and remember twinkly tongues. Thanks for reading. And thank You, God, got for the sprinkles of humor you give us each day!
*Plenty:31 sips of joy for moms everywhere is still available for $.99 today and tomorrow! If you haven’t gotten your copy yet, head here and check it out. (Even if you don’t have an e-reader of any sort, you can just download it on your computer to read.) You can also borrow it for FREE on your kindle with Amazon Prime membership. Thanks!
How to keep from yelling at Ann Voskamp
{Disclaimer: I wrote this last week, in a particularly weak moment, and was going to delete it but felt that perhaps, just perhaps, it might encourage someone today. The TRUTH did get my eyes back on Jesus and put me back on the right course. And, interestingly enough, a little e-book was birthed from all this… Enjoy!}
~
Some days I want to yell at Ann Voskamp. (And I know that’s not appropriate.)
“I’m sorry, How DO you write books and homeschool 6 kids and run a farm and clean your house and speak to thousands of people and blog every day AND take pictures of it all and STAY SANE???”
I really didn’t mean to raise my voice.
But some days I can’t breathe. Between parenting, moving, church-planting, pastoring, speaking, writing, blogging, homeschooling … Oh and then there’s cooking, cleaning, organizing.
And I’m supposed to answer my phone too? And check my email?
And my feedreader is full of blog posts from Mamas doing Christmas crafts with their kids.
I’m sorry, Christmas crafts?
My son’s birthday tomorrow will consist of a cheese pizza and Legos dumped on the dining room table. I dare say I probably won’t be posting pictures on Pinterest.
And every Publisher’s feedback has been the same: You need to build more of a platform. Get your name out there. Guest post. Tweet. Do giveaways.
Giveaways?
The only thing I want to giveaway right now is my to-do list. Does that count?
I was so encouraged a few weeks ago when I read one popular blogger say that she was taking a month-long break from writing in order to re-focus her heart and spend time with her kids. But I just clicked there again today and found 5 new posts since then, a completely new blog design, and a brand new book of hers released.
Really?
Does anyone rest?
*sigh* Oh friends, I hope you never feel like this but just in case you do, let’s remind ourselves of the truth, shall we?
Truth: God has given us exactly the right amount of seconds in our day to accomplish exactly the things He wants us to accomplish.
Truth: We all have different sized milkshakes, different capacities for getting things done. Comparison kills.
Truth: Haste makes waste. (Thank you, Ann!) Jesus never ran and was never in a hurry. He walked this earth with measured steps and calm intentionality.
Truth: Pride pushes and pulls us, driving us on, the cruelest task-master. But gentle grace leads the humble, the life of God the steady source of fuel.
Truth: We have plenty. Though I always feel like I fall short, God has given each one of us plenty for today. I must believe that.
The truth is, I love Ann and all the other phenomenally gifted women out there who are inspiring us with their photos, words, and crafts. And most days I’m happily inspired. But sometimes I must just admit how overwhelmed I feel and take a step back, a deep breath, and maybe a couple ibuprofen, and remind myself of the truth that sets me free.
Nothing is as important as your heart. So when it starts to turn bitter, sour, God must work His truth in there and fix your heart’s gaze back on Him. And while I’m sorry I vented those thoughts on you, sometimes we have to identify what the “yuck” is in order to let God wash it clean, amen?
Because I really don’t want to yell at Ann Voskamp. Or my husband, or my kids. None of us do, right? We want the life of God to fill us with His peace and give us grace for whatever’s on our plate.
One day–one breath–at a time, we must believe there’s plenty.
I pray this can encourage you as you finish your week. Thanks for reading.
P.S., It’s kind of funny timing … TOMORROW we’re doing a special giveaway (ha!) for my FIRST e-book! After all my whining, the timing just so happened that God would birth a book entitled, Plenty, and that it would come out the day after this post. Sometimes you just have to laugh. Stay tuned for:
The Perfect Gift For Your Family This Christmas
I had gotten up early. Everything was ready. The baby Jesus doll was hidden. Gifts were wrapped. Cinnamon rolls were formed, rising, ready to bake.
My barely 4-year-old son was the first to rise. He shuffled downstairs, carrying his new Lightning McQueen car he’d received for his birthday just four days prior.
I bound over, excited. “Good morning, sweetie! Do you know what today is?”
He rubs his eyes, scrunches up his face. “Can I play with my toys?”
I continue: “It’s Christmas! Isn’t that exciting?! And now you get to look for baby Jesus!”
He runs over to the couch, hides his face in a pillow. “I don’t want to look! I want to play!”
“But … after we find baby Jesus we can open your presents!” My mind races. We’re supposed to be at my parents’ house at 10am. We still have to do baby Jesus, open gifts, and deliver hot cinnamon rolls to a family down the road.
My son starts to cry. “I don’t want to open presents! I just want to play with my toys.”
This is unbelievable. I shake my head. What child doesn’t want to open presents? Why is my family always the one where nothing goes right?
I promise him there are more toys to be had, and we finally get him to the tree. He opens a box, a gift sent from a relative. It’s a package of socks. His face falls. Now I’m irate. Really? Come on people, I’m trying to get my kid excited about Christmas and you gave him socks for crying out loud!
“Mommy, I don’t want socks I just want to play with my toys!” Now he’s crying and I’m on the verge.
Eventually we make it out the door. My dear husband, wanting to cheer me up, suggests we stop at Starbucks. He runs in while I stay in the car. It takes him another fifteen minutes because the line is so long. Seriously, people, it’s Christmas! Go home and be with your families for crying out loud! By now we’re an hour late and it shows on my face. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I’m on the verge of tears. Why am I so irrational? It’s Christmas!
Eventually, we make it to the family’s house to deliver the cinnamon rolls. We’ve been doing theTwelve Days of Christmas and it’s our day to reveal ourselves. Their whole family comes out on the porch, all hugs and laughter and genuine joy. I notice they’re all still in jammies. I ask about their day, what their plans are, still struck by how happy they all are.
The mom smiles and responds, “Oh we just relax, stay in our jammies all day. We play games or do something fun. You know, whatever.”
Whatever.
That’s what I’m missing.
The gift of whatever. When we give our family our expectations, everybody loses. We wrap up our ideals, our dreams of the “perfect” day, and then expect them to perform according to our plan. When they don’t, we’re frustrated. All in the name of the most wonderful time of the year.
What if, instead of giving expectations, we gave the gift of whatever. If we decided that whatever happened on a holiday, we’d be happy and thankful. That the only expectations we had were for ourselves, expecting ourselves to be kind. Expecting ourselves to be gracious. Expecting ourselves to be willing to go with whatever.
The gift of whatever is the perfect gift to give your family this Christmas.
A fun, flexible holiday where the only thing that’s set in stone is the certainty of joy.
{Remind myself of this again this year. Bless you, friends and thanks for reading…}
Christmas Tragedy
It just seems beyond comprehension — how can someone open fire on innocent children? Last week we saw evil unmask its evil face, and a nation is left searching for answers. I had some myself:
Couldn’t God have stopped that man? Couldn’t God have made those children stay home from school that day? Couldn’t He have fired that teacher the previous year so that an entire class of children would have been spared? There were a million ways I could think to intervene.
But He didn’t.
I do believe that we are unaware of all the myriad ways that God graciously holds back evil on a daily basis. If Satan were unleashed, if God removed His sovereign hand, truly all hell would break loose. But for the most part, He shows the world immeasurable grace in that events like these are unusual.
But still, how on earth can this be part of God’s plan?
Strangely enough, the day that the shooting took place, I read about another horrific massacre of innocent children. In fact, it was much more widespread, probably hundreds if not thousands of children killed.
I ashamed to confess I read over it without much thought. Whereas the Sandy Hook tragedy brought me to tears and had me glued to the news and praying all day for the families affected, I read this other horrific story with hardly a pause. Do you know where I read it?
In the Christmas Story.
I read it in the Bible. Matthew 2. Right smack dab in the middle of the glorious Christmas story, the one we read to our children every single year, there lies a paragraph that should give us pause.
“Then Herod … became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem, and in all that region who were two years old or under.” Matthew 2:16
Can you imagine how horrific this is? How on earth is this happening right in the middle of God’s glorious rescue mission? Why would He allow this right in the midst of the most beautiful story ever told? It’s smearing blood across the beautiful portrait He’s painting.
And it, all of it, was in order to fulfill His eternal purpose.
Because Herod was out to kill Jesus, his parents took Him to Egypt. “This was to fulfill what the Lord has spoken by the prophet, “Out of Egypt I called my son.” He had them flee so that in the end everyone would see that Jesus was God’s Son. And in the midst of the horrific slaughter, we read,
“Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah: A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted because they are no more.” (vv.17-18)
Again, God used this horrific tragedy to fulfill prophecy and His eternal purpose. After Herod died, Archelaus reigned, and Joseph and Mary were able to return, but withdrew to a city called Nazareth, “that what was spoken by the prophets might be fulfilled: “He shall be called a Nazarene.” (v. 23)
Not one, not two, but THREE major Old Testament prophecies were fulfilled concerning Jesus in the midst of this horrific event. Now, not a single one of those dear Mamas would have known this truth, as she wept aloud day after day and grieved the death of her precious baby boy. She would receive no comfort from this, the same way that no Sandy Hook parents want to hear about the Great and Glorious plan that God is working through the murder of their children.
But, no matter who wild we are in pain, and no matter how much we don’t understand, we can look at the Christmas Tragedy and see an All-Powerful, All-Loving God, weaving the course of history into a drama like none other.
I have no doubt that He WILL, in the end, remove the veil from our eyes and let us see the course of History through His eyes. He will right every wrong, wipe every tear, and, I believe, when we see how all things were woven together for His purpose, our good, and His glory, we will break into applause, jump up and down in celebration, and fall on our faces to worship the One True King.
“Therefore, comfort one another with these words.” (1 Thess 4:18)
Thanks for reading.
The Annual "Stealthy Ninja Christmas Angel" Tradition
We’ve done this the past few years and it’s a blast!
{12 Days of Christmas: As a family you pick another family or couple or single person, perhaps who has gone through a hard time or could just use encouragement, or just whoever God places on your heart. (This would be an awesome way to build a bridge with an unbelieving family in your sphere of influence!) You secretly put tiny gifts on their doorstep for the 12 days preceding Christmas (1 candle, then the next day 2 packets of hot cocoa, then the next day 3 of something, all the way to the 12th day giving them 12 of something like fresh cinnamon rolls on Christmas day).
Each day you include a verse or something encouraging that goes along with the gift.The point is not to get complicated, but just to have fun thinking creatively about one other family and encourage them from God’s Word. It’s helpful to pick someone who lives near you since you’ll need to go by their house every day for 12 days! You can reveal who you are at the end or keep it a secret, depending upon the situation. Just a little idea to spark creativity as we learn to love our neighbors and celebrate the greatest gift–the Giver Himself.}
A few years ago we chose a super-fun family (that always helps), who lived a few miles away. Christmas morning it was such a joy — we pulled up around 9am and their whole family came bounding out onto the front porch to “catch” us (we wanted to be caught at this point) and we all laughed ourselves silly recalling all the ways we’d sneaked around their house, how they’d wanted to catch us, and how they couldn’t figure out who it was. (They’d made a list of suspects!) They’d left pumpkin bread out on the porch and a note for the “Stealthy Ninja Christmas Angel.”
Last year we kept our identity a secret, but then on Christmas left them a card (along with the cinnamon rolls) with a QR code at the bottom. When they scanned the code it brought up a silly picture of our family. That was fun!
So, if you’re game for an adventure, do a bit of pre-planning, enlist the help of your family, and have fun doing a little secret-blessing this year.
You too can be a stealthy ninja Christmas angel. {Thanks, all, for reading!}
PS I know the “official” 12 days of Christmas are technically after Christmas. You get the idea. It’s more fun to end on Christmas day!