Always Winter, Never Christmas

My mother stood on the porch this morning in her pajamas, no shoes or socks on, taking pictures of the snow that was falling from the heavens, our first snow of the season.  In October.  And you know Christmas has officially arrived according to Hallmark, since today kicks off their "Countdown to Christmas."  A whopping 21 movies premiering between now and New Year's Eve.  My mother has had a countdown to Christmas going since sometime in August, and now she's practically shivering with excitement with all these signs pointing to that magical day of December 25.

I don't know that I'm too far behind her, if I'm being honest.  I'm just a little less demonstrative about it, and wave my "I love Christmas" flag a little less boldly.  I purchased Christy Nockels' Christmas album, The Thrill of Hope, the other day and listened to it on my way to work.  ("Wrap This One Up" is definitely worth a listen.)  Although, I will say I don't necessarily care to have Christmas constantly in my face either.  I don't want to walk into a retail store right now and be bombdarded by all things ornaments, tinsel, Santa and jingle bells.  My mother asked my dad and me if we could put up one (yes, there are multiple - I think we maxed out at 7 trees one year when I was a kid) of the Christmas trees this weekend, and my face must have twisted into some sort of appalled, disgusted look which very firmly conveyed "no" without so much as saying a word.  There's a happy medium to this whole Christmas celebrating thing.  Not too much, too soon.

I discovered the band Relient K has a song called "In Like a Lion (Always Winter)," which is based on one of my very favorite movies, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe: 

It's always nice to look out the window
And see those very first few flakes of snow
And later on we can go outside
And create the impression of an angel that just fell from the sky

When February rolls around I'll roll my eyes
Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire my heart it heaves a sigh
For the green grass waiting on the other side

It's always winter but never Christmas
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow
Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope

The lyrics speak to a scene in the movie where Mr. Tumnus, one of the creatures in the land of Narnia, explains how a curse has come upon the land since the evil White Witch has taken power.  Narnia is covered in ice and snow, the rivers have frozen over, the flowers have stopped blooming, the trees have lost their leaves, and a perpetual cold has settled on the kingdom.  "Always winter, never Christmas," Tumnus declares.  He's really saying there's a barrenness here in this place, and not just barrenness, but barrennes without hope.  No hope of a thaw, no hope of green things growing again, no hope of a freedom from the weight of the curse.

Always winter, never Christmas.

I realized that's what the 400-plus years of silence must have felt like, the time stretched between the final words of Malachi 4 in the Old Testament and the first words of Matthew 1 in the New Testament. 

Four hundred long, long years of no prophets, no words from on high, no documented miracles.  Nothing.  Silence.  This great gaping void, the threat of a curse looming from Malachi 4:6, the last verse of the Old Testament, standing as the parting words from God before he would seemingly go underground and let a deep winter sweep over humanity, "He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers; or else I will come and strike the land with a curse."    

Always winter, never Christmas. 

But then - but then -

Praise God, but then.

But then there arrives a baby in a manger, a King born in a stable, there among the cattle and the donkeys and the hay and the stench.  "The time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son.  She wrapped him in clothes and placed him in a manger..." (Luke 2:6-7).

Four hundred years of silence broken by the cry of a baby and the shout of angels.  Four hundred years of a seeming barrenness without hope completely wrecked by "a great company of the heavenly host" appearing, "praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests' " (Luke 2:13-14).

Four hundred years of silence ushered in by a thunderous shout and proclamation of glory. 

Christmas.

Finally.

And not Christmas because it was marked by a day on the calendar, but Christmas because it was marked by a season of waiting met by a season of fulfillment.  Christmas because it was marked by hope - the thrill of hope.  "Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope," as Relient K says.

Jesus came to earth - a baby who grew into a man who became the Savior who went to the cross - and the thaw began.  The thawing of the hearts of men, the thawing of humanity that had been blanketed in cold and ice.  Buds began to appear on the trees yet again, and the people began to shake off the winter clothes wrapped tightly around their hearts.

But it seems winter has returned to our hearts.  We now live stretched between the time of his first coming as a baby and the time of his second coming as divine King.  It seems things have frozen over yet again, and humanity is showing its tendency to harden their hearts with ice, thickened with violence, pride, abuse, unforgiveness, slander, brutality, treachery, conceit, "lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God" (2 Timothy 3:1-5).

Always winter, never Christmas.

And it's in the waiting where we are most prone to lose heart.  To feel like the snow surrounding us is a permanent fixture, and the icicles hanging from our souls will never melt away.        

But then - but then -

Praise God, but then.

But then some day - a day that only God knows about -

The frost of over two thousand years will be broken by the cry of the four the living creatures, and the elders and the saints.  Two thousand-plus years of a seeming barrenness without hope completely wrecked by, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come" (Revelation 4:8).

Two thousand-plus years of seeming silence ushered in by flashes of lightning, rumblings and peals of thunder (Revelation 4:5), and a mighty shout and proclamation of glory.

Christmas.

Finally. 

Finally it will never be winter.

But always Christmas.

Cause when it's always winter but never Christmas
Sometimes it feels like you're not with us
But deep inside our hearts we know
That you are here and we will not lose hope.

You are here, Jesus, and we will not lose hope in the waiting.  We long for when it is always Christmas, never winter.  We will celebrate you even in the cold, even in the barrenness, even in the silence of our world gone mad, all while we wait for the warmth of your Son. 

     

Put a Muzzle On It

In the wake of these recent weeks, I am realizing just how steep the learning curve has been and how rapid the growth.  Lord, have mercy.  All I gotta say is anxiety is a brutal beast, and the devil has no interest in playing nice.  He's interested in playing for keeps.

But praise the Lord, my God is a God who plays for keeps too.  And it's one game he always wins.  That's the hope on which I stand.  He's engraved me on the palm of his hand (Isaiah 49:16), and he's told me nothing can separate me from his love (Romans 8:38-39).  My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness. 

There have been certain themes which have arisen in the midst of all that has been happening - themes of grit, endurance, stamina, determination, community, relationships, dependence, change.  Significant shifts have occurred in my life.  Not all of them external, and maybe to those on the outside, it may appear as though not much has changed.  But on the inside?  Tectonic plates have shifted and the earth has given way.

Because of staying with my parents for the time being, I've now got about a 30-minute one-way commute, for which I have been very grateful.  It's been a time to have a good cry, maybe yell and scream on occasion, listen to worship music, pull out a few sermons.  I spent part of last week's daily commute listening to Louie Giglio's 3-part sermon series "Waiting Here For You" from December 2013.   It's one of my very favorite sermon series of any pastor I've ever listened to, whether from a local church, podcast or otherwise.  Full of rich truth, and despite this being probably the third time I've listened to it, it has fallen fresh on me yet again.

In the series, he draws attention to the story of Jesus calming the wind and the waves, found in Mark 4:35-41:

On the same day, when evening had come, [Jesus] said to them, “Let us cross over to the other side.” Now when they had left the multitude, they took him along in the boat as he was. And other little boats were also with him.  And a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that it was already filling.  But he was in the stern, asleep on a pillow. And they awoke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

Then he arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.  But he said to them, “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?” And they feared exceedingly, and said to one another, “Who can this be, that even the wind and the sea obey him!”

If you've been around church for any length of time, you're likely familiar with the story.  It can feel worn out, maybe a little too familiar to those of us who have read it a hundred times over.  Our eyes start to glaze over and we tune the story out. 

But ah - the beauty of God's word.  It's alive and active, revealing fresh insight and wisdom to us every time we pick it up - never stale, never stagnant.

As I pondered this story, coincidentally a dear friend of mine gave me a bracelet for my birthday (thank you, Twyla), a smashed penny with the words "Be still" stamped on it. I've worn it nearly every day since then, grateful for the reminder now strapped to my wrist.  I feel like I'm in the middle of one of the biggest storms of my life and Jesus is saying, "Be still."

But despite the familiarity of this story in Mark 4, something struck me anew this week (proof of that living and active Word) as I dug around in some commentaries and dictionaries, one eye on the reminder wrapped around my wrist.  I kept coming back to the phrase "be still" specifically, curious to know what that really meant.  In Psalm 46:10 it says, "Be still and know that I am God," and the phrase "be still" here means "to sink, relax, sink down, let drop," to effectively let your heart be at rest, to hang limp before the Lord and know that he is God and he's got this all under control. It has a very kumbaya kind of feel to it, a kind of warm fuzzy tone.   

But in Mark 4:39, where he says, "Be still"? 

It means "to muzzle."

I'm pretty sure the disciples weren't singing "Kumbaya" and having a Psalm 46:10 kind of moment while the wind and the waves were raging.

The boat was taking on water, rapidly filling up, the waves were cresting white, the wind was whipping their tunics nearly off their bodies.  Jesus meanwhile was pleasantly fast asleep. 

He's being still.  The kind of still Psalm 46:10 talks about.  The kind of still where Jesus knows exactly who his Father is and what he's capable of.  He's relaxed and sinking down into the weight of who his Father is while the boat he is on is quite literally sinking. 

He's still because he knows he's not sinking with it - he knows God is God. 

But here comes the disciples.  Anything but "still" could be used to describe their state.  "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?"  There's a frenzied, urgent tone to their cries.  "Jesus, we need you to do something. Now!"  Forget this whole "be still" business!  It's rubbish!  We need you to move before this whole thing winds up at the bottom of the lake, and us with it!  We're not just going under here, we are dying here.

So Jesus gets up. 

And he puts a muzzle on the storm. 

Peace, be still.

The wind and the waves immediately stopped, and there was a great calm, a silence and stillness that swept over their circumstances.          

Here lately I've wanted to be like the sleeping version of Jesus and the verse found in Psalm 46, to possess the kind of stillness that knows who God is and rests in that. 

But there are also the moments when I really just want Jesus to put a muzzle on the mouth of my storm.  Because I just want it to be over.  Now.

In the midst of the wind and the waves that have crashed against my figurative boat, God has made one thing very clear:

His chief concern is not always about putting a muzzle on my circumstances. 

Sometimes his chief concern is about putting a muzzle on me so that I'll shut up long enough to find out what stillness really looks like. 

Yes, sometimes he does put a muzzle on our circumstances.

But sometimes he puts a muzzle on us. 
   
Yes, sometimes he does render our circumstances mute and brings about a great calm.

But sometimes he renders us mute and brings about a great chaos.

Jesus can calm both the circumstances outside of us, and the conditions inside of us.  He may choose to do one, the other, neither or both.  He is able and sovereign to act in a way that brings him the most glory, even if that means the storm rages unabated around us. 

And sometimes he uses the chaos of the storm to teach us what true stillness looks like, a stillness rooted in the weight of who he is, and not who we are.

Louie said in his series, "I don't know what storm you're in, but your storm is full of Jesus."

In this past month, I have felt like my boat is going under, and I have been anything but still.  And I haven't felt a great calm sweep over me yet, and I haven't decided whether Jesus has put a muzzle on my storm yet or not. 

But thank God - my storm is full of Jesus.   
______________________________________

I highly recommend listening to Louie's entire series, "Waiting Here For You."  You can listen to them in their entirety here:

Part 1: Seeing Christ in the Storms of Life
Part 2: Who Are You Waiting With?
Part 3: When the Wait Is Over       

The Silver Lining of Anxiety

My handi-work and signs of hope

About two weeks into this mess that has recently become my world, I realized I needed something to do with my hands.  I needed something to keep the monster of anxiety at bay, to keep my hands busy, and my mind distracted.  I grabbed a wire brush, a wide, thick paint brush, a bucket of pure white paint, and set to work on adding a fresh coat of paint to my parents' board fence. It was my own sort of therapy, the far cheaper kind but just as beneficial and maybe far more practical.  You find you can kill a lot of birds with one stone when you're driven by anxiety. 

The fence had been worn by the years.  Mossy stains left it speckled and discolored with a slightly green tint.  Cob webs gathered in various corners of the posts and boards. Lady bugs, stink bugs and spiders crept along its rails.  Dust from the newly-combined bean fields added a hint of brown to the already mossy-green white paint.     

I stood at one end of the section, and slowly started, staring down the length of the rows.  Back and forth with the wire brush, going with the grain.  Dust and dirt spraying the air in a cloud of minute particles, the wind carrying them adrift.  Shards and splinters of wood sent flying.  Paint chipped off.  The wood and knots underneath slowly exposed, layers getting rubbed and stripped off.   

My heart and my mind felt like that board fence, like someone took a wire brush to them and maybe used a little too much force.  Splinters.  Dust.  Exposed knots.  Raw emotions.  All of it a little rough around the edges. 

But as I stood next to that fence, and gazed out over that freshly combined field, one thing and one thing only rose up in my mind:  hope.  Hope that it wouldn't always be like this.  Hope that Jesus is who he says he is.  Hope that somehow I would make it through, through the grace of God alone, somehow, someway.  Hope of survival.  Hope of victory. 

And peace.  There arrived peace, sweeping in on the breeze to brush my face and remind my heart that I was not forgotten by God, but rather that he drawn so very near in my deepest hours of need.  Board by board, rail by rail, post by post, I dipped that brush in the thick paint, and breathed a little easier, my anxiety seeming to release its vice-like grip on my chest and my mind.  Still splinters, still dust, still knots.  But slowly, with each passing stroke, clean white paint wiped away all those splinters, and the wind brushed off the dust, and the knots were no longer laid bare.  (Although I may have painted a bug or two accidentally.) 

It took me several days, but I finally finished painting one side of one section of the fence.  I joked with my parents,  "Well, the good news is there's a silver lining to my anxiety - you got yourselves a freshly painted white-board fence out of the whole deal."  There's always a bright side to the trials we face.  We might have to search high and low, but the bright side is there.  And we might have to fight for joy, and we might have to fight to hold onto Jesus, but he is worth every ounce of energy we expend to see to it that we don't let go of him.  Because he sure isn't letting go of us in the midst of the trials. 

I by no means wish for it or want it to happen again, but I suppose if God in his infinite wisdom should allow this season of anxiety to linger, I imagine my parents may just get the other side of their fence painted.   

But I'm content to let it go for now, to leave the other side for another day, and maybe for someone else to paint. 

That white board fence stands as proof - I've still got a pulse.  And I'm still breathing.  And my God is still worthy of praise, even here in this figurative desert that threatens to suck me dry.  And yes, the dust and the knots and the splinters of my life have nearly done me in, but thank God - he makes all things new.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as your ransom, Cush and Seba in exchange for you. Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life. Fear not, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you. I will say to the north, 'Give up,' and to the south, 'Do not withhold'; bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the end of the earth, everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”   

Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, who brings forth chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down, they cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick: “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. The wild beasts will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches, for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise."
- Isaiah 43:1-7, 16-21

The Soundtrack of My Life

For someone who is a lover of words, they have failed me often as of late.  For days I have wondered where to begin to document and catalog all that has happened in the last four weeks, not only here but in my own journal.  The words have come in fits and starts, with glimmers of sentences, and the hope of paragraphs.  But for the most part, the figurative wounds are raw, my pulse is a bit unsteady, and the shattered pieces of my heart are still lying scattered on the floor.  God has completely up-ended my world, and I'm gasping for air, literally and figuratively these days. 

I liken it to an earthquake.  There were tremors at the onset, these early warning signs I now recognize only in hindsight.  And then the earthquake struck that registered high on the Richter scale, where the rooms of my heart and mind shook so hard the entire foundation cracked and tectonic plates shifted beneath me.  In some areas, gaping chasms yawned wide, these massive black holes that stretch so deep I can't see the bottom and I'm not entirely sure what's down there.  Or that I even want to know what's down there.  Other areas, there's red-hot emotional lava spewing out, too hot to touch right now.  Other places, there are mountains being built, rising to meet the sky, made of granite, their presence looming.  And even after the earthquake, there are still the aftershocks that come in waves, some of them threatening to be just as powerful as the initial quake.

I sat in a doctor's office four weeks ago, tears streaming down my face, wondering what on earth was happening to my body and my mind.  I had begun experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, including one day when I was literally on the floor of my office, struggling to breath, unable to stop crying, my heart racing, wondering if a visit to the ER was warranted.  Anxiety shot through the roof for days on end.  I didn't go to work for two weeks.  I didn't leave my parents' house for an entire week.  I struggled to eat.  I couldn't bear the thought of being alone at night, so I slept in bed with my mom next to me (my poor dad got ousted to another room).  I slept maybe 30 hours over the course of a week. I would sit at the dinner table with my parents and sob uncontrollably, seemingly without cause.  I got sick to my stomach from the medication I am now on.  I began wondering if somehow this was going to be a permanent condition.  I began wondering how on earth I was going to work, or ever function like a normal human being again.  

It was hands-down, without a doubt, one of the worst weeks of my life.  And it's been rocky ever since.

But never have I ever held tighter to Jesus and the hope of his salvation.  Never have I leaned in closer to him, begging for his presence, his peace, his hope, his joy, his victory.  Begging simply for him.  Because what else is there?  What else is going to possibly save me from this anxiety and these attacks?  In Christ alone my hope is found. 

And never have I ever leaned harder on the great worth and value of music.  My God.  The saving grace every day for these last four weeks has been the gift of music.  Song after song after song has flooded my soul, a balm to the deep wounds.  At all hours of the day and deep into the night have I held on to melodies and lyrics, listening to some songs on loop for what seems like hours.  Holding onto the truth of the lyrics, turning them into my prayers and pleas for desperation.  These songs have become my anthems, the soundtrack to my life, the songs I have stood in the middle of the room and declared over my life, the banners I have lifted high, with arms stretched wide, shouting into the void. 

Even in the midst of this figurative desert, there has been an oasis of words - just not my own.  Because far too often here lately, I've been without them.  So, I lean on the words of God found on the pages of Scripture and the words of those who have strung together notes and words, producing songs that have been my lifeline.  I will be forever grateful for every single of them. 

And someday - who knows when - I will eventually have words for all that has happened in recent weeks.  I will pick up the scattered pieces of my heart and mind, and I will write, because at the end of the day, that's usually all I know how to do.  Ann Voskamp said in her book One Thousand Gifts, "Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and ink can be cheap medicine.  And I just might live."

Thank God for cheap medicine.  I will live.  I refuse to die in this desert, and if it comes down to me or the devil, I can promise you, I won't be the first one to wave the white flag of surrender.  Not to this crippling fear, and this anxiety that threatens to take me under. I don't fully understand why God has allowed this season of life to happen, to allow things like this to pass through his hands, but "though he slay me, yet I will hope in him" (Job 13:15).

So until I can find my own words again - I borrowed these words from others.             

I lift my hands, if my hands fail me
I’ll bend my knees, if my knees grow weak
I’ll raise my voice and sing,
I’ll sing I know that You love me
Give me a song to sing
And I will sing it
("Give Me a Song," Will Reagan and United Pursuit)

Though you slay me
Yet I will praise
Though you take from me
I will bless your name
("Though You Slay Me," Shane & Shane)

You have overcome the world
Took the keys from death and hell
Joining heaven we declare
You're greater, greater

("Greater," Elevation Worship)

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus' name

("Cornerstone," Hillsong)

When the night is holding onto me
God is holding on
("King of My Heart," Sarah McMillan)

'Cause when You speak, when You move
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
When You come in the room
When You do what only You can do
It changes us
It changes what we see and what we seek
You're changing everything
("Spirit of the Living God," Vertical Church Band)

This is my prayer in the desert
When all that's within me feels dry
This is my prayer and my hunger in me
My God is the God who provides
And this is my prayer in the fire
In weakness or trial or pain
There is a faith proved
Of more worth than gold
So refine me Lord through the flames
I will bring praise
I will bring praise
No weapon formed against me shall remain
I will rejoice
("Desert Song," by Hillsong)

The King is among us
And His glory surrounds us
And His fire is falling as we sing
The Savior is for us
And His love is victorious
And revival is rising in His name

("The King is Among Us," Elevation Worship)

And we will see You in
The land of the living
We will find You in
The mystery
Your presence is
The joy set before us
For now and all eternity
We're getting there
We're determined to discover
All that You have hidden for us
Along the way
And we're getting there
Your presence is the promise
There is nothing that could stop us
We're on our way

("Getting There," Steffany Gretzinger)

It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It's Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

("Great Are You Lord," All Sons and Daughters)

You've brought me to the end of myself
And this has been the longest road
Just when my hallelujah was tired
You gave me a new song

("Letting Go," Steffany Gretzinger)

You're an overcomer
Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer

("Overcomer," Mandisa)

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone
They say it only takes a little faith
To move a mountain
Well good thing
A little faith is all I have, right now
But God, when You choose
To leave mountains unmovable
Oh give me the strength to be able to sing
It is well with my soul
("Even If," MercyMe)