He Met Me in a Stable

A couple of weeks ago, I slipped into my old, worn out Carhartt, stained with who knows what, and probably hasn't seen the inside of a washer since who knows when.  I piled on layers of leggings, jeans and ski pants that were doubling as overalls, keeping the cold night air at bay.  I jammed on my winter hat and set foot inside a stable, something I hadn't done in what felt like an eternity.  

If you've known me for any length of time, then you'll be well-acquainted with my longstanding love affair with all things equine.  For those that don't know me, though, you can get the crash course on my horse saga here, here, here, here and here.  Horses (animals in general, really) were my safe haven as a child and as a teenager, my place to run and hide, to retreat from the world and from people.  I found great comfort in their presence, in the routine of caring for them, tending to their needs, working with my hands.  Somewhere in the depths of an old journal is an entry I wrote about my dog Bubbles (yes, I named my half-Rottweiler Bubbles), and how I considered her my best friend.  I still miss that dog to this day and she's been gone for over a decade now.  There was power in the companionship of creatures that viewed life from a fairly uncomplicated lens - you feed me, brush me, pet me, and I will love you forever and shower you with kisses in return.  It's a simple exchange.  

     

I've unexpectedly longed for that companionship again in recent days.  In the craziness and turmoil of this anxiety that has wrecked my world, I found myself wishing for a dog by my side or to bury my face in the mane of a horse. I have found myself wanting to return to the places and interests I once found solace in, place and interests that brought a measure of peace and quiet, predictability and routine.  

Having been out of the horse world for so long now, the outlets I once had no longer exist.  My childhood trainers have since sold their farm and all their horses, so I can't go back there.  My own pony died several years ago, so I can't wander out to my parents' backyard to tinker around.  I haven't had a dog in ages, so I can't even reach out for a wagging tail either.  The closest thing I've had for a pet these days is the Bob Ross Chia Pet my brother and sister-in-law got me for my birthday.    

But thank God.  He knows just what we need precisely when we need it.  The mother of a friend of mine from church has a stable and a barn full of ponies.  Janet and I connected earlier this year when she asked me to judge her pony club show in the spring.  She kept saying I could come out to the barn any time I wanted, just let her know.  I never took her up on the offer until two weeks ago.  I was craving the safe haven of a stables again, so I texted her, asking if I could finally take her up on her offer to visit the stables and her ponies.  Of course, she said.  

That's when I found myself slipping into my Carhartt coat and setting foot inside a stable.  Instant memories.  The smells brought back a flood of images to my mind, the dim lights reminding me of my own grandfather's barn.  Janet showed me where all of the brushes were and where I could cross-tie the little pony I was going to groom, Coco.  She said she had some stuff to get done up to the house, and would leave me alone to the task at hand - brushing a very wet, very shaggy and very woolly Shetland pony.  Just before she slipped out, she called over her shoulder, something that brought me to tears once she disappeared:

"God will meet you here tonight.  I already made a reservation."

She said nothing more as she slipped into the dark of the night, while I was left holding a grooming brush, listening to the quiet munching of the horses eating their hay.

God will meet you here tonight.  

I'm grateful that God meets us in our hours of deepest need, in the places that are neither churches nor temples, but rather the places that are often common, familiar, dusty and smelly.  The places that aren't always tidy, aren't always fit for the presence of a King.  Places like stables and barns and stalls.

He did that once before, you know.

He met all of humanity in a manger, among the straw and the hay, the dust and the dirt, among the very animals he created.  He met us in the common, familiar, dusty and smelly nook of a place, a town called Bethlehem, in the hour of humanity's deepest need.  

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David.  He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.  While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.  An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.  Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”  (Luke 2:4-12)

This will be a sign for you - a baby lying in a manger. 

Among the animals.

He met me in a stable as a child - then as a teenager - and now as an adult.

But really he met me over 2,000 years ago when he came as a baby wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.

Our God is a God who meets us in the places of our lives that are not always tidy, not always fit for a King.  In our less-than-Pinterest-worthy homes, at the bedside of loved ones fighting to live another day, behind prison bars where men and women crumble under the weight of their guilt and shame, in the darkened alleys of the city streets where women sell their bodies, in our offices with desks piled high with paperwork and stress, in our yards where the weeds and the worms grow, in the orphanages filled with children who have no one claiming them.  He meets us in all of those places and countless others.  

There's not a place on Planet Earth where Jesus cannot or will not meet his children.  The psalmist declares in Psalm 139:7-10: "Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?  If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."

There's nowhere I can go where I can flee his presence.  There's nowhere I can go where his hand will not guide, where it will not hold me fast.

Including a stable.  

Because he knows what it's like to listen to the quiet munching of horses eating their hay, and he knows what it's like to meet with his Father.

God will meet you here tonight, on this night, and he will do so every moment of every day for now and all eternity.  Just like he did all those years ago.

I'm so very grateful the God of the universe met me in a stable - both now and over 2,000 years ago on a starry, starry night.