When I was pregnant with Lydia, we had narrowed her name to two choices: Eliana Grace or Lydia Emmanuelle. I had suffered four miscarriages over the preceding year and a half and was sure that this pregnancy would end the same way. When it didn’t, I knew God had answered my cries, and I wanted our baby to have a strong biblical name that honored His faithfulness.

Eliana means “My God answered.” The biblical meaning of Grace is obvious, and Lydia, the “seller of purple cloth,” was a strong woman of faith who supported Paul’s ministry. Emmanuelle was derived from the Hebrew “Immanuel,” which means “God with us.”

We had always chosen our babies’ names well in advance of delivery, though we kept them secret. For some reason, we just could not decide between these two names and agreed to meet our newest daughter to see which fit her best before choosing. Perhaps all of the uncertainty we had felt during the pregnancy caused the indecisiveness? We knew there was a good chance that this baby would be born with Down syndrome, but we had refused all of the conclusive prenatal testing because it was too invasive. Various problems detected in the later part of the pregnancy left us with little doubt, but we would not know for sure until she was born.

On Columbus Day 2008, October 13, with her two oldest sisters present, our beautiful fifth child was born. We decided to name her Lydia Emmanuelle and shared the name with her grandma and siblings at home, who promptly started working on a Welcome Home sign.

Alone in my hospital room at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital in the wee hours of Lydia’s first night of life, I faced the reality of her diagnosis, wept, mourned, and then had a divine encounter I will never forget.

I was trying to nurse this newborn baby with her low muscle tone and imperfect heart when I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that she would struggle her whole life because of her chromosomal abnormality. I thought of her as a little broken-winged bird, and the tears I had held in all day began to fall freely and silently. In that moment, all self-pity I may have indulged in the preceding months was replaced by a fierce love and protective instinct toward her that has only grown with time.

Shortly after this personal catharsis, a nurse came into the room to check on us. She saw me weeping, and she sat down beside me. She began to tell me of her own baby born with a genetic condition, one that was fatal. Her child had eventually died. And then she shared that she was pregnant again, with a baby that likely had the same condition and would face the same outcome. She looked at Lydia, told me she was beautiful, and then told me how grateful she was for the baby she carried, regardless of how long it would live.

When this nurse left the room, she took with her every ounce of regret or sadness I would ever feel for my baby’s “defects.” In their place, she left me with gratitude for life—all life—a gratitude that turned into a personal mission and calling to place the highest regard and give the greatest opportunity to babies that others discard. I felt as though I had been visited by an angel.  As I sat there with tears streaming down my face, I heard the Lord telling me to change our baby’s name. I heard Him say, “Give her the two best names.” So the next morning, Lydia Emmanuelle became Lydia Eliana.

Even though her name didn’t end up being Emmanuelle, Lydia’s life introduced me to Immanuel as I had never known Him before. He was with me during my pregnancy, the week after I received my triple screen results that said 1 in 10 chance of Down syndrome; He told me that He knit her together in my womb and that whether she had this condition or not, she was perfectly made in His image for His purpose. And fear and despair were replaced with a deep, abiding peace that carried me the remaining nine months.

He was there the day our son Timothy died. As we sang and rocked our baby boy into heaven, I saw and felt Christ’s presence in that PICU room like I had never experienced before. He became real to me that day, and I have never been the same—one of many of the ways Timothy’s life changed the world.

He has walked each step of this recent, unwanted journey with me—providing everything I have needed along the way. He has caught my tears in His hands and returned them to me as peace and joy.

When I struggle daily with the harsh realities of life in a broken world filled with broken people, He reminds me that there is nothing I feel that He doesn’t understand. He knows injustice and abuse and betrayl, and He promises to redeem them all—in His time.

And when I experience the joys of life in a beautiful world, He reminds me that He too knows what it feels like to love a child so much that it hurts, to feel the closeness of a true friend, to fellowship and celebrate and teach. He sends sunsets and blue herons and playful ducks and gentle rains to remind me that He holds all things together—including me.

Because He is Immanuel, I am never alone, never forsaken, never without hope. God with us—God with me.

“All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: ‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us).” (Matthew 1:22-23, ESV)

I have always loved Christmas music, but this Advent season my playlist looks a little less traditional than usual. Over the past year, my heart has been drawn toward battle songs—anthems through which the Holy Spirit ministers to the deepest parts of me and stirs me to stay in the fight, to rebuke the enemy, and to remember who holds me.

Last winter when Tess was hospitalized, and I would drive home from the children’s hospital late at night, I would often sing “This Thing is Not Going to Break You,” a beautiful song by Christa Wells that a friend from my Bible study had sent to me. Tears would literally pour down my face as I sang the chorus over and over:

“This thing is going to try to break you

But it doesn’t have to

You’re showing us how

This thing is going to bend and shape you

But He won’t let it take you/You know it somehow

This thing is not going to break you”

My voice would often choke on the title lyrics because I so desperately wanted them to be true, but inside I just felt shattered.

Months later as I saw the deliverance I wrote about yesterday, it was “No Longer Slaves” by Bethel Music that stirred my soul. I began singing with a new confidence, boldly claiming what the lyrics promised:

“I’m no longer a slave to fear

I am a child of God

I am surrounded

By the arms of the father

I am surrounded

By songs of deliverance

We’ve been liberated

From our bondage

We’re the sons and the daughters

Let us sing our freedom

You split the sea

So I could walk right through it

My fears were drowned in perfect love

You rescued me

And I will stand and sing

I am the child of God”

Our church worship team often leads us in a song called “Surrounded” by Michael W. Smith. It is the simplest of songs really but oh so powerful. Its lyrics are few—literally less than 25 words in the entire song—but their power is mighty. Earlier this fall I faced a new and unexpected battle, one that I have come to realize the enemy strategically designed to take me out. When I was breathless from the shock of it, all I could gasp out were the lines of this song—over and over and over again:

“This is how I fight my battles

This is how I fight my battles…

It may look like I’m surrounded but I’m surrounded by You

It may look like I’m surrounded but I’m surrounded by You”

I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I wish I did, but either through lack of nature or lack of nurture, that talent eluded me. But slowly over the past ten years, I have learned the power of unabandoned worship. That has been a gradual work God has done in me—moving me from a two-hands on the hymnal, stand up-sit down girl to a face on the floor, crying out to God worshipper.

Two summers ago, someone saw me worshipping in the midst of a major trial. With disdain, this individual chastised me: “How can you stand there and worship like that?” All I knew to say was, “How can I not?”  When I worship, I proclaim truth with words penned by others–words I desperately want to believe.  And by proclaiming them, the Holy Spirit in me rises above feelings and circumstances and pours strength in my weakened self until the words I sing soak into my soul and bring healing.

My counselor recently shared a song with me that has become my Advent season battle song. It is by one of my favorite worship artists, Lauren Daigle, and its lyrics minister to the very deepest parts of my heart:

“You are not hidden

There’s never been a moment

You were forgotten

You are not hopeless

Though you have been broken

Your innocence stolen

I hear you whisper underneath your breath

I hear your SOS, your SOS

I will send out an army to find you

In the middle of the darkest night

It’s true, I will rescue you

There is no distance

That cannot be covered

Over and over

You’re not defenseless

I’ll be your shelter

I’ll be your armor

I hear you whisper underneath your breath

I hear your SOS, your SOS”

The more I sing this hauntingly powerful song, appropriately called “Rescue,” the more I realize that it actually IS a Christmas song. God saw our hidden, hopeless, forgotten, broken selves and sent out an army in the middle of the darkest night. He incarnated Himself and forever voided the distance between us and Him.

And because He came and lived and died and lived again, this girl who cannot carry a tune can fight her battles in song, whisper her SOS underneath her breath, choke out lyrics between sobs until she starts to believe them, and joyfully proclaim that she is a child of God.

Amidst the beautiful songs of the season, she will continue singing her battle songs, knowing that either way she is celebrating the greatest rescue mission ever conducted—all to reach little old me and little old you. 

“I will sing a new song to you, O God; upon a ten-stringed harp I will play to you, who gives victory to kings, who rescues David his servant from the cruel sword. Rescue and deliver me from the hand of foreigners, whose mouths speak lies and whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood…Blessed are the people whose God is the Lord!” (Psalm 144:9-11, 14b, ESV)

“Now when [the wise men] had departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Rise, take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him.’ And he rose and took the child and his mother by night and departed to Egypt and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.’” (Matthew 2:13-15, ESV)

This slightly less familiar part of the Christmas story resonates deeply with me this year. Because God also called me out of Egypt, and I keep trying to go back.

Egypt has a bit of a mixed reputation in Scripture. Clearly, it was a safe haven for Mary, Joseph, and young Jesus. And many, many years before, it had been a refuge of another type for another man named Joseph. Jacob’s favored son—the recipient of the coat of many colors—found himself in Egypt, sold by his own brothers as a slave, imprisoned, and alone. Eventually God freed him from prison and raised him to a place of authority, second only to Pharaoh himself. Through God’s provision, Joseph was positioned to feed the Egyptian people during great famine and to save and be restored to his own father and brothers as well. He then settled his family just outside of Egypt in a land called Goshen, where they prospered greatly.

But in the years that followed, “there arose a new king over Egypt, who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Behold, the people of Israel are too many and too mighty for us. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, lest they multiply, and, if war breaks out, they join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land.’ Therefore they set taskmasters over them to afflict them with heavy burdens…they ruthlessly made the people of Israel work as slaves and made their lives bitter with hard service, in mortar and brick, and in all kinds of work in the field. In all their work they ruthlessly made them work as slaves.’” (Exodus 1:8-11a, 13-14).

The Egypt in my story was also a place of refuge that became a place of bondage. It was a place where I served the wrong gods and where things that had once seemed beautiful turned very dark. I fervently prayed for God to bring reconciliation and restoration within Egypt, but instead He chose to deliver me from it. And I am grateful.

But some days, I remember the Egypt of refuge and forget the Egypt of bondage. Sometimes the hurt just gets stuck in my throat and I can’t quite swallow it down or cry it out, so it just stays stuck there. And on those days, I think I want to go back to Egypt where things are familiar and secure.

A few weeks ago, I shared this struggle with a friend who intimately knows my story, and she reminded me that the Israelites suffered this same internal battle. They even experienced it in the midst of their deliverance, crying out to the Lord, “Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us in bringing us out of Egypt? Is not this what we said to you in Egypt: ‘Leave us alone that we may serve the Egyptians? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.’” (Exodus 14:11-12, ESV)

And later, even after seeing the miracle of God’s deliverance, they lamented: “Then all the congregation raised a loud cry, and the people wept that night. And all the people of Israel grumbled against Moses and Aaron. The whole congregation said to them, ‘Would that we had died in the land of Egypt!…Would it not be better for us to go back to Egypt?’” (Numbers 14:1-2, 3b)

Moses, Aaron, Joshua, and Caleb pleaded with the people, telling them that the land God prepared for them was exceedingly good and that with His protection they need not fear the giants they may encounter in that land.

Through my friend and His word, God unequivocally told me the same: Do NOT go back to Egypt! And to anyone else tempted to return to whatever bondage God has delivered you from—whether internally or externally inflicted—I say the same: Do NOT go back! Your memory will play tricks on you—recall the easy and simple and leave out the dark and evil. Egypt will entice you with its fine food and shiny riches. Maybe your identity is tied up in Egypt, and you aren’t sure who you are outside of its boundaries. People you love may have chosen to remain in Egypt, and you may miss them or think you can rescue them. Fear will whisper to you that Egypt is familiar and secure—you know what to expect there, and the future is just an uncertain mystery. But as Corrie ten Boom once said, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” The same God that delivered you from Egypt will walk you step-by-step through the promised land—giants and all–providing all that you need.

The land He has brought me to IS abundantly filled with exceedingly good things, and thankfully He has surrounded me with people ready to remind me of that on the days when the hurt gets stuck in my throat.

“Good-bye Egypt.”

“And Moses said to the people: ‘Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will work for you today. For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again. The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.’” (Exodus 14:13-14, ESV)

“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them…And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:9-11)

Can’t you just hear Linus’s voice? I think one of my all time favorite Christmas moments is when he answers Charlie Brown’s desperate, pleading question: “Isn’t there anyone who can tell me what Christmas is all about?!?”

This morning, I awoke with another question on my mind…Who is MY Savior?

I know the Sunday School answer. Jesus. But who does my life say is my Savior? I’m forty-eight years old and have been a believer for thirty-five years (with about a six-year gap as an agnostic, but that is another story altogether). But I don’t think I lived most of those years as if I had or even needed a Savior other than myself. I don’t say this proudly or with false humility but with a gut-checking realization that would come with shame, except that I know the source of shame and am not entertaining him or any of his minions.

Last winter in another worship encounter at my church (yes, I have an amazing church!), our incredibly gifted worship leader, Olivia Dyer, introduced a song called “Defender” by Rita Springer. That song (actually the entire album, Battles) has become very meaningful to me over the past year, especially the following lines:

“When I thought I lost me

You knew where I left me

You reintroduced me to your love

You picked up all my pieces

Put me back together

You are the defender of my soul”

I could write pages about what these lines mean to me, but at the heart of them is the need for a Savior. I wish it hadn’t taken such tragedy for me to see the need or fully receive it, but I wouldn’t go back now even if I could. I don’t want to be that person anymore…the one who thought she had to fix everything and everyone, the one who felt responsible for the world, the one who lived in fear, the one who tried to be everybody’s Holy Spirit, the one who said she trusted the Lord but really looked to man—herself, her husband, her friends, her church—for affirmation, for identify, for answers, for happiness.

Relationships, jobs, hobbies, addictions, money, success…we look to them for all of those things, but eventually the emptiness returns because we have a void they just cannot fill. Trying to be someone’s Savior is exhausting, and expecting someone to be yours is unfair. I have done both and had them done to me. But when I broke and God put me back together, He mercifully left those pieces out and made Himself the “defender of my soul.” And every chance I get, I will point others to Him—my Savior, who is Christ the Lord!

“He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.” (Psalm 40:2, ESV)

As I pulled away from the Starbucks drive-thru yesterday in the cold, pouring rain, I glanced down at the cup in my drink holder (I had gotten the red swirly holiday cup this time—one of my favorites!). Across the top of the cup in black Sharpie were the words “Thanks, Mom! I love ya! You can do it!” The words felt as warm as the drink inside the cup, and I smiled thinking of the beautiful young friend who penned them…one of my “barista daughters.”

It’s amazing how a simple word of encouragement can turn a day or a mood or an attitude completely upside down. I see it in my kids, too. Titus often has “moments” (sometimes days FULL of them!), and I have learned that one of the best ways to defuse them is to think of something positive to say about him in that moment. The same can be said of my students. When I evaluate their writing, I know that they need me to critique it, edit it, and challenge them to improve it, but if I start by complimenting something about it, the rest is much more easily received.

Barnabas is known as the encourager in the early church. Acts 4:36 says his name means “son of encouragement.” What an incredible calling! Barnabas was set apart by the Holy Spirit and called to speak boldly (Acts 13). I have a Barnabas in my life, and I have been awed by how specifically God directs her. She now lives across the country from me but with amazing precision, Sarah will still send me a prayer, a prophetic word, a note of encouragement, or even a small gift that will arrive within hours of a difficult situation or hard day.

Last year Tess spent two-and-a-half months in the hospital and had seven surgeries within a four-month period. Simultaneously, our family was enduring the catastrophic events that I described in yesterday’s journal. Soon after the New Year, my body started reacting to all of the stress. I suffered severe headaches, developed corneal ulcers that destroyed a significant portion of my vision in one eye, and broke out in the most painful rash I have ever experienced. On the day of Tess’s discharge after the seventh and final surgery of her ordeal, I was finally able to slip away to the doctor to get help for the rash. I was emotionally spent from a toxic encounter earlier in the day and was grateful just to sit down in a sterile waiting room at the Tricare Clinic where no one knew me, needed me, or threatened me in any way. When I heard the text notification chime from my pocket, I instinctively reached for it, bracing myself for the likely negative intrusion into my moment of respite. Instead, I saw a message that included these words:

“You are dearly loved, admired, and deeply respected…Your love makes a difference and is beautiful even when unnoticed…You are loved and lovely. I pray that you can always live loved because that is your true identity.”

The words in between these were equally personal and powerful, but those declarations of love in the midst of such an unloving day were what wrecked me. Because as I read them, I realized that this particular cold, dark day happened to be Valentine’s Day and that through one of His sweet servants, God Himself had just delivered my one and only Valentine.

This type of thing has happened over and over again for the past year, yet it always amazes me. To me, it is not only evidence of God’s provision for ME but also of my friend Sarah’s attentiveness to HIM. She has to hear Him to know when and what to say to me, and that is a testimony to her faith and discernment.

Not everyone has the calling that Barnabas and my friend Sarah seem to share, but we all have great capacity to encourage one another. In fact Paul admonished us to do so: “Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing.” (1 Thessalonians 5:11, ESV).

So much that we are called to do is difficult—loving our enemies, turning the other cheek, forgiving, demonstrating self-control—but encouraging one another is really easy. It isn’t expensive or time consuming to write a note, send a text, express a compliment, pat a back, give a hug, lend a hand, or express gratitude to someone. Why don’t we do more of it? For me, it is usually hurry or distraction that cause me to miss opportunities to encourage someone. Advent is the perfect time to open our eyes to the strangers, friends, co-workers, and family whose paths cross ours each day and to listen to the Lord as He nudges us to say or do just the thing they need to hear or receive to feel His love.

“May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Romans 15:5-6, ESV).

Last week I attended a quarterly worship event called The Encounter that is hosted by my church and open to the community. It was my third time attending one of these, and each time I have been directly blessed by the worship itself and by revelation God has given me through His word and His people.

At the event last week, a friend shared a word that the Lord had put on his heart about family. He spoke of how the holidays can bring challenges in the area of family but challenged us to think instead of the blessings of our spiritual family.

It’s funny how a word sometimes hits you like a baseball to the head and other times has to marinate a bit to reach the depths of what God wants to say to you through it. I needed to marinate in my friend’s word, but once it soaked in later that night in the quiet of my home, it overwhelmed me to tears.

Over the course of the past year and a half, I watched the family I had nurtured and built with every fiber of my being splinter, shatter, and eventually disintegrate. The people were still alive, but the family unit we had all known was destroyed. It devastated every one of us in our own ways. As a mother, the loss felt utterly overwhelming.

Through God’s grace, I have started to heal, rebuild, and find great hope in the future. But I have struggled with the word “family.” I would see artwork in stores that I loved but didn’t buy because it had the word “family” in it. I would hear messages at church about family and wonder how they applied to me. I would watch other families that I know and love and would be convicted by twinges of jealousy at the simple fact that they were intact. During the holidays, I did feel a sense of loss and grief, realizing that parts of my 26-year family were missing from the table—some by choice, some by circumstance, and some just because other people probably cook a better turkey than me (actually Harris Teeter cooked my turkey, whoever he is, and it was pretty delicious, but I was a turkey-risk for sure!).

Titus has always had a special need to identify his family—naming us each one-by-one and seeking the reassurance that we belong to him. I have found this fascinating, knowing he is adopted, even though he has yet to fully understand what that word means. It’s as if God places a special appreciation for family in those who have been orphaned.

I think that must be sort of like what I felt on Thanksgiving—orphaned and grasping to figure out what now constitutes my family. And when my friend’s word fully soaked into my being late that Friday night, it left me weeping with joy. Because I think that deep down, I thought I would not have a true family again unless I risked another marriage one day (a highly unappealing prospect right now).

But God has repeatedly told me over the past nine months that He is my husband now and that He is faithful and trustworthy and honorable and just and that He stands ready to defend me, love me, cherish me, and fight all of my battles. And that all I have to do is stay still and praise him (thanks to worship artist Rita Springer for those last two truths).

And the revelation that I received through the Encounter was that I am—and actually have been for many, many years—in a very strong, intact family of believers. That family thankfully DOES include members of my immediate and extended family with whom I share bonds of blood and law and lifelong memories, but it is also a much broader family that encompasses my church family, my honorary sisters and daughters, spiritual mentors, authors and speakers who have written and spoken truths that have molded and shaped me, youth leaders and college professors and camp counselors and students who have poured into my children, and countless friends I have met in the various chapters of my life. Many of these people are very different from me—maybe their theology differs from mine or their skin is a different color or they live life a little differently than I do. Maybe they don’t live in my house or go to my particular church or even live in my state.

But when I cry out to God in the desert and wilderness places I described a couple of days ago, He nudges one of them to call, text, or pray for me. When I have a need that I see no resource for, He fills it through one of them. They have shed tears for and with me, spent money on me, given gifts to me, shared talents with me, spoken truth over me, broken bread with me, drunk countless cups of coffee with me, sat by hospital beds with me, counseled me, corrected me, encouraged me, forgiven me, lifted my arms for me when I was too weak to hold them up, and picked me up when I was just a pitiful little puddle on the floor. All with love. And they will do it again. And again. And again. And again. And He nudges me to do the same for them in return. And the more I heal and grow, the more He will entrust me to do for them.

My family.

“And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’” (Matthew 12:49-50, ESV)

Well…it seemed like a good idea when I thought of it.

SOOOOO many people pour into my kids’ lives on a daily basis—care attendants, therapists, doctors, tutors, coaches, baristas (catch that pun?!)—and on a very limited single-mom budget, I wanted to do something small but meaningful for Christmas to let these people know how much we value them. So I did what any modern mom would do. I went straight to Pinterest to get ideas and then to Amazon to order supplies. They came in yesterday, and I eagerly set Titus and Lydia up at the table with the colorful paints and pristine brushes and the pretty little wooden ornaments that I simply wanted them to paint in some kind of colorful, abstract-artsy way. Then I would add a few special touches to make the ornaments a little more meaningful for the recipients, and Voilà!

Let’s just say that Titus and Lydia did not catch my vision of colorful and abstract-artsy. We have solid brown, solid blue, solid maroonish, a lighter shade of solid brown, solid mauve, a darker shade of solid blue that is only partially painted, and–look!–one two-tone bluish earth-looking one that suddenly seems like a masterpiece!

I pondered calling this a “practice batch,” pitching it, and starting over next week. But then I thought about the motivation behind that. These are people who help me care for my kids in the most real way possible. They understand the day-to-day work of helping children with extra challenges be the best they can possibly be. They see the underside of our lives—the hard and dirty and smelly (literally) parts—and they love us anyway, maybe even because of those parts. So who would I be trying to impress if I pitched the first batch and tried again next week?!?

If these ornaments aren’t colorful and pretty enough to give as gifts, does that mean that Tess’s debut vocal performance at Bible Study on Thursday when she kicked her foot to the beat and then shouted out the last word of each of the songs just as the other children finished singing them was “less than”?

Does that mean that when Lydia performs with the Children’s Christmas Choir next weekend, and her rendition of “Happy Birthday, Jesus” isn’t quite on key and is missing quite a few words, it will be “inferior”?

Shame on me for even feeling momentarily disappointed in these precious ornaments! They are as valuable as the most expensive, exquisite ornament I could buy at Tiffany’s. They are like the widow’s two-cents or the boy’s loaves and fish. They are like my pitiful attempts at singing worship songs on key and my suddenly shrunken tithe. Because doesn’t God honor all of our heartfelt offerings even if they are but filthy rags? (Isaiah 64:6) When our voices reach heaven, don’t they blend with the angels’ voices, no matter how bad they sound down here on earth? And when we stand before the throne, doesn’t He see our dirty, sinful, broken selves as righteous because He sees us through Christ?

These ornaments are beautiful because they were made and will be given by children who love with the purest of loves—a love without pretense or pressure or condition—a bubbling over, can’t-hold-it-in kind of love that melts your heart and dissolves your stress and makes you get up in the morning when you don’t really feel like it.  The same kind of love that birthed the baby whose life we celebrate on Christmas Day.

So I am keeping this first batch of ornaments and whichever masterpieces are produced in the next several sittings (because at the rate Titus and Lydia lose interest in painting, it will take us until next year to finish painting all of them!).

And if I know the people they were made for like I think I do…they will be well received.

“For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

 (Masterpieces created by Titus and Lydia Barnes.)

Almost every day, Titus will come find me and ask if we can “cuddle in the dark.” He likes to sit in my lap in the chair in the quiet area of my room after dark. It’s kind of interesting, considering the kid hates the dark. I constantly go around the house turning off all the lights he just HAS to turn on. He won’t go to the bathroom by himself if the light is off even though he is perfectly capable of reaching the light switch by himself (though I have learned that if I make myself scarce and he REALLY needs to go, he somehow stirs up enough courage to do it himself!).

Why are we afraid of the dark? For children it is dark rooms or shadows on their walls at bedtime. But for adults, it’s another kind of darkness that terrifies us. We are afraid of pain—physical and emotional. We are afraid of grief and loss. We are afraid of struggle. We avoid them at all cost. I surely do.

In the past five years, several of my biggest fears have been realized. One of my children died. A relationship I thought would last forever ended. Someone I love dearly all but disappeared from my life. At some points, the darkness felt like too much, but God always reached into those darkest moments and His light would dissipate it. Sometimes it was a word He would give me. Sometimes a song. Sometimes a person. Sometimes His very presence. But He always came—eventually.

During one of the lowest points of that season, I was in the checkout line at Barnes and Noble when I saw a magnet that read: “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.” I had never heard that saying before and was deeply struck by it. It became my mantra. I started seeing butterflies everywhere, looking for them, wearing them, decorating with them. They represented hope and light and new life that can only come from darkness. I promised myself that my story would end that way too.

But still I dread the dark days, the struggle, the pain, the grief. Even though I know that I know that I know that He is working on me within them and that they will be followed by growth and goodness, how do I live within them? How do I stop fearing them?

Yesterday my Advent devotional led me to a familiar passage in Isaiah 40. It contains the words that John the Baptist proclaimed as he prepared the people for Jesus’s ministry: “A voice cries: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain shall be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’” (Isaiah 40:1-5, ESV)

This time as I read those familiar words, I saw something I had never seen before—an answer to my struggle to embrace dark days. It’s so simple and obvious. Isaiah tells us exactly what to do in the wilderness and desert days of our lives—“prepare the way of the Lord” and “make a highway for our God.” I just need to make a space for Him. That means that all I really need to do in my darkest days is seek Him—cry out to Him, sing to Him, praise Him, say His name, read His word, think about Him. Once He has the space—the highway He needs to reach me—then He will do the rest. He will lift the valleys and lower the mountains and level the ground and smooth the rough places. His glory will be revealed, and I will see His hand.

We once had a chrysalis in a butterfly habitat that just would not open. The kids didn’t want to throw it away “just in case,” so it eventually made its way into our dark, damp basement. Saylor was the youngest child at the time and a fervent prayer warrior. Even with the habitat out of sight, every morning in our “morning meeting,” she prayed for that “chrysalis to become a beautiful butterfly.” Many months later, I was utterly shocked to go into our basement one day to find a small, but very much alive, butterfly fluttering around that habitat.

Out of the very longest and darkest darkness we can imagine, He can—and does—bring life.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” (Isaiah 9:2, ESV)

(Butterfly created by Maya Barnes.)

“Put Jesus back in your backpack, so you don’t lose Him.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how absurd they sounded. Lydia does weekly presentations as part of our homeschool community group. This week she had selected a favorite PJ Masks book to read to the class. We put it in her backpack the night before, but just as we were headed out the door on Wednesday morning, Lydia ran to our child-proof Nativity, plucked Jesus from His warm, cozy manger, and declared, “I’m going to tell my friends about Jesus!”

“That’s great!” I told her. “We can save your PJ Masks book for next time.”

“Both!” she retorted, zipped Jesus into her backpack, and marched out the door.

What’s a mom to say to that?!?

I missed her presentation because my dear friend and Lydia’s tutor, Ms. Jenny’s son got his finger stuck in his tin whistle, and I was honored to serve as part of his rescue team. (Yes, that actually happened.) So I don’t know exactly how Lydia juxtaposed Jesus with the PJ Masks, but the more I thought about it, the more the connections became obvious. After all, Jesus knew when it was “Time to be a hero!” and He most certainly went “Into the night to save the day!”

I also kept thinking about the words I had spoken to Lydia at the end of her class’s presentation time. In a weird sort of way, they reminded me of a conviction I experienced a few weeks ago. I had been struggling intensely with my thought life. I knew I was expending far too much emotional energy thinking about people whose decisions had hurt me, and I knew it was pointless, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Until I sensed the Lord asking me what would happen if I devoted that much thought and analysis to Him? I started intentionally replacing thoughts of these people with thoughts of Jesus—a story about Him, a name, a Scripture verse, a prayer. The effects were powerful. Not only did it become very unappealing to expend energy on people and things totally out of my influence, but the “detox” period developed a habit of directing my thoughts toward the One who IS worthy of them, and that made a difference in many unexpected aspects of my life.

So I think that as absurd as it sounded when I uttered those words to Lydia yesterday, they are actually filled with an element of truth. We should put Jesus back in our backpacks–and our purses, backpockets, iPhones, conversations, marriages, friendships, social lives, decisions, habits, and thoughts–not so that we don’t lose Him, but so that we don’t lose SIGHT of Him…because He isn’t the one who gets lost.  We are.

“Abide in me, and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.” (John 15:4, ESV)

I have the most perfect sitting area in my new bedroom. Picture a comfortable reading chair facing a picture window overlooking a wooded creek complete with weeping willow trees, a duck family, and a resident blue heron. I steal moments there whenever I can, especially in the morning before the children wake up or in the evenings at sunset. Sometimes I watch the wildlife or the movement of the water; other times, I just stare at the intricacy of the tree branches. If it is raining, I love to watch the drops as they are methodically absorbed into the creekwater.

This morning, the little people woke up before I made it to my quiet area, so I snuck a few minutes there while they ate their breakfast. From my chair, I heard the escalating sounds of Titus and Lydia’s voices: “Apple!” “Cherry!” “Apple!” “Cherry!” alternated across the kitchen table with increasing intensity. When the crescendo finally reached a pitch I could not ignore, I reluctantly left my quiet spot to settle the dispute. Turns out they were arguing over what fruit was pictured on Titus’s yogurt container. This one was easy to settle: “You’re both wrong. It’s a peach!” I declared. Our three-way laughter restored the peace, and I returned to my room to finish getting ready for the day.

Until this past year, I never thought deeply about peace. I perceived it as a global issue that we all wanted among nations and races and other man-made factions of society. Or I thought of peace as that feeling I have when I know something is the right decision—I would say that I “have peace about it.” Both of those connotations are certainly true and important, but on a personal level, peace has become so much more important to me.  It is something I seek to maintain at all times and in all circumstances–especially those that are out of my control.

This morning, my Advent devotional directed me to read Psalm 122, which ends with the following lines: “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem! ‘May they be secure who love you! Peace be within your walls and security within your towers!’ For my brothers and companions’ sake I will say, ‘Peace be within you!’ For the sake of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek your good.” (Psalm 122:6-9, ESV)

At first glance the prayer seems to be focused on that global understanding of peace within and between nations that we all desire when we say “Peace on Earth” during the Christmas season. The psalmist speaks of peace “within your walls” and “security within your towers,” but then he gets personal. “Peace be within you!” he declares, “for my brothers and companions’ sake.”

When I moved into my new home, my primary focus was to create a peaceful space for myself and the kids. I had looked at several houses, including one that I was sure was the perfect place for us. But in His typical fashion, God closed that door without telling me He had a far better one around the corner. When I saw the backyard of this house, I knew it was home. Even though I am not an outdoorsy girl, I have always felt God’s presence in creation and love to look at it. Out of every back window of this house, I could see nature and knew that His presence would be easy to seek and find in this home—and that that was exactly what I needed most.

Even in my peaceful new home, it amazes me how easily circumstances and people can rob my peace. A phone call, an email, or a post on social media can send my heart racing or my mind spinning. Kids fight, dogs bark, messes are made, cars don’t start—and there goes my peace. Even without external intervention, I find that my own thoughts can steal my peace. I start entertaining the “what ifs” or “if onlys,” and peace soon gives way to worry or regret. I take steps to prevent these things—turn off notifications on my phone so I can decide when I want to risk receiving bad news or dealing with difficult people. Play worship music constantly. Read Scripture aloud to myself. Ask friends to pray when I feel myself getting spun up or sinking into despair. And I return again and again to my picture windows—seeking the presence of the only true Peacegiver. Because peace is not actually a feeling but a confidence that transcends feelings and situations and circumstances. It is a certainty, an assurance, an absolute trust in the promises and person of God–no matter what is going on around me.

As the psalmist declared, peace is WITHIN us. Paul tells us that it is a fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22). And notice the first line of the verses I quoted earlier: “May they be secure who love you!” (Psalm 122:6b) Peace is within me because His Spirit is within me and because there is no more war to be won. It was secured on Calvary when Christ said, “It is finished.” (John 19:30) He didn’t mean it is almost finished, or it will be finished one day, or it is finished until someone or something upsets you. He meant IT IS FINISHED. End of story. Yes, there are more chapters to be written—more life to be lived and that life is not easy. There are more battles to be fought even though the war is won. Broken people and broken circumstances and broken cars and even yogurt containers with unidentifiable fruit on them will try to steal our peace! But if our eyes are fixed on Him, it CAN be impossible to allow them that privilege. Jesus says, “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, ESV)

Now to live like it…

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” (John 14:27, ESV)