the end of the story

Today I find myself reflecting on the Lord's followers.  The ones who watched in confusion and fear as their celebrated hero was betrayed, arrested, and hung on a cross to die.  They didn't understand, those men and women.  Those who were fishermen, tax collectors, and more.  They couldn't remember that He'd told them, warned them - of everything.  That He would be killed...and rise again on the third day.  They watched (those who could bear it), stunned, maybe even despairing.

And those days they spent in between.  Knowing He was dead.   Fearful of what might happen next.  Feeling abandoned and lost.

They didn't know what we know.  They couldn't comprehend the end of story - how beautiful would become their pain.  Let's revel in the fact that we know what was coming early that Sunday morning - and that we serve a risen Savior.

The world can do its worst.  The enemy who comes to steal, kill and destroy may attack...but even so, it doesn't change the truth.  Jesus came to take our sins away.  He died a terrible death on a Roman cross, but three days later He conquered sin and death.  He is the victor, our savior and redeemer.

Have a blessed and wonder-filled Good Friday.

needy

My two-year-old daughter came out of her bedroom on Sunday morning wearing a scowl on her face.

"Kyle say me sick," she said indignantly.  She was positively grumpy at the suggestion that she was not in glowing, perfect health.  What on earth would make anyone believe she was ill?

Never mind that she'd been up the night before with a fever.  Never mind that she was coughing, sniffling, that her eyes were watery.  Never mind the red smudges under those big brown eyes.  She was a mess.

When we told her she couldn't go to church that day, she cried.  My girl loves going to church, seeing her friends, attending her "big girl class."  She's always excited to hear it's a church day.

I'm hoping it isn't mostly about the clothes.

All morning long, she insisted she was fine.  Anyone with a pair of eyes could have known, just to look at her, that she was under the weather.  But no, she didn't need to nap.  She didn't want a drink.  She wouldn't stay on the couch and rest.  She was just fine, thank you very much.

By the time lunch was over, her fatigue was undeniable; she could hardly hold her head up, she was so weary.  Even so, we had to absolutely insist that she lay down in her bed for a while.  And such insistence was met with another flood of tears.  She just couldn't believe it - or maybe she just couldn't admit it.

She had a need.  But even in her neediness, she refused to accept the truth.

She was fine.  Just fine.

Friends, I believe this is a picture of how we ourselves can be.

We too have a need.  We are desperate, failing, completely unable to do it alone. We don't want to accept our weakness - our inability - our need.  Eyes watering, choking back our coughs, nearly unable to lift our heads in weariness, we insist that we are fine.  Just fine.  We don't need help.

We don't need a Savior.

But we are so wrong.

We have sinned - each and every one of us.  No exceptions.  We all come stained with sin, sullied and stinking with the stuff we've chosen to do, say, and think.  We so desperately need a Redeemer, someone who can lift our burden and wash us clean.

We cannot remove that burden on our own.  And we cannot purify ourselves.  We are desperate, failing, completely unable to do it alone.  We are needy.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said,  "A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes - and is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent."

The season of Advent has come and gone.  But the advent, the coming of One long-awaited and desperately needed, remains.   He has come, and we never again will have to face life alone.

So rejoice, my friends and let us never deny our need.  We must remember that this is the meaning of Christmas - and it extends far beyond a few weeks in December.

We needed Him.  God sent Him.  He came to seek and save those who were lost (Luke 19:10).

Now that's something worth celebrating.

being there

In my Lenten reading of late, I've been struck powerfully by the scene in Gethsemane. Jesus went there in great need, and he brought his dearest friends with him.

So many times, we don't express the fullness of our need. But Christ told his disciples that he was hurting. “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," he said. "Stay here and keep watch with me.” (Matthew 26:38)

But they didn't. They may have tried, but they couldn't seem to keep themselves awake. When Jesus returned, he found them sleeping. Talk about his friends letting him down. Still, he gave them another chance. Again, they fell asleep. He had asked them to watch and pray, and they fell asleep.

I've always been moved by the loneliness of the scene in the garden. In his song "Hard to Get," Rich Mullins describes it this way: "...when you are barely holding on / and your friends fall asleep / and don't see the blood that's running in your sweat."

There are times when we might show our need to a friend, for all the courage that vulnerability takes...and they fail us. There might be times when we are honest with someone...and they betray us. Still, our own experiences cannot compare to what Christ went through. After all, he knew it all. Their hearts. The future. The path he would walk.

But there are also times when we are the ones who fail. So often, when I know someone is going through a hard time, I think of them. I pray for them. But I seldom reach out. To be honest, I forget. I get caught up in my own little corner of the world: getting my chores done, finishing our school day, being with my children, maybe working in a little exercise. I completely forget until I'm in the shower, or changing a diaper, or up to my elbows in raw meat. "Oh, I was going to call ______." "I wanted to send that person a card!" And all too often, I fail.

But today I'm resolving to do better. If I know about a need, I want to reach out more. I don't want to be the one who leaves a friend feeling all alone. I want to be the one who doesn't just care...I want to be the one who shows it. After all, that's what I would want.

"Because He Lives"

by Bill and Gloria Gaither

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.


Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.


How sweet to hold a newborn baby,
And feel the pride and joy he gives.
But greater still the calm assurance,
This child can face uncertain days because He lives.


Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.


And then one day I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain.
And then as death gives way to victory,
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives.


Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone!
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living just because He lives!

why I cried when we put up the tree

I suppose it's safe to say that I was a little emotional this year.

Extra-emotional, even. Jeff kept looking me over, and grinning. Yes, the tears flowed freely this year.

Decorating the Christmas tree is always a special time for our family. We have a special, very particular order in which we put on our ornaments. After the tree is upright and the lights and garland (when we can find it, which isn't the case this year!) are on, Jeff and I hang our "Our First Christmas Together"ornament from 1997.

Then we pull out each of the boys' "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornaments. Each is silver, and each is inscribed with the child's name and birth year. Benjamin hangs his sweet baby rattle, Kyle hangs his Mother Goose book, and Owen has a tiny silver-and-blue baby shoe. It's like a re-telling of how our family became what it is. Two hearts joined as one...Ben...Kyle...Owen. I wonder what sweet silver ornament will join the telling in 2010.

There's something so sentimental for me about taking out all those beloved trinkets. Each one has a story. The clay, white-and-azure "Noel" we found at the Renaissance Festival in Kansas City. The potted daisy my very first best friend painted for me when we were in kindergarten. My snowman collection. The Snowbabies Jeff's parents gave my boys, each of which bears the simple, true words "From God."

But I think it was the music that really got me.

Those words. Those tried and true words.

"For Unto Us a Child is Born."
"Emmanuel, God with us."
"What Child is This?"

And one of our CDs has a reading of the birth of Jesus by a child: it undoes me every single time I hear it. Those familiar, unbelievably precious words.

These words speak the truth about the meaning of Christmas. It isn't about the gifts. It isn't about the candy. It isn't about the warm fuzzies, or the lights. It's not even about family.

It's about a promise.

Oh what a precious promise
Oh what a gift of love
The wait is finally over
And the time has finally come

For the God who made this world
To draw back the curtain
And unveil His passion for the heart of man
Oh what a precious Promise
Lying in a stable in Bethlehem.

Oh what a precious Promise
Lying in a stable in Bethlehem

~"Precious Promise" by Steven Curtis Chapman

O Sacred Head, Now Wounded

Text: Anonymous; trans. by Paul Gerhardt and James W. Alexander


O sacred Head, now wounded,
 with grief and shame weighed down,
 now scornfully surrounded
 with thorns, thine only crown:
 how pale thou art with anguish,
 with sore abuse and scorn!
 How does that visage languish
 which once was bright as morn!

 What thou, my Lord, has suffered
 was all for sinners' gain;
 mine, mine was the transgression,
 but thine the deadly pain.
 Lo, here I fall, my Savior!
 'Tis I deserve thy place;
 look on me with thy favor,
 vouchsafe to me thy grace.

 What language shall I borrow
 to thank thee, dearest friend,
 for this thy dying sorrow,
 thy pity without end?
 O make me thine forever;
 and should I fainting be,
 Lord, let me never, never
 outlive my love for thee.