I am a words girl. Always have been. I spent many-an-extra-hours in various sympathetic math teachers’ classrooms, laboring with them over how to show my work on math problems that I could never fully wrap my head around the logic of. A geometric proof does what again? Solve for ‘x’ and for ‘y’? It was the ‘y’ that usually did me in. Beyond the simple plus and minus work of numbers, I never grew too comfortable around them. Oh but the words! Give me Native Son and a thesis statement and the freedom to craft thoughts and my mind felt like I was curling up with a soft blanket.

Given my unremarkable (dismal is more appropriate) history with numbers, I am, perhaps, the most shocked of all at how much counting I really do these days. I’m not finding square roots or making whole numbers out of fractions, but it seems like numbers are on my mind quite a lot.

I’m a counter. I count minutes and I count likes. I count children and I count approval. I quantify my day in so many ways—too many— forgetting that what I am often counting does not actually add up to anything real. I count accomplishments and I count failures, hoping that the former has more tallies in the column at 9:00pm. I count what I have based on what I see, and it is pride, and I sometimes count what others have, also based on what I see, and it is comparison. I’m always counting.

Today is the first day of lent: a sacrificial season of the liturgical calendar that holds the space of the 46 days before Easter Sunday. It’s a beautiful season for so many reasons, but one I have stripped of its meaning with the hint of ‘I grew-up Catholic guilt’ that still lingers, coupled with my relentless score-keeping. I’ve spent many a Lenten seasons subtracting: first it was ice cream, then sugar, next social media, and I’ve even gone for all television whatsoever. I’ve been rather crafty when it comes to my numbers during lent—technically Sundays are a respite from the 46-day total, and God knows it is also March Madness so all television besides sports became the rule. I gave up ice cream but made up for it in cookie dough. And sugar—never made it past 48 hours on that one. Add, subtract, put a few tallies in the “good” column, and call it lent; that has far too often been my stride through this season.

It seems I have been missing the point.

The Lenten season is about sacrifice, and it is equally about repentance. But I think above all, it is about getting serious with our own hearts about what we are waiting and counting for.

The arc of this 46 days ends at the cross. We hold the space between now and then with reverence and with an intent to know who God is through sacrifice, but what I am certain I have done wrong in all my counting is relegate the importance of those things to only, or mostly, these 46 days. Lent becomes a talking point or a challenge, a hashtag or something to accomplish, when really all it was ever meant to look like was me on my knees in humility, knowing that all my numbers could never add up to perfect.

But Jesus never asked for perfect, he asked for repentance. And I have so much to repent. The counting, the pride, the comparison, the lack of belief in the face of hard things, the lack of boldness in the face of wrong things. Choosing to scroll rather than open His word, choosing to vent rather than take things to Him in prayer. Making an enemy of my husband while I stand on the mountain of an issue that was only ever meant to be a discussion on how to sweep away the dirt in front of us. I could go on with this; I have to look no further than the day behind me to find my need for repentance. And it is a need far greater than 46 days.

I love lent because of the intentionality it brings, and I am even giving something up if only for the discipline to spend time with Him when I want to turn to that one thing. But mostly, lent is about repentance, sitting with my great need for, praising God that he allows it, learning about its pain and its beauty, about its grip and its freedom. Yes, lent is about repentance because life is about repentance. The arc of our lives ends the same place that lent does, at the foot of the cross. And my heart can hear Jesus leaning in and whispering, “Stick with what you know, Katie. Grab your words and come sit with me, because we have so much to talk about, and nothing to count.”

Sunday morning brought with it the most beautiful gift: sleeping children. I was awake just before 5:00am and ninety minutes later my home was still quiet, still dimly lit, still a peaceful space for my heart to lean in and listen. Which was exactly what I needed to do.

*****

Cannon has two appointments this week. Six if you count speech and occupational therapy, but those just feel like our rhythm now, hardly worth noting as appointments. But this week has been on my mind for a month. Whenever I know there will be clipboards and professionals and more of the same kind of paperwork for mama, the trepidation slowly seeps in to my heart like the fog of an early winter evening. In our rational minds we know the fog just didn’t show up, it came slowly and steadily, only growing in density at the slow pace that fog rolls in. But why does it feel like it just showed up, like it was clear and crisp one minute and the next we can’t see? Feelings can be tricky like that.

Still, I’m not entering in to this appointment as I have in the past. Six months ago I walked in to a room full of observers and I had my arsenal of disclaimers and qualifiers and sometimes but not always explanations for every delay, every flag, every disinterest. My heart was not ready for the thoughts of others then, because this was just a speech delay, just a boy growing in his own way on his own time. And now it is more than that, but my heart can finally handle it. It didn’t get easier, we haven’t had a breakthrough, and tomorrow is still as uncertain as ever.

But I think what happened is that I finally learned how to pray.

*****

In the still of my morning, I started looking back in my journal. I didn’t plan to; I kept thinking someone would be wrestling their covers off the beds upstairs and groggy calls for mama would soon follow. But it stayed quiet. I will never stop being thankful for the days when I don’t have to chase quiet, when it just shows up at my door like a surprise gift wrapped in brown craft paper and raffia.

But the journal. It was one I started almost exactly a year ago, fully pregnant with my third baby and unaware in every way of what my heart would be navigating in the months ahead. I turned the pages along with the months, revisiting prayers and hopes and lessons of the year behind me and the words revealed a slow, steady growth of anxiety— evidence of the fog settling in. My memory tells me life was clear and crisp one moment and then incredibly difficult to navigate the next; but the record of my own thoughts reminds me that wasn’t the case, that it did come slow, riddled with patches of sunlight before coming upon a space so thick we had to just stop and wait it out. Memory can be tricky like that, too, I think.

The look back on our journey, on how we found ourselves here in this place with three different pediatric specialists in my phone contacts, was both humbling and hopeful. It was humbling because I see that I had only one way out of this in my mind, and that was for it to simply not be true. I could not see the future in any way other than I always had: healthy, happy, and— dare I say— easy? And it was hopeful because I can say today with the most honest, truthful motives in my heart that I may not see a way out of this, but I see only good coming from it.   

I spent many months only praying for what I wanted, what I thought I absolutely could not do without. And this summer when I finally found myself at the end of the hope I was trying to manufacture on my own—the hope found in professional opinions and therapies and diets— that’s when the real hope, the hope in Jesus that does not disappoint, finally became tangible. It was certainly a street fight of a journey. It involved more than one instance of me letting my brokenness out on someone or something else and there were certainly tears. So many tears.

But this week, I’m not walking in to another appointment carrying my dreams in a broken cistern and I’m not armed with anything the world has offered me. But I am bringing hope, real hope. Because I understand now it never left us. I will hold my little boy’s hand, crouch down to put my face next to his and try to get him to say hello to the doctor; but then I’ll smile for him when he doesn’t. I’ll guide him to a table I’m certain he won’t want to sit at, and I’ll encourage him to complete tasks he will probably turn his face away from. I will cheerily ask him to demonstrate the few words and signs he does have, and then I’ll turn to the doctor and explain that he can communicate his wants at home, he really can. I will hold Cannon close when his body wants to run. And I won’t cry this time. Well, maybe I will. I’m still his mama, after all, and I reserve the right to cry any time.

And perhaps it won’t happen at all like this. Maybe Cannon will say hi, and sit at the table, and listen to instructions and smile with that most precious smile in the world. I don’t know how it will play out, but I do know that God has reserved the right to do at any time whatever might bring Him the most glory.

*****

I’m no expert on prayer. A beginner, really, even though I’ve been doing it most of my life. But I know what God tells us about prayer: that we should do it in any circumstance, with persistence, often, and that when we don’t honestly know what to say, “Your will be done, Lord,” is more than good enough.

So that’s what I’m saying this time. Saying it and really meaning it. Your will be done, Lord.

I said something out loud last week, something that only my husband and very closest people knew has been brewing in my heart for two decades. It’s a little big dream. Sometimes really little, and sometimes really big: it floats back and fourth between being buried in real responsibilities and burning to come out as if absolutely nothing is in its way. But lately, even though the responsibilities are bigger and heavier and feeling much more like I cannot do this all than at any other time in my life, this little big dream is trying to get out—forcing its way in to my thoughts and daily rhythms, sometimes invited, but more often than not showing up like a surprise houseguest that I must quickly change the dirty sheets and vacuum the guest bedroom for.

(And now that I write it, that is a fairly accurate metaphor for what this dream feels like.)

I want to write a book. A real one. I want to force myself down a path of focus and discipline and hearing from the Lord; crafting all my thoughts, my fears, what I’m learning, how I’m failing, where I’m growing and how the gospel enters in and turns all of that on its head, and I want to put that journey into prose that feels like having coffee with a good friend or wrapping up in the softest blanket. I want to write words that resonate, that connect us all by the common threads of never measuring up but longing to be enough. I want to tell the truth about myself, sharing stories that make readers feel like we’ve been friends for a lifetime. But mostly, I want it all to point to Jesus.

That last part is the real dream. Living a life and leaving a legacy that gives God glory.

But here is the hard part: they say you need a platform. The people who know about book writing stuff say you need to have a following, a social media presence, and a significant corner of the internet carved out that readers actually stop by and say hello in. They say people need to sorta-kinda-already-know who you are.

Well I don’t like any of that, not even a little bit. Because that advice feeds an idol in my life that I desperately want to leave at the foot of the cross; broken in pieces right there so that nothing stands between me and an unhindered gaze up at Jesus. (Jesus lets us look up at him, let’s not move past that miracle without a moment of awe). I am too quick to take comfort in the approval of others while my husband is concerned about our time together. I am all too easily comforted when my words about motherhood draw applause while my children are shooed away for the fourth time while I finish crafting them. I easily mistake writing about faith and justice for actually living faith and justice.  And that’s the thing about writing: when you have done it long enough, you start to get real good with words but can become real bad with life. And since only real life counts, I want to put all my stock there.

But there remains this dream to create, and my heart and mind long to do it. So the only way forward, the only way I can think of to make this houseguest comfortable while still being a woman of great faith in Jesus and true devotion to her family, is to pray, to offer this process back to One who I believe started it in me.

I’m praying big to stay small.

God, I am so very grateful for the cross, where every bit of my faith is centered. It’s where you took all the sin, all the ugliness, and all of the condemnation of my life and burned a path right through it for me to walk on straight to you.

I ask for forgiveness for the times my feet have strayed from that path towards ones that give the illusion of fulfillment, the ones that promise happiness but deliver emptiness, the ones that scream in bright lights ‘you’ll love it here’ but end up trapping me in a darkness of self-absorption.

I pray that this desire to create is guarded by your Word and fenced in with a reverence for the gospel that every sentence I write submits to.

I ask for inspiration that is saturated in the Holy Spirit, because on my own I have nothing of any lasting value to offer.

And I thank you for words, because in the right hands—yours—they are such a gift. May the ones you give to me always tell stories that make you beautiful, because you are… more so than I would ever be able to say.

When all is said and done, keep me small, Jesus. Give me a work to do, but keep me and my pride out of the way of getting it done.

You are so, so good to us, God. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, Jesus.     

I sat down and opened my journal this morning, but the pen moved slowly.  The little globe on my desk shows me Africa, Asia, and Europe right now, and I am reminded of just how big this world is, while at the very same moment I feel a little baby kicking inside of me and I feel like the whole world is right here.  How is that possible?  And how many mamas are thinking the very same thing this morning?

I’m wondering how the French mothers who buried their adult children this weekend are grieving.  I’m thinking how on earth are the Syrian and Iraqi and Afghani mothers surviving as they rocked a colicky baby in the freezing temperatures of the refugee camp all night.  I am up to my neck in the shepherding of little hearts in my own home, a job I consider to be the privilege of my life, and yet all that echoes in my head as I read and see and watch the world is How long, Lord, how long?

Because the truth is this: I want to face every reality of the world, but I don’t know how to hold this fear.  When my pen finally moved across the blank lines of my journal, here’s what came out: “How will I raise my sweet babies without creating in them a sense that they will always have something to be afraid of?”  I don’t want that for them.  I want a life laced with joy and covered in graces, with a touch of Pinterest decorating our home and making an appearance on each holiday table setting.  Don’t we all?  Life is so much easier when I can just think about those things.

But I can’t just think of those things.  None of us can anymore.  The fear is too close, happening too often, and so much of it is too astoundingly representative of what God said would happen.  I wonder if a lot of us are looking around thinking that the easy, me-centered faith we’ve been living here in the West is not holding up to the kind of faith modeled for us in all of scripture.  The latter is a much bolder faith.  It is willing to risk anything, and it is stripped down of everything in the world except a perfect Savior and his death on a cross for our sake.  It loves big and believes in grace, but perhaps most importantly, it knows that there is nothing on earth worth keeping compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Jesus.  Just ask every single one of the eleven disciples of Christ who did lose their lives to spread the gospel to the ends of the earth.  What were they most afraid of?  It seems to me the only thing they feared was holding in the truth they knew would change everything.       

Friends, I know I am the least qualified person on earth to write this.  Because y’all, not only am I not a Bible scholar, but I am afraid.  What will this sweet little boy in my belly face in his lifetime?  I cannot confidently answer that the way I really want to.  But here is what I know and what I am trying desperately to remind myself of today: The enemy’s greatest weapon against us is fear, but that is really all he has.  Because the fear is what will paralyze us and make us question our good, good, God.  Make no mistake, our adversary is not really after our homes, our careers, our families or our 401Ks—although many of us might see it that way.  Those things mean nothing to him; he knows good and well the temporary nature of this world.  He is after our faith in Jesus, and he will chase it down relentlessly with fear.  And this morning, as I tremble a bit to write this, I truly believe our job as mamas and followers of Christ is to press in to our faith more than ever.  Our God has always known the condition of our hearts would be bent towards fear, so he wrote a Book spanning history that tells us again and again we don’t have to be, and the empty grave proves it.  He has reminded us that our lives are a breath compared to eternity, and we can confidently live with that perspective.  And mama, be assured that God knows the fierce love and protection we feel over our children.  When we cry watching them sleep, He knows that feeling even though our words can’t describe it.  When our hearts burst with joy when they say their first prayer, He gets it.  And when our anxiety goes through the roof at the thought of anything ever happening to them, friends, He understands.  And his response was written generations before any one of us felt this beautiful weight of motherhood: “Point those babies to me, remind them of all I have done, teach them my words every hour of every day, pray and don’t ever stop, and remember that when you feel fear, that is not from me, because I gave you a spirit of love, power, and a sound mind, and mamas, never forget that I AM.  And I will be for your babies.  And I still will be at the end of this world, too.” 

As I am wrapping these words up, the sun is peeking out over the mountains to the east of our home, and you know, it just seems fitting for God to give a sunrise right in this moment.  He is near, friends, and we can be confident that He is as just as He is loving.  Always has been, always will be.

Lord, be so near to our brothers and sisters in every corner of the world today.  God, don't let us stop trusting you, even when the fear feels too big.  You are the God of all nations, all tongues, all peoples, all history.  Make our faith bigger.  Amen. 

“And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts…” 2 Peter 1:19.

It all feels overwhelming sometimes, doesn’t it?  The headlines, the statistics, the almost routine mention of another capsized boat or a small group of sojourners’ bodies found dead along the border of two countries.  We Americans are generally a people of short attention spans: rocked and saddened over Aylan’s little body one day, moving on to a celebrity’s fall from grace or our football team’s poor performance the next.  This mostly steady emotional barometer towards the plight of so much of the world tends to mark the cadence of our lives; we give a nod or acknowledgment to headlines and news stories that, while they should shock us, leave us with a mostly unmoving response.  Or far worse, no response at all.  And then, we carry on.

This cannot be.  It can’t.  I am begging you, friends, to respond.

But how?  How!?  What can I do about ISIS? President Al-Assad?  The Middle East?  I hear these questions, they resound in my mind, too.  And they are valid: most of us are not in any sort of position to speak to these loaded political and governmental concerns and we will likely never be. 

But let’s not do something: let’s not, as Christ-followers, put our God on the same level as our politicians, weighing the power of each with equal belief and confidence.  That’s not even a thing.  Scripture tells the story of a God who has never once wavered in authority over all kingdoms and governments and leaders*.  Never, not one time, has he not been in charge— and this is true in every generation, every pocket of history.  It remains true today.  So that is where I start, with a clear reminder to myself that the terror of my moment in history is not un-watched by the God of all history.

The next thing we can do is know.  Stop looking away.  Read the stories, as many of them as you can.  Know that more than 12 million innocent men, women, and children have been forced from their homes in Syria.  Sit with that number for a moment, will you?  Really think about how many people that is.  Or picture your hometown, the traffic and the grocery stores and the busyness of people moving from here to there; moms doing school drop-offs and parents heading to work, meeting friends for coffee and closing business deals… and now picture it silent.  No food on the store shelves.  No cars on the streets.  No access to hospitals.  Banks are closed.  The water is shut off.  Maybe the biggest buildings are bombed out or perhaps the terrorist group has forced everyone in to hiding.  But there is nothing left of your life, and you find yourself having to answer questions like this: “do we take grandma with us as we flee or will she not make it anyway?”  That’s not really a choice; it is a life-sentence to guilt no matter how one answers it. See this in your mind, friends, because it is real for millions of our global brothers and sisters right this moment.

Once you know, allow it to hurt.  It is ok for someone else’s pain to hurt.  I would argue that it is good.  That hurting is the birthplace of compassion—the kind of compassion Jesus felt when he saw the hungry crowd**, the kind of compassion that means to “suffer with,” and the kind of compassion that makes a space in our lives for the Holy Spirit to come in and inspire.  And that is where we respond with prayer. Just prayer.  So simple, isn’t it?  Oh, but so, so powerful, and perhaps the most important work we can do,  if we truly believe in it.  I think that it gives God the honor he is due when we tell him out loud that we trust him with all of this, and that we believe in him for justice. 

When we go to scripture as our guide, we see thousands of years of men and women petitioning God for help, for answers, and for peace.  We read the greatest writer of the new testament, the Apostle Paul, offering prayers for the hearers of his letters and begging for them for himself at the same time; praying for protection (2 Thessalonians 3:2), for grace (1 Corinthians 16:23), and for clarity and boldness in his words (Ephesians 6:19-20) so that the gospel might go forward and believers would multiply.  If you are wondering how to start praying for Syria (or any number of injustices, countries, or people groups), may I humbly suggest that is a good model to begin with: protection in the face of danger, grace in the midst of chaos, clarity for those sharing the gospel and understanding for those hearing it.  We do not know how our prayers will be answered but we know that they will be heard, and most assuredly, heard by the only One who is perfect and able to answer with flawless justice, impeccable timing, and eternal truth.         

While I believe to my toes that prayer is the most important thing we can do for others, my hope is that as far as we are able, it is not the only thing we do for others.  Let’s not scoff at sacrificial giving, either.  That old Christian alliteration for stewardship applies perfectly here, because between our time, talents, and treasures we can all do something: are you a lawyer who can advocate for asylum?  A doctor or nurse who can volunteer for a few weeks with any number of refugee agencies?  A stay-at-home mom who can make room in her home for a refugee family (or an orphan, a single mom, anyone) for a few months?  I promise if you want a role in helping—with one of the statistically greatest humanitarian crises of our time, or any number of equally heart-breaking injustices— start asking questions and you will find one.  And there is also giving our money, which often feels like the easy thing but it is no small thing.  Because maybe you know someone willing to go, he just needs someone else willing to give.  Or you read about the agencies doing great work but who are sorely under resourced and you give to meet a need and help spread the gospel.   There are great people on the front lines but they are out of resources, leaving them with little capacity to help stop the hemorrhaging of the refugee crisis. Last week I read that on the Greek border refugee camps built for 500 people are housing 5000.  Put this perspective in to our world: the house we comfortably live in with 5 people would all of a sudden have 50. Wouldn’t we all feel the sting and meaning of under resourced in a moment like that?         

_________________________

I had the great privilege of speaking to the Chief Catalyst at World Vision last week, and the stories he told me after a trip to Lebanon to the refugee camp in Beirut are, in the truest sense, unbelievable.  And I mean that.  They are hard to believe.  In his words, “Utterly beyond anyone’s capacity to take it in.” It’s crowded.  Abuse is rampant.  Food and water supplies are low, a thriving black market is gaining steam.  Children are drawing pictures of their homes and remembering details like grenades scattered on the floor.  For so many of the refugees, after three years away from everything they know and no real means to an end in sight, a catastrophic loss of hope has settled in.  Truly, there are few things with more devastating consequences than that.

So what will we do?  As some of the most resourced Christians on the planet, the answer simply cannot be nothing.  And every agency on the frontlines, every humanitarian worker who has been there, every Syrian, Iraqi, Afghan, or other beautiful refugee face will beg you to not let that be the answer.  We can do hard things, friends.  But most certainly, we can do these things: Remember. Learn. Feel. Pray. Act.

_________________________

Want to do something right now?!  My talented friend Margaret has created the adorable printable in the picture above to remind us to do the simple yet profound work of praying.  It’s yours for a donation of $5, $10, $25 or $50 dollars.  If you know me at all, you know that keeping your money will never be my style, and EVERY SINGLE PENNY of proceeds from these printables is going to World Vision.  And I think we could make a teensy, tiny little dent, friends.

Print out your reminder and then do the most important work: prayer. Pray for the refugees and their loss of hope in the world to be found in Christ.  Pray for the agencies and volunteers pouring themselves out.  Pray for President Al-Assad.  Pray for President Obama.  Pray for your own ideas to grow.  Pray for a small community of friends around you to encourage your creative passions and increase your capacity to give.  Pray to feel this.  Friends, let's talk to Jesus about it all and watch him work in our hearts and in the world.  This story, and so many others riddled with the most nefarious acts humanity is possible of, are not unseen by him.  In fact I believe his heart is broken over them.  There is not a believer on the planet who has not been invited to be a part of his work in the world in some way.  We can, y'all, and we must.   

{Printables available October 28-November 6: TEN DAYS, y'all.  Get yours.  Print it.  Share it.  Pray out loud.  Let's do something cool together}

*Because donators receive a printable, donations made through Just Enough Brave are NOT considered tax-deductible.  If you would like your donation to be tax-deductible, please visit one of the organizations linked in this essay and donate straight to them.

Scripture references (worth memorizing!)
*Daniel 2:21
**Mark 6:34

Today is Ash Wednesday, marking the beginning of the Lenten season.  While lent has is roots in Catholicism, it is a season of fasting, penance, and reflection leading up to resurrection Sunday—Easter— observed by many Christians.  This Wednesday is 46 days before Easter; 40 fasting days according to the Catholic tradition that Sundays, which are not days of fast, are excluded.  The heart behind this season of lent is to mirror the 40 days of fasting Jesus did as preparation for the beginning of his ministry.  And while there are no specific passages in the Bible that denote a special meaning to the number 40, it is a number that appears often in scripture.

Noah spent 40 days and 40 nights on the ark as God poured rain down on the earth.

Moses was on Mount Sinai for 40 days and 40 nights.

Moses interceded in prayer on Israel’s behalf for 40 days and nights.

The Israelites spent 40 days spying in Canaan, the Promised Land.  Then they wandered in the desert for 40 years before God brought them in to it.

And there were 40 days between Jesus’ resurrection and his ascension in to Heaven. 

Forty, it seems to me, represents a kind of fullness is scripture; the amount of time God takes to complete something big. As I think about these things, about the faith and diligence to pray or fast for 40 days or to believe that a promise would truly be fulfilled after 40 years, it is not lost on me that I rarely persevere in anything that long.  I’m not yet 40 years old, so I don’t have a barometer for that kind of big picture faith.  And I’ve tried giving up (fasting) chocolate or ice cream or even television for lent in the past, but then there is March Madness or a friend brings me fresh cookies and I make all sorts of exceptions, and I’m all, “well, I’ll try again next year.” 

I love the idea of fasting, of going without something, so that we can tangibly make room for Jesus to enter in to that space.  And maybe that is exactly what God is asking from you during the next 40 days.  But I also love the idea of being diligent toward something, of being faithful to intercede in prayer on someone’s behalf, of giving of myself in a new way.  This year, this Lenten season for me is about quiet space, about faith, and about prayer.

I write as a lifeline, as a way to process, as a discipline, and as a means to really understand what I think.  But what I don’t do well is pray. I write prayers, but far too often I don’t stop and speak them, whether out loud or in my heart.  From this Wednesday until the day we celebrate Jesus’ victory over death, my heart wants, LONGS, to pray for my marriage, for my children, for my family, for my friends, for my city, and for this world.  The headlines have become numbing to me: Christians beheaded, hundreds of girls kidnapped, another war on the horizon… and here, this season of preparation for the darkest day in history followed three days later by the greatest.  And I want to pray like I believe in the greatest day.  A disciplined season of making room for quiet before the Lord, just him and me, begging for the faith I know I need for this life.  I’m just so scared without it.  But I think I’m supposed to be.  When the Spirit of God is not there, fear is.  But where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.  I want more than anything for him to complete a big, freeing faith in me.   

Let it be so.    

With the turn of the calendar to December 1st, I wonder if other moms feel like me in that there is a teensy tiny bit of pressure to do something cute with our kids every day.  And by teensy tiny, I mean a lot.  My friends are instgramming their adorable craft projects, sharing on facebook beautiful family traditions, and talking about their Elf of the Shelf stories from years prior.  And those Pinterest searches- well those will just about kill a girl, so I've abandoned them for now.  Still, I do have a daughter who is starting to get it, that this season is wonderfully different from every other month of the year, that there is something coming worth decorating and planning and being excited for.

And yes, there is something coming.  That's what the word advent means: coming.  And the setting apart of these December days in special and meaningful ways has always been to prepare our hearts and minds for His coming, our Savior, our Jesus.  

Something has changed in my heart now that I have little minds that I want so, so desperately to understand the magnitude of Christ's first coming, and it is this: I want so, so desperately to understand it myself.  I want to feel the weight of Jesus' humble birth with all the anticipation of a nation of Jews who knew that they knew that they knew a Messiah was their only hope, coupled with the confidence of an age of believers who know that they know that they know He did come, and he did the work of redemption God gave him to do on our behalf.  Because we have that precious gift of hindsight in our generation, we should be longing with even more desire for Christ to come again, for "the sun of righteousness that shall rise with healing in its wings" (Mal 4:2).  

In Mark 9, a distraught father comes to Jesus on behalf of his young son, who needs the healing only the power of Christ can give him.  He says this to Jesus: "But if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us."  Jesus responded with the implication that it isn't even a question, "If I can?!"  Of course he can.  He is 'I Am.'  He can, he can, he can.  He adds this to the father, "All things are possible for the one who believes."  And the man's response has become the most desperate cry of my own heart: "I believe; help my unbelief!"    

Help me to get this, God, not merely on the level of memorization or the backings of intellectually sound theology, but in the mystery, in the same way that the angels long to look into this, help my unbelief!  As we wait for your advent, may every story and every craft and every song and every chocolate candy only point our eyes to the horizon, where we look longingly for that sun of righteousness.  May our journey through December be a heart surrender to the most beautiful gift the world will ever know, the presence of glory in the body of a man.  As I talk my children through the things my mind knows so well, will you captivate my heart in the process.  Make this advent truly about yours.  Amen.