A truth, I think we all know...

Life is a gift.

I think deep down this truth is written on the cavernous walls of our hearts. We know that life is a gift, but do we live like it is?
Truthful, I don't always live like this.

This morning I was walking into the pale sunrise of morning, out to the white barn, to milk the goats. The air cold, but not freezing. All around me the world, dressed in white, gleamed in the yellow light. The light touches the folds of the mountains with soft hands. Snow and ice crunch beneath my feet. Above me, the blue sky is dappled in silver clouds like the spots on a faun's back. They shimmer in the sunlight. In the west, dark blue storm clouds roll and churn as they climb over the mountain's peak, spilling into the sky above our valley. Though the clouds still hover far away, I can feel their energy.

I walked into this beauty with a mind full of our mortality.

We know a man, our neighbor. His body is wracked with the incurable Lou Gerick's disease. The disease seeps into every part of him. He can't walk. Now he can barely speak. We each have a number for our days, but his number grows smaller. We pray for him every day. God is reaching his heart. I don't think this man has every let God reach into his heart.

With my eyes full of light, I was hit with the truth in a new way.

Life is a gift.

It is a gift to be alive. To draw breath. laugh. cry. talk. write. love.

I've always known life is a gift, but I don't simply want to know.

I want to wake to each sunrise and breathe deep this gift.

I want thankfulness for life to spill out of me every day.

I want to live keenly aware of the number of my days.
I want to live keenly aware of the gift each one contains.

Why Christmas?

Holy Trinity.

Three in one.

Father, Son; Holy Spirit.

Glory of Heaven.

The Son leaves the splendor,

the glory.

He comes to earth small;

insignificant.

Babe born of a Virgin's womb.

Born in a stable in a crowded little town.

The hay was soiled.

An incredible star shone above the stable.
Its light filled the land.
Mary struggles, strains
to bring this God baby to the waiting world.
White angels come to shepherds in a field.
The angels fill the sky.
Bright.
Their voices resound.
Echoing loud as they praise God.
Shepherds stand beneath the brimming sky.
Their mouths agape.
Their ragged cloths and beards swaying in chill breeze.
Three kings.
Dressed in deep red, gold; blue.
They watch the sky.
They know of a prophecy.
A prophesy written in ancient scrolls.
Of a king.
A messiah coming, for all mankind.
This star is made of three planets aligning in the Heavens.
This star means a king.
The kings travel.
They travel on camels over miles of desert.
They seek the King.
Mary's breathing regulates.
Her heart is full, overflowing as she looks at the baby in her arms.
Jesus.
He is here.
He is born.
The world need wait no longer.
The King, the Messiah is here.
For all mankind.


This is why we have Christmas.


 

  

The Cold.

Today, wind rushes over the earth, frantic searching. The sky is part clouds. Shadows fill our valley. They dance over brilliant white mountain peeks and the gentle sloping curves of hills.

The wind is cold. Bitter cold.

Not the gentle cold, of falling snowflakes.
Not the crisp cold of a clear night.
Not the silent cold of a snowy forest.

This cold is grasping, clawing; fierce. A pack of hungry wolves, scratching tearing my skin till the nerve endings gape open to the raw cold. Yellow teeth fill their foul mouths, open and threatening. Gaunt sides heave as they gallop over the land desperate for a place to rest, a place to hide away from all that intimidates. They scour the ground for something, anything, to satisfy their savage hunger. Angry and vicious, they growl and bite at each other's heels.

I struggle against the pack of cold. Growls low, menancing, they nip at my coat tails. This pack, persistent and starving, doesn't let me alone! They circle me. A snap of sharp teeth. A wolf jumps for my coat collar. I stumble backward. I yank my coat from fierce teeth.

I break into a run.

Panting, struggling against their force.

I burst through the door. Slam it shut behind me. I collapse in a heap. My skin stinging, bright red.

The wolves whine and scratch at the door. I hear them circle the house, frantic, searching.

Miracle.

I sit in a cold barn, in my pajamas, on a hard bale of straw. I am sobbing out my heart to the Lord. Choking on the words that come from my soul through my hoarse voice, uttered in the still of the big barn.

Goats chew softly, their hay. I cry out. Weak pleading. All the ugly that is my heart spills out through hot tears and prayer.

My God hears. He knows.

He knows.

No one knows so well as He the depths of this wayward, sinful heart of mine.

How easy I see the speck in another's eye. How can I see at all? Logs protrude from my eyes.

Our human eyes are prone to see the inconsistency in others. We don't look in the mirror often enough for our inconsistency to glare back at us.

My hot breath hitting the cold air turns to clouds of fog. Hot tears barely escape my lashes before they feel cold.

I sob out loud to my Lord. I ask Him to teach me how to love those around me without condition. I ask Him to teach me how to live joy; how to live in the Spirit not in the flesh.

I hold out my heart, a throbbing, bloody mess. I ask my Savior to take it, renew it, make it new. Fashioning the ugly broken, into something God-glorifying.

He takes this filth I hand Him. He knows the dark depths of my soul.

But.

He loves me still.

This is a miracle.

After the hot flood of tears; the surrender. My Father sends me a peace. A quiet stillness in my soul.

Later on, as I bustle to prepare something delicious for Mommy and family, who are feeling sick, Mommy thanks me for working with such a joyful spirit.

I am taken back.

I have a joyful spirit?

This is not me.

The joy, it is God.

God inside of me. God chiseling away at the ugly scab of my nature; growing inside of me His tender Spirit.

Philippians 1:6
And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to comletion at the day of Jesus Christ.

A meeting about, writing.

      The air is cold. Frost clings to the grass, the leaves, the trees. Fog rises from valleys in towering mountains. It haunts the river; it whispers around the metal bridge as we drive over. Our hot breath collects on the car windows.

We are on our way.

      Once in the city, the streets are crowded and small. We turn onto a small road lined with small cars. We park and walk up to a brick building. A red sign hangs over the door. We step inside to warmth. A fireplace glows. Deep armchairs surround it. Tables coupled with chairs are scattered across the wide room. The floor is smooth and dark. The walls are warm and full. Music plays in the background, bright and cheerful.

      Pulling up seats to a table in the middle of the room, we wait for our fellow writer to come. He walks in quick with a book bag slung over his shoulder.

All writers are here now; ready to begin.

      We pull out fragments of writing, and pens. I have a RED pen, of course. The two boys eye my red pen as I make edits across their pages of writing. They both wish they had RED pens.

      RED is the color of the editor's trade. And if you're a writer you're inevitably an editor and you should own a red pen.

      The three of us come to the table with different styles, different areas of expertise, and different methods of editing. We are drawn together by the love of words and the conscientiousness of the gift God gives by creating us to use them. When you set out to use the gift God plants inside you, there's a responsibility to glorify Him as the Creator of the gift. With His strength, I endeavor to do this.

      I come to the table with a distinct aversion to over-used adverbs; my pen itching to cross-out superfluous words. Once upon a time it was terrible for me to cut extra words from my writing. It hurt. I loved each word. I thought they were each perfect. I know better now.

      My companions who sit at the table are very similar and very different from each other. Both admire, sometimes emulating, the rich wordiness of Dickens, Hugo, Hemingway, and Tolkien. Both are sticklers for correct grammar usage.
      One alphabetizes his shelves of books, and he thinks we should all speak like characters from Shakespeare's plays.
      The other, of my writing companions, is obsessed with correct comma placement and he doesn't love to read out loud.

      We set to work. Words fly thick and fast over the table. One of us reads aloud, he does all the accents. Scouring the page, we look for the missing punctuation mark, the superfluous adjective or adverb, the repeated words; the missing words. We halt the reader, sometimes after just one sentence. We rip the sentence apart, tearing it limb from limb, exposing gaping holes. Or, we pause to admire the flow and sound of a sentence. The writer smiles as the other two express sincere esteem for his work. There is humility and gentleness present as we critique and inspire each other in our writing.

      The huge clock on the wall behind us ticks away the minutes, the hours. Still, we talk about words; commas; quotation marks. History, stirring music, incredible books, worthy authors, all creep into our discussion. We sip frothy lattes from large white mugs. Our time runs out. Pens and papers are put away.

Time to say goodbye.

      I step out of the warm into the light of the setting sun drawing heat from the earth. I take a deep breath filling my lungs with cold. I feel encouraged, inspired, and invigorated. I have ideas for new things to try in my writing. Commas dance before my eyes, a little clearer now. I'm excited about the writing projects of my companions.

Most of all, I am excited and thankful for this vast world our Lord has created for us to discover and express in words.