It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…
I love Christmas music! I have a playlist on my phone that I listen to throughout the year, and I recently heard a song that made me pause and consider. It is both wistful and hopeful:
In your silent night, when you’re not alright
Behold Him, Francesca Battistelli
Lift your eyes and behold him.
Feel the thrill of hope.
You are not alone.
In this moment, behold him…
A few years ago, weary in the midst of the season, I wrote a post titled When Holidays Hurt. (https://mysteriesofgrace.blog/2019/12/10/when-holidays-hurt-2/) The feedback I received assured me that it resonated with many people. Holidays can be hard and hurtful. The post recounted the thoughts, sounds, and sights of a busy medical clinic as people lined up, waiting for help and hope in the midst of their holiday stress and hardship. Little has changed since then.
But in 2020, the world was put on pause by a global pandemic. I know no one, absolutely no one…who wasn’t deeply impacted by tragedy or loss in the years that followed. Depression and anxiety soared to new heights. The ripple of the mental health crisis was felt far and wide as record numbers were hospitalized and many, in desperation, disillusionment, or confusion…took their own lives.
Fear and suspicion seemed the new normal in many lives. Social and political unrest escalated. The economy tanked. Many relationships changed forever. Many felt overwhelmed at the loss of security and control. People lost their jobs, their financial resources, even their loved ones. Many people lost their hope. Some lost their lives.
Wise King Solomon himself said it: There is nothing new under the sun. Hurt is universal, and brokenness a core part of the human condition. But certain situations and seasons seem more brutal and heartless than others. Tragedy and loss are no respecters of boundaries, lifestyle, wishes, secure homes, social status, or devout faith.
In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
Jesus, John 16:33
In your silent night, when you’re not alright...
Read those words again. Do they, at first, seem a little sad? Lonely? And haven’t we all struggled through times when we just simply were NOT okay? There’s even a cliché: It’s okay to not be okay.
What do you think of when you read that phrase: silent night? I’m an introvert. I like silence. Many times silence is peaceful and restorative. Other times, silence roars with accusation: You’re all alone! No one sees you! No one hears you! Nobody cares! It feels deafening, so we fight it. We struggle and we yearn for noise and for an answer. A voice speaking into our darkness or situation.
There’s another song: Silent night, holy night! All is calm, all is bright.
It’s not my favorite. Was the silence of the very first Christmas really calm and bright? Or might it have felt heavy and weary? The slow, tired thuds of donkey feet plodding along a wearying journey, down a long dark dusty road? Not silent. How about the sounds of slamming doors and the words: no room for you here. Not silent. What about the echoing sounds of accusation and rejection felt along the way? Deafening. The cries of a girl in childbirth? A baby thrust into a cold, cruel world? Not silent. A King stepping down from his throne? You could hear a pin drop. There it is! The grand and holy moment of silence…as the world momentarily held its breath.
But…I suggest that it really wasn’t a silent night at all. In fact, there had been four hundred years of biblical silence…suddenly shattered by a baby’s cry.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.
John 1:14
To some, the Word may have presented as a muted whisper, but to the weary expectant world it reverberated like a shout! A thrill of hope.
It’s easy to forget that young Mary and Joseph were faced with an incredible dilemma in the world’s eyes: young, devout Jews, betrothed but unmarried, expectant. In her prayer in Luke 1:47-48, young bewildered Mary expressed hope as well as anyone before or since:
My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for He has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.
Mary lifted her eyes. She saw herself positionally, humbly. More importantly, she knew He hadn’t forgotten her. He was mindful of all she was going through. He had, in fact, chosen her to serve. To walk her specific journey.
Lift your eyes and behold him. Feel the thrill of hope…
But what is this thrill of hope? And how do we find it?
Maybe in the words of Matthew 1:23… They shall call his name Immanuel (which means, God with us). No longer a far off untouchable God. No longer veiled behind a curtain or limited access through the educated or those with titles, but God with us. Even better…God in us.
You are not alone. In this moment, behold him…
Our culture encourages us to be independent, to not need anyone, to make our own decisions…often regardless of the impact it has on others or even our our long-term stability and welfare. But alone is a hard place to be.
Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!
Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
And Paul told us in Galatians 6:2 to bear one another’s burdens. The picture is actually to stoop down, pick up, support the entire weight of it, and to carry it away.
Sometimes the harder question is this: do we let others support us in our hardship and calamity? Bear our burden? Share the load? Often in laying down the load, we must last down pride, secrecy, and self-sufficiency with it. Then we are no longer alone.
I have sat with many hurting people. Some in silence. Some in the midst of chaos and cacophony. Some side by side, others from the outside but still ever aware of their suffering and pain amid both the noise and the silence. And sometimes the greatest gift comes in those fragile moments. The gift of presence. The gift of care. The gift of acknowledgement: it matters. The gift that says I may or may not understand…but you are not alone.
In your silent night, when you’re not alright...
So I have a question. It’s not, are you alright? It is: What is your silence? In your silent night, when you’re not alright… What is that silence that shouts above all the other noises of the season? A devastating loss? The absence of a loved one? An empty seat at the table, a stocking unhung, a phone not ringing, a voice unheard?
Maybe the silence of rejection? A severed relationship? The call you wish would come or the hug not given. Feeling unseen, minimized, marginalized?
The silence of a painful secret? An unmet need? What you wish others could see and know?
Maybe an even bigger question: Is it really silent? Or is it shouting, rumbling, and reverberating throughout all the empty corridors of your life?
The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.
Jesus, John 10:10
So what’s the point of all these words? Just thinking, I suppose. And remembering faces and words and situations that have echoed throughout the year. Some hope-filled, others in the midst of devastation and hopelessness. Hope is a precious gift. Love is priceless. Praying you give and receive much in this season. God bless.
Born to seek and born to save
Born to take our pain away
God with us, Emmanuel
In his arms, all will be well
In your silent night
When you’re not alright
Lift your eyes and behold him
Feel the thrill of hope
You are not alone
In this moment, behold him.
King forevermore
Come let us adore
Christ our savior, behold him.
Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord. -Luke 1:45
Sitting at a computer screen perusing an animal rescue site, I saw her. Little bitty ears, bright eyes, and a playful face…I knew we had to have her. So we packed up the family van with a little clothes basket and blanket in the back and drove to the Franklin County Animal Shelter in Belvedere, Tennessee. There in the front office we met the little black and white pup we had seen on the screen. They had affectionately named her Bonnie and she was the unofficial office pup, scampering freely in the office with her other little furry partner in crime. Bonnie had had a rough start: abandoned, wormy, malnourished, found wandering on the side of a busy highway, narrowly avoiding traffic. Someone had rescued her and brought her to safety and nurture. She was 10-12 weeks old when we met her and she wasn’t wormy, malnourished, neglected, abandoned, unwanted, or unloved any longer. She was playful and thriving as she bounced around the office, back and forth between our excited children.
saw her in real life. No longer Bonnie…welcome home Molly Ann Foster!
and even Facebook advice. But I was the one who took her for that last dreadful drive. Honestly, it felt a little like betrayal. But also mercy, compassion, and love.
And on the 9th day God looked down on his wide eyed children and said, they need a companion.
God said I need somebody who would stand at your side when the world around you collapses. Somebody to lie next to you during the long nights of pain and sorrow when it hurts to move, to talk, or think, or be. Somebody to stand guard, play games, snore for hours and repeat as needed. Somebody to give you strength when you have none of your own. Somebody to fight when you have no fight left, to hold onto your soul as if it were their favorite toy, playing tug of war to keep you in this world. Somebody to be your companion and guide in this world and the next. Somebody to wait for you on the other side or stand guard in your absence until they can join you for eternity.
inspired my husband to go back to school to get a nursing degree in his early 30’s. He actually told me I was the only person he knew who loved her job; so there must be something rewarding in it. And I do! I love my job. It’s more than a job. It’s my lifework and ministry. A high and holy calling, a privilege.
A farmer, strong, hardy, rugged…but kind, simple, gentle. Friendly, fatherly, grandfatherly. I first met David after he had fallen off a roof. 70 years old and still climbing and working. His injuries were extensive but he didn’t complain. He just wanted to get better and get back to work! That was ten years ago. This year I watched David’s body slowly ravaged by three different cancers. He left life a fraction of the giant size man I first met.
of accidents and bad diagnoses. The last time I saw David I didn’t even recognize him. I walked into his hospital room and had to double check the name on the wall. The sickness had made him a shell of the tough old farmer he had been. I miss David.
Sometimes I feel a great burden for my daughter: 23, full of life, innocent…but now thrown into a world of IVs, ventilators, cancer, addiction, overdose, and split-second life and death decisions. She’s a strong young woman. She sees and she cares. Many people do not. She learns her patients’ names and needs, She feels their pain, their fears, their frustrations.
But every hard day, every painful experience, every grief and loss, is somehow always overshadowed by love and passion and purpose and a glimmer of hope that one life will be touched, helped, changed, or offered hope.
provider today?
to visit; but I never did. I ignored the spirit promptings because of busyness, forgetfulness, or just not knowing what to say. So I never said it. Her days ended before I was able to speak appreciation, love, and respect. To let her know what a difference her kindness made in my life. I still regret it. I swore at the time that I would always let people know what they meant to me: their influence, their significance, and how much I loved them. It’s a work in progress. I still forget or tread awkwardly in silence. My first trip to the beach…Lillian. First visit to the mountains…Lillian. Camping, a safe place, weekend retreats…Lillian. She opened her home to me for days at a time and made me feel safe and welcomed, even as an awkward, confused teenager. Her family invited me to church and encouraged me to stay involved. They saw me. How different my life would have been without our lives intersecting.
them our great reunion sites; but how tragic to not make time to spend with those who have impacted our lives not only for a moment, but for eternity. I was recently blessed to be able to live, laugh, love, and celebrate with these loved ones, these dear friends, these brothers and sisters, these who have walked the long road. Now there are two fewer footprints in the dust on the road, but lingering fingerprints and heart impressions of loving and living well will persist in his legacy forever.
our respect, our appreciation, our admiration? Do they feel loved and valued? Do they know what an impact they’ve had on our lives, our families, our world? It takes less time to call and visit than it does to linger in loss and regret.
keep warm, but how can one keep warm alone?
The evening grows long as I look out across the waiting room and see the many sad or sick faces waiting patiently…or not. Some fidget, sigh, and look at invisible watches on their wrists. Some stare blankly into the unreachable distance or at the monotonous pattern of the enclosing four walls, perhaps replaying old scenes or longed-for visions. Some stare absently into their phones for distraction, relief, or escape. Still they wait. I know many of their stories before they utter a word. I know their history or I read their eyes. I watch their shoulders slump, their hands fidget, their lips frown or faintly quiver. I feel the weight and the want and the weariness.
the overhead speaker, piped in like a merry elf entertaining ideas of fun, frivolity, and lightheartedness, in denial of the pain, the longing, and the loss that the season brings to so many people.
But still they put one foot in front of the other. Some days are harder. Holidays are harder: days meant to gather and celebrate with people you love and people who love you. A time to reflect on blessings and health, the past and the future. So much to celebrate and be thankful for. But there are some who sit in quiet rooms all alone. There are some who sit in loud, clamorous rooms with many others, but are still alone. There are some who sit facing those who have mistreated, rejected, abused, or betrayed them. There are some who sit facing empty chairs of those who have left them through death or abandonment.
and comfort for the grieving? Is there ministry in hearing, caring, and simply being present? What do you do when there’s no written prescription to ease the pain of heartbreak and loss and devastation? No first aid kit to stop the bleeding or cover the wound? No tender kiss to make it all better?
a world with so much hurt and loss and fear and hopelessness and uncertainty? Is it enough to have eyes that see and ears that hear? To give a gift that is both free and priceless: to be seen and heard, recognized, and acknowledged? Validated and assured that they matter, that their struggles are real, that their hearts and lives are important, that someone cares, and more importantly, that there is hope? Yes, it matters. It all matters. I can be a hand to hold. I can choose to extend a hand that reaches, lifts, holds, supports, gives. A hand to guide, to direct, to point to the truth that they are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of a God that loves them and wants to fill the empty places and the empty seats. I can be a voice. A voice that speaks truth and dispels lies and speaks words of encouragement and validation. And I can just be. I can sit in the ashes, care in the silence, be light in the darkness, and warmth in the cold season of the soul. I can offer hope in the simple ministry of being present and attentive. I can care.
teacher, nurse, chauffeur, counselor, confidante, role-model, and so many others. Maybe you’ve never thought of yourself as being like the apostle Paul: a missionary to teach the gospel and share the love of Christ and to equip the saints, no matter how small the saints may be. 🙂 Then again, maybe you have, and it seems overwhelming at times. It’s a high and holy calling. It really is a privilege. Some days, in the busyness of life, you wonder if you make a difference. Does all this really matter? The lists, laundry, the wiping, the cleaning, the carpooling, the waiting, the repeating… It all matters.
Rejoice in your great blessings. Grieve the losses and allow God to heal and restore, then believe. Believe, not only that the body of Christ is perfectly equipped to step in and provide for your needs, but that you are also part of that body and you are called to be his hands, his feet, his heart. Believe that God has a purpose in the pain of losing, the pain of not having, or the strain of imperfect, contentious relationships. Not that He authored the loss or the struggle, but that He sees and is able to create beauty from the ashes of a fallen world. Believe that you have been crafted and gifted with a mother’s heart. If you have children, you have experienced it first-hand. If you don’t have children, consider your other relationships. Have you ever had a shoulder to cry on? Been a shoulder to cry on? Had another woman ask for advice, need direction, just want a cup of coffee and a few words of wisdom or encouragement? Prayed for a friend? Been concerned for a friend’s well-being? Just sat quietly, no words needed, and been present? That is a mother’s heart and you have been gifted. Believe that you are that vessel, that tool, 
that platform, that word of encouragement, bit of sustaining manna, drink of water, or light in the darkness that God will use to bring light, life, and hope to someone else.
mysteriesofgrace 
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